summary: Jarren has been away on a road trip for 4 days now and she decides to show him just how much she misses him
warnings: smut, masturbation, sexting
part two
It’s been 4 days since Jarren left for a west coast road trip. 4 days since she got her fix of him and she was really starting to miss him. The Sox just swept the Angels; Jarren hit his 13th homerun and she was so proud of him. She decided she wanted to give him a little present.
She grabbed her phone and headed into their bedroom back in Boston and went to find his favorite bra and panty set. Grabbing the black lace set and one of his tshirts she starts to work out her plan.
Baby I’m so proud of you! I know how hard you’ve been working to get back into a groove
She texts him while getting changed.
thanks babe, felt good to contribute for the guys again
He texts back a few seconds later as she’s slipping his shirt over her head and walking back into their room.
I miss you
I miss you to babe, only a few more days till I’m home
I know 😞 but I really miss you right now
She bites her lip and waits for his reply.
———————
Meanwhile Jarren is on the team plane, it’s 11pm at night and he can’t sleep. He has the row to himself thankfully but it’s still hard to find a comfortable position. He sees her recent text and sits up a little straighter and looks around making sure no one is paying attention to him.
Yeah?
He sends back and bites his fingernail waiting for her reply. It’s taking a few minutes, the song he’s listening to ends and another one begins.
Yeah (image)
The picture loads and he quickly puts his phone face down in his lap. He may be alone in the row but he’s got Romy sitting right behind him. He dims his brightness and opens the text again, the image she sent loading. She’s standing in front of the mirror in their room, his shirt on but pulled up slightly, giving him a peak at the lace thong she has on. He rubs a hand down his face, knowing he’s about to be in trouble.
You’ve got my favorite set on?
maybe
maybe? Don’t start something you aren’t gonna finish baby
He shifts in his seat, already getting worked up.
——————
She’s giggling to herself at his response, she’s got him exactly where she wants him. She lifts the shirt up, showing half of her body in the mirror, in his favorite set and snaps a photo, sending it to him. She sits down on the floor and waits for his reply.
your playing with fire baby
I’m on the plane and you’re making me hard, you prepared to take care of that?
She bites her lip at his reply. She snaps another photo and sends it to him.
———————
His phone vibrates in his lap, he takes a deep breath and opens her message. The photo loads; she’s sitting in front of the mirror now, legs spread. He can see the wet spot on the material barely covering her pussy.
Are you?
is all she sends along with it. “Fuck” he whispers to himself and quickly looks around, double checking no one heard him.
Fuck baby, your that wet for me already?
Don’t be shy, let me see
He shifts in his seat again, his cock fully hard now. Jarren feels a tap on his shoulder from behind and quickly flips his phone over and looks back. “Dude you good?” Romy asks. Jarren swallows and nods, removing one side of his headphones “yeah, just can’t get comfy to sleep” he lies. His phone vibrates in his lap again. “I feel that, my ass is already asleep and it’s only been an hour” Romy laughs and sits back. Jarren laughs too and turns back around, grabbing his phone.
He opens the text, another photo loads. She’s got her thong pulled to the side and her finger swiping through her folds. He’s got to bite down on his fist to stop from moaning.
Fuck baby, what I wouldn’t do to taste that pussy right now
——————
She gets his response back and moans, her finger finding her clit as she pictures his mouth on her. She gets another idea and changes to video. She hits record and runs her finger through her slit and up to her clit, circling like his tongue would “fuck Jarren, your tongue feels so much better than my finger” she moans and ends the video, quickly sending it to him, a sly smile spreading across her face.
the three dots appear and disappear a few times, she giggles and imagines how flustered he is on the team plane.
——————
Jarren gets the video and quickly hits play, the sound coming through his headphone, the screen tilted away, hiding it slightly. He watches her playing with herself, imagining his tongue on her, hearing her moan his name from 500 miles away.
Fuck
He sends, trying to control his breathing.
Your going to kill me
Don’t you dare fucking stop
Jarren closes his phone and quickly gets up, fixes himself as best he can and heads to the bathroom, he’s too hard to sit in the seat anymore. He’s gotta cum.
He quietly shuts and locks the door, his fingers already working his button open and his zipper down, His hard, leaking cock springing free. He wraps his fist around himself and strokes, taking his phone out at snapping a photo.
Look what you’ve done
——————
Her phone vibrates next to her, her finger still rubbing circles into her clit. She picks it up with her free hand opens Jarren’s text, her breath hitching at the photo.
Fuck, I want you so bad right now
Yeah? How bad?
Fuck yourself like you’d fuck my cock
She moans at the text and slides one of her fingers inside. She switches back to video and records herself, her finger fucking her just like she wants his cock to. “Jarren, it’s not the same, I need you baby”
——————
The next video comes through and he hits play immediately. His fist speeds up watching her finger fuck herself. Jarren takes his own video. He slows his fist down and squeezes his head, letting his precum bead up. “I’m going to ruin you when I get home” he says, ending the video and sending it.
Her reply comes a few seconds later
please baby, wreck me
He moans
You won’t be able to walk the next day I’m gonna fuck you so hard
Jarren, baby, I’m so close
Me too baby, let me see you cum
He doesn’t slow down, he close too. He waiting for her video; waiting to watch her cum before he does.
——————
Her walls clench at his text. She does what he asks, she hits record and rubs fast, hard circles into her clit, picturing him jerking off, his head thrown back, throat exposed and working as he moans her name. She’s coming “mmm, fuck Jarren” she moans as her thighs shake.
——————
Jarren gets the video and groans, hitting play and watching her fall apart. His fist speeds up, desperately chasing his own release as his eyes never leave the video. His name falling from her lips has him coating his hand. “Fuck”
His chest is heaving as he snaps a photo of his release and sends it to her.
Good girl
Now I gotta walk back out there and pretend that didn’t just happen
He cleans himself up and quietly unlocks the bathroom door, stepping back out into the plane. He gets back to his seat and sits back down, like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just jerk off and sext his girlfriend with his teammates feet away.
“You good?” Romy asks again. Jarren blushes and just nods, putting his headphones back on.
——————
She’s sitting on the floor in front of the mirror, his photo of his release and the good girl under it staring back at her. Now she really can’t wait for him to come home.
Romy totally knows
She laughs.
What, that you just joined the mile high club?
I don’t think that counts
No? I think it does a little 😂
——————
He laughs to himself and shakes his head.
You better be prepared for when I get home after that
Oh, I’ll be ready baby
Get some sleep ❤️ I’ll talk to you tomorrow
Goodnight babe
Jarren locks his phone and closes his eyes, finally drifting off to sleep, his girlfriend the star of his dreams.
Author: This was a request by a friend. I'm a huge yankees fan but also big soto girly, so enjoy this! I've said before I only take football and f1 request, but I can make exceptions for baseball. ALSO: I might do a pt 2 for this!
Word count: 11.5k
Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, +18.
She had read the email three times before answering it, which was unlike her.
Assignments at The Cut usually came with breezy certainty. Profiles of actors doing "method motherhood," essays about women who'd traded law for ceramics, but this one felt heavier. The Mets had signed Juan Soto, the youngest player to ever earn a contract that read like fiction, and she'd been asked to "find the person beneath the numbers."
She wasn't sure what that meant. She suspected no one was. It surprised her to find out he was actually a year older than her, considering the importance of his new contract which had shifted something in MLB.
The morning of the shoot, Manhattan looked washed clean, the kind of February light that made everything look temporary. Her tote was heavy with a notebook, her small Polaroid camera, and a lens cap she always forgot to remove. She'd promised the photo editor she'd capture some "BTS warmth"—unfiltered shots for the magazine's Instagram—but she knew she'd mostly use the camera as armor.
She rehearsed questions on the cab ride downtown. What do you think about belonging? felt too abstract. How does it feel to be the face of a franchise? sounded like something a man in a suit would ask. She crossed them out on her notes app and typed instead: What does a day off look like?
When the cab slowed outside the Bowery Hotel, she tucked her hair behind her ears, adjusted the scarf she'd chosen precisely because it made her feel like she had taste. Inside, the lobby smelled like wood smoke and old film cameras. She'd been there before, once, for a director's interview—he'd arrived two hours late and drunk—but this felt different. The room upstairs, she'd been told, had floor-to-ceiling windows and red velvet couches.
Upstairs, the door was propped open with a light stand. Voices came from inside—crew chatter, the click of a camera testing its flash, someone laughing in Spanish. She stepped in, smiled quickly, and introduced herself to his publicist, a woman who gave her a warm smile as she walked in.
"He's just finishing wardrobe," she said. "Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty."
She nodded, grateful. She found a corner table near the window and opened her notebook, pretending to reread her notes. Through the glass, she could see a slice of skyline and the roof of a grocery store. A man walked by with a blue Mets cap; she wondered if he realized the team's new star was just ten floors above him.
When the door opened again, the air shifted.
He came in with a kind of quiet confidence that made everyone else unconsciously straighten. No entourage, just one handler trailing behind with a garment bag. He wore a white T-shirt and track pants, no jewelry yet, headphones still around his neck.
"Juan, this is The Cut's writer. She's the one profiling you." his publicist said, motioning to her.
He looked over and smiled, the sort of smile that wasn't practiced but knew it worked. "Hey," he said. "Nice to meet you." His accent carried the soft roundness of Spanish spoken every day.
She stood, shaking his hand. "Thanks for doing this," she said, too quickly.
"My pleasure," he replied, easy, his voice low. "They told me you are the one who talks about people's apartments."
She laughed before she could stop herself. "Sometimes," she said. "But I promise I won't ask about your closet."
He grinned. "Good. It's a mess."
The photographer called him toward the backdrop, and the small world of the shoot began to spin. Assistants adjusted light reflectors; someone misted water on his hair; he slipped into a crisp cream-colored shirt that made his skin look sun-lit even indoors.
She stayed mostly at the edges, watching. The Polaroid camera hung loosely from her wrist. Every so often she lifted it and caught a candid. Him adjusting his sleeve, laughing at something in Spanish with the stylist, eyes down as he checked a message.
He seemed different from the images she'd seen online. Calmer. More contained.
"Can I take one?" she asked when the main camera paused to reload memory cards.
He turned toward her, curious. "One?"
"For the behind-the-scenes piece. Just... don't pose."
He tilted his head slightly. "Then what do I do?"
"Just look how you were looking a second ago."
He did, and she clicked the shutter. The Polaroid slipped out with its soft mechanical hum. She fanned it gently, watching his expression appear—the faint half-smile, the edge of sunlight hitting his shoulder.
He leaned closer. "That's fast," he said. "Can I see?"
She handed it to him, their fingers brushing. "It still needs a minute," she said.
He looked at the half-developed image. "You make everyone look good?"
"Only if they're easy to photograph."
He laughed softly. "So I'm lucky, then."
The crew shifted again, breaking whatever had hung between them. The stylist called him back. She turned her attention to her notes, pretending to rewrite a question. But her pen hovered over the page, unmoving.
During the next setup, she sat near the monitor where the photographer reviewed frames. Juan moved easily in front of the camera—confident, occasionally playful—but there was a restraint that made him more interesting. When the photographer asked for a smile, he gave something quieter, like a secret.
"You can tell he's used to being looked at," the photographer murmured beside her.
She nodded. "And he knows exactly how much to give."
At one point, he caught her watching and lifted an eyebrow, as if to say caught you. She looked down, but she felt her face warm.
When the session broke for wardrobe change, he walked toward the refreshment table. "You want coffee?" he asked her over his shoulder.
"I'm okay," she said, surprised.
"I'm getting one anyway."
He poured two cups, handed her one without asking how she took it. "You can fix it," he said.
"Thanks." She took a sip—it was perfect, somehow.
He leaned against the table, stirring his own with a wooden stick. "You ever write about baseball before?"
"No," she admitted. "This is my first time covering an athlete."
"Then you start with the best," he said, smiling again.
"Confident."
"Truthful."
She shook her head. "I'll be the judge."
"Okay," he said lightly. "Be fair, though."
She was about to reply when someone called him back under the lights. He winked—small, quick, not performance, just acknowledgment—and went.
Her coffee had gone cold by the time the last shot finished.
By the time the photographer began packing her gear, the suite had quieted. The crew's chatter faded into the hallway, replaced by the soft buzz of the city below. Afternoon light spilled through the windows, a pale gold that made the room feel almost cinematic.
He was sitting on the edge of the couch now, scrolling through his phone, one leg bouncing absently. His handler was speaking low into another call near the door, already coordinating his next thing — something about media availability at Citi Field.
She looked up from her notes. He glanced at his handler, who gave a subtle nod, then back at her. She nodded and set her recorder on the coffee table, adjusting it until the red light blinked steady. "It's not formal," she said. "You can just... talk."
"I can do that," he said.
For a moment, neither spoke. She thought of the notes she'd written in the cab — the polished questions that suddenly felt wrong, too polished. So she tried something simpler.
"You know... given the circumstances around your signing, do you ever get tired of people talking about money?"
His laugh came easily, but not dismissively. "Every day," he said. "But it's part of it. I understand."
She waited.
He leaned back, exhaling. "People like to count what's not theirs. I can't change that." Then, after a beat: "But I like to think I earned it."
The way he said it wasn't arrogant; it was matter-of-fact. She studied him — the small scar near his jaw, the way he held eye contact without needing to fill the silence.
"You did," she said finally. "Statistically, anyway."
He smiled, a real one this time. "You know baseball?"
"Enough to embarrass myself at a dinner party," she said. "But I do follow soccer. Specifically Real Madrid religiously, if that gives me any credibility."
His eyebrows rose, amused. "Ah, so you like winning teams."
She laughed. "Apparently."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Who's your favorite?"
"In Madrid?"
He nodded.
She hesitated. "Kroos and Modrić, but one retired and the other won't stay longer at the club." she said, maybe too quickly.
He laughed again, this time softer. "The quiet ones."
"Exactly."
"I like them too," he said. "They always make it look easy, although I don't watch much soccer."
It was strange, how easy this felt... not like an interview, but something more elastic, stretching between them. The kind of rhythm that didn't need to be forced.
"What about you?" she asked. "Who do you like watching?"
"In baseball?"
"Or life."
He thought for a moment. "In baseball... there was always Cano, when I was younger. He made it look beautiful. But in life..." He paused, tilting his head. "My mom. Always her."
She smiled. "That's the right answer."
"It's the true one."
He said it simply, without needing to explain.
She looked down at her notebook, though she hadn't written a single thing since he started talking. She wasn't sure why she didn't want to break the spell of just listening.
When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. "Do you ever feel lonely here?"
He seemed surprised by the question. Not offended, just that she'd asked it.
"Sometimes," he said. "New York is big. Loud. Everyone wants to be seen. I just want to play."
She nodded, and for a second, he looked at her like he could tell she understood.
The recorder's red light blinked steadily.
"Do you miss home?" she asked.
He smiled faintly. "Every day. The food. The noise. The sun. The people saying good morning for real, not because they have to."
She laughed. "That's fair."
He studied her a moment. "You from here?"
"I grew up midtown, mostly. I would walk around central park almost every day considering it was so close to our house."
"I like that."
"Do you like walking around the park? Or is it one of the things you can't do anymore"
"Sí," he said, smiling. "I enjoy it, and usually people don't approach me that often, anyways."
Something about the word in his accent stayed in her chest. She tried not to show it, adjusting the angle of the recorder instead.
He looked at the Polaroid she'd left on the table — the one she'd taken earlier. "You're keeping that one?"
"I was going to give it to you," she said.
He shook his head. "You keep it. You made it."
She hesitated. "Okay."
The light shifted again, more gold now, hitting the wall in long, soft stripes. She felt it move across her face, warming her cheek.
"Do you like doing this?" he asked.
"Interviews?"
He nodded.
"Sometimes," she said. "When people forget they're being interviewed."
He smiled, slow and knowing. "Like me right now?"
"Maybe."
"Good," he said quietly.
There was something about the way he looked at her when he said it; steady, curious, not forward but not neutral either. She wondered if it was practiced, that disarming calm. Somehow she doubted it.
Outside, a siren flared, then faded. She reached to stop the recorder, but he beat her to it, gently pressing the button before she could.
"Off the record," he said.
She blinked. "Okay."
He leaned back again, less formal now. "So tell me... what do you like about Real Madrid?"
She laughed, relaxing a little. "You really want to know?"
"I asked."
She smiled. "I like the control. The discipline. The way they play and the philosophy behind the club about winning and that nothing is impossible. You ever heard of the '90 minuti en el bernabéu son molto longo'? It's true."
He nodded. "You sound like a coach." He laughed. "I asked because I don't know many people who watch soccer, and certainly not like you. I do enjoy Barcelona more."
"Well. I'm just a fan who overanalyzes things." she sighed. "And allow me to say, that's quite the bad taste you've got for soccer."
He studied her for a second, thoughtful. "I get that," he said. "And I mostly like them because of the time when Messi was there. But I understand my club choice is disturbing to you."
Her heart did a small, quiet thing she couldn't explain. She did laughed at the way he worded it.
"Something like that," she said. "Maybe one day you experience going to a champions league night at the bernabéu."
The recorder stayed off after that. Their conversation slipped into smaller things. New York food, weather that didn't make sense, his disbelief that people still jogged in the snow. She found herself laughing more than she meant to, her voice softer, the room lighter.
He asked about her work in the same curious way he'd answered hers; genuinely, as if the details mattered. "You like writing about people?"
"I think I like watching people," she said. "Writing just lets me make sense of it later."
He nodded, understanding. "That's the same with baseball. You watch everything! Pitcher's hand, outfield wind. You don't know why until later."
She smiled. "Maybe we do the same thing, then."
He tilted his head. "You think?"
"You read patterns," she said. "I read people."
His grin was quiet, almost proud. "Entonces, you're good at your job."
"Sometimes," she said, though she felt the words in her throat like a pulse.
His publicist returned, checking the time, and the room shifted again, reality reentering. "We have to go soon," he said.
Juan nodded, but his eyes stayed on her. "Five minutes?"
She shrugged, already half out the door.
She began gathering her things, sliding the Polaroid into her notebook, capping her pen. "Thank you for doing this," she said. "For being—" she hesitated, "—honest."
He smiled, tucking his phone into his pocket. "You make it easy."
She felt something in her stomach tighten—not discomfort, exactly, but recognition.
The silence stretched a little. He reached for his coffee cup and saw hers still half full. "Cold now?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He lifted it anyway, tossed the rest back, grimaced slightly. "You really take it without sugar?"
She nodded. "Makes me feel like I have discipline."
He laughed, the sound low, a little warm. "You don't need discipline. You already got control."
She looked at him, startled by how naturally the words landed. "That's what you think?"
He shrugged. "That's what I see."
Something in the air thickened again, invisible but real. She caught the faint smell of his cologne—clean, woodsy, understated. She told herself to look away, to focus on her notes, but her eyes didn't move.
The photographer's assistant reappeared to collect the last reflector. "We're clear," she said.
Juan nodded, still half turned toward her. "You walking out?"
She shook her head. "I'm staying to send the editor some photos."
He adjusted his jacket. "I'll see you around, then."
"Probably not," she said, trying to make it sound light.
"Maybe yes," he said with a grin.
It should've been nothing—an automatic line, the kind of casual charm people like him could throw away without thinking. But his tone wasn't careless. It carried the faintest suggestion of possibility, unspoken but present.
He moved toward the door, the publicist following. She felt the absence of his voice almost immediately, as if the air had thinned. She sat back down, letting herself exhale.
Through the window, the city had turned to early evening. Traffic hummed below, and in the glass, she saw her own reflection layered against the skyline. For a moment, it felt like she'd stepped out of her own routine into someone else's story.
She picked up the Polaroid again. The print had settled into clarity now—the small lift at the corner of his mouth, that impossible ease. She slipped it into the pocket of her notebook instead of the pile meant for the magazine.
Her phone buzzed: a message from the editor asking for updates. She typed quickly—Interview done. Photos turned out well. Will send notes tonight.
But when she closed her laptop, she didn't leave. The room was quiet now, just the faint hum of the heater and the slow dimming of light. She stared at the space he'd occupied—his cup, the crease in the couch where he'd leaned forward, the slight imprint of a presence that had already become memory.
She thought of what he'd said—about control, about not wanting chaos—and wondered if he'd meant her as much as himself.
When she finally stood, her legs felt a little unsteady, though she wouldn't have admitted it. She took one last look around, slung her tote over her shoulder, and headed for the elevator.
Downstairs, the Bowery lobby was busier, voices mingling with the faint sound of a piano. She passed a couple arguing quietly near the bar, a woman in a red coat checking her phone, a group of men laughing too loudly. For a second, she thought she saw him outside near the valet, but when she looked again, he was gone.
Outside, the air was cold enough to sting. She walked east toward Lafayette, her camera bumping gently against her hip.
That night, she uploaded the photos. The shots were clean, elegant—the kind of images that felt inevitable. But the Polaroid she'd kept for herself stayed face down on her desk, the edges already curling slightly.
A few days later, she opened her laptop to start the draft, the words came slower than usual. Every paragraph felt like she was trying to disguise something she didn't yet understand. She described his composure, his confidence, the sense that he occupied space without demanding it. She wrote about the way he spoke of his mother and his family, how his upbringing has shaped the way he thinks, the small pauses before answering, the ease with which he carried the weight of being known to everybody.
She avoided adjectives like charming or warm—too obvious. But she left the details that mattered: the way the afternoon light had hit his shoulder, the coffee untouched, the sound of his laughter breaking the silence.
At midnight, she stopped. She read the piece once, made small corrections, then sent the draft to her editor with the subject line: Profile: Juan Soto / The Stillness of Motion.
When she closed her laptop, the apartment felt unusually quiet. She poured a glass of water, left it untouched on the counter, and sat by the window. The city pulsed below, half-asleep. Somewhere, a siren cut through and disappeared.
The profile had gone live on a Wednesday morning, framed by the kind of headline that made her cringe: The Stillness of Motion: Juan Soto Is Ready for New York. It had done well by being retweeted by sports writers, Mets fans, pulled into podcast segments about "athletes who transcend stats." Her editor called it elegant; her parents —who lived in Miami and barely knew anything about current baseball— texted her a screenshot with three clapping emojis.
While sending a couple of emails, her phone buzzed once. An unknown number.
For a second, she thought it might be a mistake. But when she opened the message, it read:
This is Juan. The photo you took—it's good. You made me look peaceful. That's not easy.
She stared at the screen, surprised by the simplicity of it. Then another message came:
Next time there's a Madrid game, tell me. I want to understand what you see.
She smiled, almost involuntarily. The Polaroid lay facedown beside her laptop. She turned it over, held it in her hand, and looked at it until the city lights blurred behind it.
The next day, she had a busy day running errands and meeting up with a close friend from college. They hadn't seen each other in months, so they walked around the west village while shopping.
After a whole day together, she walked into a trader joe's to get some things. While picking out some fruits a kid, wearing a Mets cap, stood next to her trying to reach for a pack of apples. She found him endearing.
"Here you go, little man." She said smiling at him. The cap
"Thanks."
"No worries. By the way, nice cap! Got a favorite player?" She asked politely.
"Lindor. But I can't wait to see Soto play." He said before walking away. She thought it was a nice coincidence to hear his name in such a random context.
She was already in bed with a sheet-mask on, until his name appeared in her messages again. The notification startled her awake. Unknown number. But she recognized the cadence immediately.
Hey. My mom read your story tonight. She believes you made me sound calmer than I am.
She stared at it for a minute, unsure whether to smile or be thrown off. Then she typed, deleted, typed again.
Maybe you were calmer than you thought.
The dots blinked for a long time.
Maybe you're right. Anyway—thank you. For writing it the way you did.
You're welcome.
She expected that to be the end. Instead:
Where do you live?
She hesitated. It was simple enough a question, but it carried something quieter beneath it.
Tribeca. Why?
I'm in the city this week. Thought you might want to see if I really am that calm in person.
She exhaled slowly, the corners of her mouth lifting despite herself. Her journalistic integrity said she shouldn't. But curiosity said maybe she should.
She laughed into the empty room, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Where?
Balthazar. Tomorrow, if you're free. Late lunch.
Deal.
The next day was unreasonably bright for March. The city had shaken off its grayness, and she felt almost conspicuous walking through the Meatpacking District, her notebook shoved into her bag even though she'd promised herself she wasn't treating it like work.
The place smelled like polished wood and espresso. The hostess knew his name immediately—of course she did—and guided her to the table.
He was already there, sitting near the window with a glass of water, sunglasses on the table. He looked different out of the professional context—more at ease, maybe a little less deliberate.
"Hey," he said when he saw her, standing to greet her. "You came."
"You thought I wouldn't?" She teased.
"No. But I was still thinking you probably had work." he said, smiling.
She sat, adjusting her bag on the chair. "I wasn't sure this was a good idea, but you had already asked me so I was clearly going to come."
"It's just lunch," he said. "No recorder, right?"
"No recorder," she chuckled after the joke.
He grinned. "Then we're safe."
A waiter appeared. He ordered quickly—in Spanish, half out of habit—and she caught herself smiling at the way his tone softened. He noticed. "You understand?"
"A bit," she said. "Enough to know you just ordered two coffees."
He laughed. "I didn't want you to fall asleep."
"I wasn't planning to."
They sat in an easy silence while the drinks arrived. The city outside the window moved in reflections—yellow taxis, light on glass, the pulse of a place that never stopped performing.
"So," she said finally, "why me?"
He looked at her, puzzled.
"You could have picked anyone to have lunch with."
"Maybe I liked the way you saw things," he said simply. "You wrote about baseball like it was an artform. No one does that."
She smiled. "I don't know how else to see it."
He leaned back. "Most people look for noise. You looked for pauses."
She blinked. "I didn't think anyone noticed."
"I did."
There was no flirtation in his tone, just truth. And somehow that was worse—more intimate.
They talked about nothing and everything after that. Music, travel, food. He told her about trying to cook arepas in his New York apartment and nearly setting off the smoke alarm. She told him about the time she got lost in Madrid and ended up at a flamenco bar alone.
"And mind you, this was really late at night. So I ended up dining a sauvignon blanc and some tapas." She explained.
"You go there often?" He asked.
"Kinda. My parents have a house there but it's in the outskirts of the city, so I didn't really know how to go back that night." She explained. "Have you been there?"
"No. With the baseball season, sometimes is hard to go overseas. Every time i'm done here, I usually go back home with my siblings." He said.
"One of my friends from college grew up there. We went for her birthday a few years ago, I couldn't believe how gorgeous La Romana is." She said remembering how special that trip was, specifically since it was right after their graduation.
"It is. I have a place there, but I like staying in Punta Cana because it's mostly where my parents feel more comfortable." He explained. "Your parents live here?"
"No. The moment I went to California for college, they moved to Miami." She said. "I grew up between here and Miami but, with my mom having colombian and venezuelan family, naturally they preferred Florida."
"Oh, so you understand spanish then." He teased.
"I do. Even if I haven't been in any of those two countries since I was a kid." She said. "I just feel my accent is a bit odd."
"Well, most of the people in this country can't even understand their own language." He joked.
He listened like few people did—attentive without interrupting, laughing at the right parts, asking questions that didn't sound like filler.
At one point, the sun slipped through the glass, cutting a diagonal across the table. He reached to adjust the curtain but stopped when he saw her hand resting near the light, the edge of her sleeve glowing faintly.
"Sorry," he murmured, withdrawing.
"It's fine."
Neither moved for a second. Then he cleared his throat. "So—Real Madrid still winning?"
"Always," she said, grateful for the escape. "Why? You keeping track? We signed Mbappé this past summer. He's kind of our Soto signing."
"Funny." He said chuckling. "I told one of the guys in the clubhouse about your love for them because his wife is spanish. He said you sound like the average obsessed spanish fan."
She laughed. "Tell him he's right."
He smiled. "I already did."
The coffees cooled between them. The conversation stretched thin, not from discomfort but from something that felt like gravity—slow, mutual awareness.
He'd asked her once, during the interview, if she liked writing about people. Now he seemed to be trying to learn her the same way she'd studied him—by watching the pauses, the small hesitations before she spoke.
"So what about you?" he asked after the waiter cleared their plates. "You always knew you wanted to write?"
She smiled faintly. "Since I was a kid. I used to rewrite the endings of books when I didn't like them."
He laughed. "Control again."
She rolled her eyes. "Maybe I just wanted everyone to make better choices." She laughed. "I used to devour books, to the point that my Dad refurnished my old play room to become a small personal library. It was my birthday gift when I was eleven."
"Nice. So, do I do good in assuming your apartment is full of books?" He asked.
"Yes. They're organized in my living room. Perhaps the thing I was the proudest of when I moved in." She smiled. "Is there anything you loved growing up that is now part of your house?"
He sat back, turning the spoon slowly between his fingers. "I guess bats." He laughed. "My mom says I used to hit bottle caps with a stick before I could walk straight. She thought I'd break a window before I'd ever play baseball."
"Did you?"
"I broke a few," he said, smiling. "Then I started hitting farther. Problem solved."
She laughed. "So you've always been stubborn."
"Persistent," he corrected. "There's a difference."
She studied him across the table—his ease, the way his hands moved when he spoke, steady and deliberate. "You know, most people with your kind of fame talk about what it took to get there. You don't."
"I don't like talking about myself too much," he said. "I like to keep my life as private as possible."
"Understandable." She replied.
"I know you get it." he said, eyes warm.
She felt that familiar flicker in her chest again. Not attraction exactly—something slower, more measured. The awareness of being seen without needing to perform.
He gestured toward her camera bag. "You still take those little pictures?"
"Polaroids?" He nodded.
"Sometimes. I like that they can't be edited."
He smiled. "You trust the moment."
"I guess."
"Take one now," he said suddenly.
"What?"
"Go on. You have it with you, right?"
She hesitated, then reached for it. The waiter glanced over, amused. Juan leaned back, resting his chin on his hand.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Always."
The camera clicked; the square slid out with its soft hum. He watched her shake it gently.
"Does it come out better if you smile?" he asked.
"Not necessarily."
He grinned anyway. "Then I smiled for nothing." He added. "Let me take one of you. It's only fair."
She shyly nodded as he took the camera on his hands. She chuckled as he seemed to struggle with how tiny it was compared to his big hands.
"You gotta just push the button next to the lens."
"I got it!" He said.
"Okay! Do I smile?" She asked.
"If you want."
She hesitated for a moment, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before resting her chin in her hands. She pressed her palms lightly against her cheeks but, instead of looking at the camera, she looked at him.
Once he took the picture, he set the camera down with a grin. When the picture began to appear, he set it on the table between them. He looked down at it, the edges still hazy. "I bet you look better than me. But I gotta say, In mine I look happier than I felt this morning," he said.
She tilted her head. "Bad day?"
"Just long. Noise. Cameras. Questions."
"More interviews?"
"Too many." He looked at her. "This one's better."
She smiled, unsure what to say to that.
The light outside softened; shadows slipped up the buildings. People came and went around them, but their table stayed untouched by hurry.
"You ever think about leaving New York?" he asked.
"Sometimes," she said. "But then I remember I'd miss it. Even when it's unbearable."
He nodded. "That's how I feel about the game."
She looked up. "So you don't love it all the time?"
"No one loves something all the time," he said. "You love what it makes you, not what it costs you."
She scribbled the sentence in her mind without meaning to. Old habit.
He caught her expression. "Don't write that down," he said, smiling.
"Was I that obvious?"
"A little."
"I'll keep it off the record."
"Good."
He drained the last of his coffee and glanced toward the door, reluctant. "I have to head to the stadium soon."
"More noise?"
"Always." He paused, then added, "But this—" he gestured vaguely between them—"was quiet. I needed that."
She looked down, fingers brushing the edge of the Polaroid. "Me too."
He stood, sliding his chair back. "You walking out?"
She nodded and gathered her things. Outside, the afternoon had cooled into that early-evening blue that makes the city look newly invented. They walked in step down Ninth Avenue.
He wore a Mets cap pulled low; it didn't help much. People still looked, some whispering, some too polite to ask for a picture. He ignored them, focused on her.
"You ever get used to that?" she asked.
"Never," he said. "But I'm good at pretending."
At the corner, where their paths split—hers east toward her car, his toward the SUV waiting at the curb—he stopped.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
"Thanks for asking."
He hesitated, as if something else was forming behind the words. Then he simply nodded. "I'll send you the photo back if it turns out bad."
She smiled. "You won't."
He grinned, stepped back toward the car, and raised a hand in goodbye before the door shut.
She stood there a second longer than necessary. Before heading to her car, she wanted to look at the polaroid to see how it had turned out. As she turned it back, she realized he left with hers.
She didn't go home right away. Instead, she walked without thinking, letting the grid pull her east. The air carried that faint metallic smell that meant spring was close. She stopped by a record store on a corner she didn't recognize, drifted through the aisles, touched the edges of album sleeves she wouldn't buy.
When she was finally in her car, the evening had fallen. She drove, replaying fragments of the afternoon: the way he'd said to trust the moment, the line about loving what something makes you, not what it costs. She tried to remember if she'd smiled too much, if she'd asked enough questions to seem casual.
Her phone buzzed once in her coat pocket.
Made it to the field. Thanks for the coffee.
She read it twice before answering.
Anytime. Good luck tonight.
He didn't respond right away, and she didn't expect him to. But when she stopped at a red light, another message appeared.
I kept your photo. Is it okay?
Of course. I've got yours anyways.
Keep it. Don't post it anywhere. It feels... personal.
It is, she typed, then hesitated and deleted it.
I won't. Promise.
No reply came after that.
At home, she poured herself a glass of wine, set her bag on the table, and pulled the Polaroid from her notebook. The image had finished developing. He looked relaxed, shoulders tilted toward her, half-smile like he'd just heard something worth keeping.
She set it against the lamp base, the small square of light inside the bigger one.
The next morning, the city was gray again. She wrote for most of the day—deadlines, edits, sentences that refused to work—and by evening she felt that mild ache of having lived entirely in her head. She shut her laptop, made dinner, and tried not to think about why she kept glancing at her phone.
By the weekend, the Mets' season opener dominated the news cycle. His face was everywhere again: billboards, ESPN clips, slow-motion highlights of batting practice. She watched a few seconds muted on her phone before scrolling away.
The next Sunday she met her friend Camila for brunch in Fort Greene. Camila was a photographer —blunt, funny, the kind of friend who noticed things before you said them.
"You've been quiet," Camila said as they waited for coffee.
"Just work." She said while searching for something in her bag.
"Liar."
She laughed softly. "It's complicated."
"That's a yes."
"There's someone I interviewed," she said after a pause. "It was supposed to be one story."
"And?"
"And it's not, apparently."
Camila studied her. "He texted you."
"Yeah."
Camila leaned back, smiling. "You know what you're doing, right?"
"Probably not."
"Good," Camila said. "That's how the good stories start."
Later, walking home through the park, she thought about that—how stories didn't always announce themselves, how sometimes they just unfolded quietly, asking to be noticed.
That night she fell asleep early, the kind of deep sleep that comes only after you've convinced yourself you've stopped waiting.
Around midnight, her phone lit up again.
We won tonight.
I saw. Congrats.
It felt different.
How so?
Don't know. Maybe because I kept thinking about how quiet lunch was the other day.
She stared at the message, half-asleep, unsure what he meant or if he even knew.
Quiet can be good.
Yeah. I like good.
Then another pause.
You going to any games this season?
Maybe. Haven't decided yet.
Let me know when you do.
The next morning, sunlight broke through her blinds. She reread their exchange with that faint, half-ashamed smile of someone realizing something had already begun.
The Polaroid still sat by the lamp. She turned it face-down this time, as if privacy could protect it. But she left it where it was.
For the rest of the week, life returned to its rhythm—meetings, edits, car rides, dinners that felt too quiet. Yet somewhere between them, the messages continued: small, ordinary things. A photo of a sky before practice. A question about her favorite Madrid match. Once, a simple buenos días at 6 a.m. that she saw hours later and couldn't bring herself to ignore.
None of it was overt, nothing anyone else would read as flirtation. But there was a cadence now, familiar and steady, like learning the first verse of a song.
By Friday, she caught herself checking the Mets' schedule before checking her email.
And when the first warm evening of spring arrived, she stood on her balcony with the city humming below and thought of something he'd said at Balthazar, that he liked how she saw pauses.
She smiled to herself, realizing she was in one now. The kind that holds its breath before something shifts.
She hadn't planned to go. The idea came late. An idle scroll through the Mets schedule, the kind of impulse that feels harmless until it isn't. It was a Thursday, the sky clear over the city, and she told herself she just wanted to see what a night game felt like in person. That was all.
An hour before first pitch she typed a short message, thumb hovering before sending:
Might be there tonight. No promises.
She didn't expect an answer, not right away. By the time she'd put on her jacket and locked her apartment door, the train was already rumbling toward Queens. The city outside the window folded into reflections: neon, dark glass, the faint glow of a skyline she never got used to.
Her phone buzzed.
Section?
She smiled despite herself.
Don't know yet. Got a cheap one. I'm going through gate 6.
You'll be moved.
What does that mean?
Just watch.
When she reached Citi Field, the air smelled like pretzels and cold beer. Everything pulsed with light—the crowd, the music, the crackle of anticipation that only sports seemed to hold. She scanned her ticket at the gate, half expecting a security guard to stop her.
"Ma'am," a voice said as she stepped through.
Her heart stuttered.
But it was just an usher, smiling. "You've been upgraded. Field level. Section 110."
She blinked. "Sorry! What?"
He checked a note on his device. "Guest of the team. Enjoy the game."
She almost laughed. "Of course," she muttered, shaking her head.
The new seat was close enough to smell the grass when the wind shifted. She sat, still slightly dazed, and texted him:
You didn't have to do that.
Didn't want you too far away.
The field stretched before her, luminous under the lights. The crowd's roar rose and fell like waves, but her focus tunneled toward the right-field line where he stood during warm-ups. He looked larger than he had in the hotel suite, movements sharper, deliberate. Under the stadium glow his uniform almost shimmered, the white edges too bright to be real.
When he glanced toward the stands—just a sweep of the eyes more than a search—she told herself he wasn't looking for her. But a heartbeat later, his gaze caught, held, and the corner of his mouth lifted before he turned back to the field.
She felt ridiculous for smiling back.
The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers; the first pitch cracked through the air like punctuation. The game moved in bursts: shouts, music, the thrum of energy each time he stepped to the plate. She'd read about focus before, the way athletes tuned out the world, but seeing it was different. He seemed both entirely present and unreachable.
Around her, fans shouted at an umpire's call; someone behind her spilled beer; a kid waved a foam finger so large it blocked half her view. Yet somehow the noise faded to background. She watched him round first after a line drive single, sliding his helmet off with that effortless self-assurance she'd tried to describe once in an article.
By the sixth inning, the air had cooled. She found herself tracing the rhythm of his movements, the quiet between plays, the way he adjusted his gloves with a kind of ritual care. When he looked up again—just briefly—she knew he saw her. The distance didn't matter; recognition carried.
In the seventh, he hit a double. The crowd surged to its feet, chanting his name in syllables that bounced off concrete. He stood at second, hands on hips, eyes sweeping the stands again. For a fraction of a second, she swore he looked her way.
When it ended—Mets 5, Cardinals 3—the crowd thinned slowly, satisfied. She lingered, not sure what to do next, clutching the blanket like an excuse. The lights stayed bright while the field emptied.
Then her phone buzzed once more.
Wait near the east tunnel.
Am I allowed?
You will be.
She made her way through the corridors beneath the stands, the hum of vending machines mixing with the echo of footsteps. Security waved her through without question. The air smelled faintly of turf and detergent, the aftertaste of adrenaline still hanging in it.
At the end of the tunnel, near a door marked Authorized Personnel Only, she stopped. A maintenance cart rumbled past; somewhere, a radio played a love song distorted by static.
She waited, trying not to overthink the absurdity of standing alone under a ballpark in borrowed privilege.
Then he appeared, baseball cap backward, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired but bright.
"You made it," he said.
"You told me to wait."
He smiled. "You follow instructions well."
He looked different up close—less like the polished version from headlines and more like someone who'd just run out of adrenaline. Sweat darkened the edge of his hoodie; his voice was hoarse from yelling across the outfield.
"Good game," she said, keeping her tone even.
He smiled a little. "You think?"
"You doubled in the seventh."
"Could've been a triple."
"Always unsatisfied."
He laughed softly. "You sound like my hitting coach."
They stood there for a moment, neither quite knowing what to do with the space between them. Down the hall, a door clanged shut; the sound carried, metallic and brief.
"You didn't have to get me the upgrade," she said finally.
"I wanted to," he replied. "You'd come all the way out here—you shouldn't sit where you can't see."
"I could see fine."
"Not from there." His eyes held hers for a second too long. "Anyway, now I know where to look."
She folded her arms, trying not to show what that did to her pulse. "You shouldn't have been looking."
"I can multitask," he said. "Focus and glance."
She laughed despite herself. "That's not a skill, it's a risk."
"Worth it."
Someone walked past—a trainer with a clipboard—and Juan stepped aside to let him through. When the hall was empty again, the quiet returned heavier, like a curtain falling.
He leaned against the wall, one sneaker pressed flat to the concrete. "You still writing all night like before?"
"Trying not to. I'm supposed to sleep like normal people."
"How's that going?"
"Badly."
He smiled. "Same."
For a while, neither spoke. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead; somewhere water dripped steadily into a drain. She found herself watching his hands again, how still they were now compared to the kinetic blur they'd been on the field.
He noticed. "What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just—different seeing you after the game. You look... quieter."
"That's the part no one writes about."
"I might."
He raised an eyebrow. "Off the record?"
"Maybe."
He grinned. "Then you can write anything."
The air between them shifted. Small, perceptible. Not romantic yet, not spoken, but threaded with recognition.
He looked past her toward the open door that led to the parking lot. "You want to see the field?"
"Is that allowed?"
He shrugged. "Technically? No. But everyone's gone."
She hesitated, then nodded.
He pushed the door open; cool night air poured in. The stands were mostly dark now, just a few sections lit by work lights. The diamond stretched out before them, impossibly green even in shadow.
They walked out along the edge of the warning track. She could hear her own footsteps against the gravel. The scoreboard still glowed faintly, showing the final score like a memory that refused to fade
"You ever been on a field like this?" he asked.
"Never this empty," she said.
"It's better that way."
He stopped near the dugout, hands in pockets, eyes on the outfield. "After a win, it feels like the world's still moving, but slower. Like the city hasn't realized the game's over."
She nodded. "That's beautiful."
He smiled. "You'll steal it for a headline."
"Maybe for a sentence."
"Fair trade."
They stood there, side by side, silence pressing softly between them. She could smell the cut grass, the faint trace of dirt and rain. The scoreboard lights caught the edge of his jaw; when he turned toward her, his expression was unreadable, halfway between fatigue and something gentler.
"Thanks for coming," he said again, quieter now.
"Thanks for letting me."
He laughed under his breath. "Letting you? You always sound like you need permission."
"I'm used to rules."
He shook his head. "Break one sometimes."
She met his gaze. "You first."
He smiled, the kind of smile that wasn't for cameras. "Already did."
They didn't move closer—there were boundaries still—but the air between them felt charged, like static before a storm. She wanted to ask what he meant, but she already knew.
A security guard called from the far tunnel, his flashlight bobbing. "Five minutes, Soto!"
"Sí, señor," he called back, then turned to her. "That's my cue."
She nodded. "I'll go."
He hesitated, then pulled something from his pocket—a baseball, scuffed and faintly grass-stained. "Here. Last one I touched tonight."
She blinked. "You don't have to—"
"I want to."
She took it carefully, the leather cool against her palm. "I'm not catching it."
"You already did," he said.
Before she could answer, another voice shouted from the tunnel. He started walking backward toward it, still watching her.
"Want a ride home?" he asked suddenly.
She blinked. "I can take the train."
"It's late."
"I've done later."
He smiled. "Come on. Let me drive you. It'll make me feel useful."
She hesitated, looking at him. "You even drive yourself?"
"Sometimes. Tonight I do."
He started toward the tunnel, not waiting for an answer. She followed.
The service corridors smelled of detergent and damp concrete. He walked ahead, hand brushing the wall as if counting steps. Near the exit, he glanced back. "You're quiet."
"You just hit a home run. I'm trying not to sound impressed."
He laughed. "You're failing."
"Probably."
They stepped outside. The air was colder than she expected; her breath fogged slightly. A black SUV idled near the curb. He opened the passenger door and waited.
"This feels like a bad idea," she said.
"Only if you don't get in."
She sighed and climbed in.
The city unfolded around them. Queens fading into the dark, bridges flashing silver, Manhattan rising ahead like a story she'd already read. He drove calmly, one hand on the wheel, music low, something soft in Spanish playing through the speakers.
"Do you always listen to your own playlist after games?" she asked.
"Helps me come down," he said. "Otherwise I just keep swinging in my head."
She smiled. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is. But tonight's better."
He stopped at a red light. The glow washed over his face. Warm, momentary. She watched him watching the road, his expression caught somewhere between focus and ease.
"Thanks for this," she said quietly.
He nodded. "Anytime."
They crossed the bridge, lights rippling on the river below. When they reached her street, he pulled to the curb, engine humming. Neither moved right away.
"You sure you don't want to go out somewhere?" he asked softly.
"It's almost midnight."
"So?"
She smiled. "I think this is enough."
He nodded, accepting it, though his eyes lingered on her a moment longer. "You'll text me when you get upstairs?"
"I will."
"Good."
She opened the door, cold air slipping in. Before she stepped out, he said, "Hey—"
She turned back.
"How about doing this again, soon?"
She laughed. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" he said, smiling. "Alright."
She shut the door, heart unsteady, and watched the car pull away until it was just another pair of headlights swallowed by the city.
Upstairs, she texted him one word.
Home.
He replied almost instantly.
Good. Sleep.
She typed, then deleted, then finally sent:
You too.
The phone screen dimmed. The apartment was silent except for the faint rush of traffic below. She set her bag down, pulled the blanket from the couch, and sat with it around her shoulders. The smell of grass still clung to her hair.
She closed her eyes and replayed the drive—the quiet streets, the radio hum, the simple fact of him behind the wheel. The night had felt suspended, impossible to explain, like the moment before the world decided what it would be.
She woke before the alarm, light already flattening against the blinds. For a moment she couldn't place the sound in her head—the engine, the low music, his voice. Then it all came back at once.
Coffee. Shower. Emails. Each task felt slightly out of tune, like a song played half a beat slow. She opened her laptop, tried to finish a paragraph for an unrelated story, and rewrote the same line five times.
At eight, her phone buzzed.
Morning.
You awake already? she typed.
Barely. But you beat me. I don't sleep well after games.
Still thinking about the home run?
Still thinking about the drive.
She read the message twice, then set the phone face-down beside her keyboard, pretending to ignore it. The cursor blinked. The apartment filled with the sound of a neighbor's radio and traffic below, ordinary life pushing in again.
Fifteen minutes later she picked the phone back up.
Next time I'll bring a jacket, by the way.
No dots appeared. Then:
Good. Or I'll bring one for you.
She smiled, shaking her head.
The rest of the morning unfolded in fragments. Calls, notes, another cup of coffee she didn't finish. Her editor wanted a rewrite on a piece due next week. She promised to send it tonight, knowing she wouldn't.
By noon she went out, walking aimlessly through the neighborhood—storefronts opening, dogs pulling their owners toward parks. The air was softer now, the first real hint of spring.
She cut through the small square near her apartment and sat on a bench, scrolling without focus.
Then in the evening, she met friends for dinner downtown. They talked over each other, loud with stories, wine, complaints about work. She laughed at the right moments, nodded, filled her glass, but her mind kept slipping elsewhere.
When she left, the night had that hazy warmth that makes the city feel almost kind. That night, she had chosen to walk instead of taking the train, crossing blocks that smelled of food carts and exhaust.
Her phone vibrated once more.
Still awake?
Walking home. I was out with some friends, didn't feel like driving tonight.
Send me a picture.
She hesitated, then lifted the phone and took one—blurry streetlights, her shadow stretching long on the pavement.
Looks peaceful, he wrote.
Wish I was there.
She typed me too but deleted it.
Long day? she sent instead.
Yeah. But better now.
She stopped at the corner near her building, the traffic light changing slowly above her.
You should sleep, she wrote.
After you say good night.
Her heart beat once, hard, before she replied:
Good night, Juan.
Buenas noches, writer.
The words glowed for a few seconds, then faded as the screen went dark.
Upstairs, she left the lights off. The window was open a crack; the city moved through it, cars on wet asphalt, someone laughing below.
She set her phone on the nightstand, turned the baseball in her hand, and tried to picture what tomorrow might feel like if she stopped pretending this was ordinary.
The thought stayed with her long after she fell asleep.
She changed her mind three times about what to wear.
First jeans and a sweater, then something neater, then back to the sweater again.
It wasn't a date. It was just dinner. At his place.
The city outside her window had already started turning silver, the kind of light that makes glass look soft. She stood in front of the mirror and told herself she looked fine. Normal. Like someone who'd been invited over by a friend.
Her phone buzzed.
Gate code's 2014. Elevator goes straight up.
She stared at the message for a while before typing back.
On my way.
She packed lightly —wallet, phone, charger. The ride across town was quiet. The driver barely spoke. She watched the skyline through the window, lights starting to blink awake. Somewhere out there, he was finishing whatever routine athletes kept after a long day: recovery, stretching, a phone call in Spanish to his mother. She wondered if he'd been nervous texting her, or if this was just easy for him.
When the car slowed in front of the building, she looked up. It was exactly what she expected—new glass, dark metal, too clean. A doorman greeted her by name, which surprised her, then pressed the elevator button for her.
The elevator rose quickly, humming in that expensive way silence hums. At the top floor, the doors opened onto a short hallway and one apartment door, slightly ajar.
She knocked anyway.
He appeared almost instantly, barefoot, wearing a black T-shirt, hair damp. He looked more real than he ever did on the field.
"Hey," he said, smiling. "You found it."
"Hard to miss."
"Come in."
She stepped inside. The place was larger than she'd imagined. Wide windows, gray furniture, framed photos she suspected had been chosen by someone else. Everything was in order, but not lived-in.
"It's beautiful," she said.
He shrugged. "It's quiet."
There was music playing low from a speaker somewhere—guitar, slow rhythm, the kind of song you don't need to know to feel. He motioned toward the couch.
"You want something to drink?"
"Water's fine."
He poured two glasses from a tall bottle on the counter and brought one over. She noticed how his movements slowed down here, no crowd, no cameras, just him.
"Nice place," she said, trying to sound casual.
"Too big," he replied. "Doesn't smell like anything. You know? Home's supposed to smell like food or rain or something."
She smiled faintly. "That's oddly poetic for a baseball player."
"Maybe I've been around the right writer."
They sat at opposite ends of the couch at first. The glass coffee table between them reflected the city lights. She traced a line on the condensation of her water glass, waiting for him to start.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You ever get tired of people reading you?"
She looked up. "All the time. Why?"
He shrugged. "Because I'm starting to understand what that feels like. Reporters, fans, even my friends. Everyone thinks they already know what I'll say."
"You signed the biggest contract in baseball," she said. "You became public property."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's the problem. It's like you stop belonging to yourself." The sentence hung there. She wanted to answer, but it felt wrong to fill the silence.
The song on the speaker changed; a softer guitar, something old. She recognized it instantly by the singer's voice —It was 'En la Ciudad de Furia' by Gustavo Cerati.
Finally she said, "It's strange. Everyone wants to be seen until it happens. Then you want to hide."
He nodded slowly. "Exactly."
They stayed quiet again. The city outside the window pulsed faintly, red and white lights moving in slow rhythm.
"You look tired," she said.
"Season just started and I already feel like I'm catching up." He smiled lightly. "by the way, I wanted to ask you something."
She waited.
"You ever think about what happens if someone finds out we talk?" He asked.
The question startled her. "We're talking, not—" she stopped. "Why would anyone care?"
He tilted his head. "They would. They care about everything. Photos, names, timing. People build stories faster than we can breathe."
She looked at him, the sharp edges of his face softened by lamplight. "You think this is a story?"
He exhaled. "I think it could become one." Her heart skipped a beat.
She set the glass down. "Well, no one really has to know anything about your private life." She said. "We can be careful."
"Can we?" he asked quietly.
The question felt heavier than it should have.
She thought about the stadium lights, the cameras sweeping the crowd, the way he'd looked at her after the home run. "Maybe not forever," she said. "But tonight, yes."
He looked relieved and a little sad. "I like tonight."
"So do I."
The silence after that felt different—no longer awkward, just present. She noticed the way the light caught the curve of the glass on the table, the faint hum of the city through the window.
He leaned back. "You hungry? I ordered something before you came."
She laughed softly. "You assumed I'd say yes?"
"I hoped."
"What is it?"
"Something simple. Pasta. I don't cook."
She smiled. "That's still food."
He stood, walking toward the kitchen. "Good. Because I burned the first batch."
She watched him move, still graceful even when he wasn't performing. For the first time since she'd arrived, she let herself breathe.
He came back carrying two bowls and the smell of olive oil and garlic, simple and clean. He set them down on the low table, handed her a fork.
"Don't judge," he said.
"I wouldn't dare."
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The food was better than she expected—slightly overcooked but comforting. He leaned back with a sigh when he finished, stretching his legs out.
"See? Edible," he said.
"Barely," she teased.
He laughed, head tipped back. The sound eased something in the room.
Then he said, quieter, "I like this."
She thought about it. "Me too. I think I never expected to talk to you after our interview."
They both laughed softly, almost at the same time.
He looked at her then, steady. "Well... Sometimes I think I only talk like this with you."
She smiled. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not. It just makes me wonder what happens next."
"Nothing has to happen," she said. "We can just—talk."
"Maybe. But I don't always want to just talk."
The sentence hung there, quiet but heavy. She didn't look away, and neither did he. For a few seconds, the air changed. The same electricity as under the stadium lights, only slower, deeper.
His eyes lingered on her face, while she simply thought of the many ways to properly reply. After a while, there wasn't anything she could tell him other than she also wanted to do more than just talking.
Then he broke eye contact, stood, carried the dishes to the sink. The spell eased but didn't vanish.
She heard water running, the clatter of plates. "You don't have to clean up right now," she called.
"I know," he said. "It gives me something to do."
She smiled faintly, unsure what to do with her hands.
When he came back, he was calmer. "You want dessert? There's ice cream."
She laughed quietly. "You're very domestic tonight."
"I'm trying to distract myself."
"From what?"
He hesitated, then said, "From thinking too much about tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" she asked.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Every day feels like tomorrow. There's always another game, another camera, another way to disappoint someone who thinks they own a piece of you."
She set her glass down. "That sounds impossible."
"It's not impossible," he said. "Just tiring."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes closed for a second. "Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to play without anyone watching. Just the sound of the bat, no noise."
She thought about the first time she'd seen him under the Bowery lights, smiling for a camera. "You'd hate it," she said gently.
He looked up. "Why?"
"Because you love the noise. You just don't want it to drown you."
That made him laugh, soft and brief. "Maybe you should be my therapist."
"Too expensive," she said, smiling.
He stepped closer, not enough to be near but close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his cologne, something clean and unfamiliar.
They stood there a long moment, not talking. Then he said, barely above a whisper, "Sometimes I think you see me too clearly."
She smiled, a little sad. "That's how I know it's real."
The words seemed to stay in the air between them, fragile and steady.
He reached past her, switched off the speaker. The apartment went quiet except for the hum of the city.
"I know you should probably go before I start complaining about tomorrow again," he said, voice lighter. "But I also don't want you to."
She chuckled. "Well, I can stay a bit more." Her thumb slightly brushed against his cheek as they stood.
"I like you." He said almost in a whisper. She smiled shyly. "What?"
"I could tell you wanted to say that a few minutes ago." She smiled. "Which is funny, because I like you too."
"Oh." He looked at her.
Before she could say something, he kissed her on the lips. It was unexpected like the way he said he liked her, but also the one thing she had been longing for since she first caught him looking at her as they ate.
They sat back on the sofa as they kissed. She remembered one of her friends saying making out was much more personal than sex, and for that moment she believed it to be true.
His touch all over her body made her want him in ways she had never considered about anyone else before.
He lead her upstairs. Although he didn't ask, she also didn't need to tell him anything when her body was already speaking for her.
His room was barely lit up as they walked in. When they laid on the bed, his hands were quick to discard her sweater while she helped him take off his t-shirt.
His chain hit her a few times, which made her laugh until he stopped.
"Here." He said taking it off. "So it doesn't bother you." He added as he put it around her neck instead.
She was speechless. It was, perhaps, the hottest thing someone had ever done for her.
She kissed him back as he undid her bra. Every touch felt better than the previous. His lips felt like butter on her skin while her hands were wrapped around his back.
"You're fucking perfect." He said kissing her stomach.
"There is no such thing as perfection." she said chuckling as he helped her take off her pants.
"Lies, miss writer." He added as he kissed her legs.
Every touch felt calculated, measured. Her soft moans echoed through the bedroom as he ran his fingers over her entrance.
She couldn't remember the last time she was intimate with a man. It felt like ages that anyone made her feel that way, not that she kept track of it, anyways... but a woman knows when a man provides the right type of pleasure.
"Oh my..." She cried out as his movements were faster.
His accent came out thicker as he spoke softly to her ear, "I've thought of you every day since the first time I saw you."
"Am I that memorable?"
"You might as well be the most memorable face I've seen." He added as his thumb rubbed against her clit, making her throw her head back in frustration.
"I need you inside." She said in a shaky breath. "Please."
"I can tell by how wet you are." He said leaving a wet kiss on her entrance. "I want you on top." He said lowly to her ear, as if he was asking something forbidden.
He helped her out by effortlessly flipping her to be on top. She was a bit taken aback by the way she was exposed to him, not because she didn't want it but rather due to the way everything had unfolded up until that point.
"It's okay." He assured her with a smile. "I love the view" He added chuckling.
She helped him take off his boxer, stroking his erected member softly. Juan was already as hard as he could be after kissing every inch of her body.
His hands grasped her hips as she took all of him inside. Her groans became softer as the pleasure kicked her in.
She moved slowly while her hands were on his shoulders for support. For a moment, their eyes locked in and in that instant, he swore he was in heaven.
He was pulled back into the moment as she rocked her hips against him. Her shaky breaths becoming more and more loud as the evening unfolded in a way he could've never predicted.
It was past midnight, and he had begged her to stay the night. His arms wrapped around her waist while he whispered sweet nothings into her ear.
Eventually, she got up to get dressed but, naturally, she wished she could just stay in bed with him.
"I wish I could, but I have to meet for lunch with one of the editors from our london office." She said.
"I can drive you in the morning, don't worry." He assured.
"You've got an off day, rest." At the door, she turned. "You could call. If it gets too loud."
He nodded once. "I might." He gave her a tender kiss before she stepped into the elevator.
The elevator doors closed on her reflection. A faint outline, half light, half shadow. Outside, the air felt thinner, like she'd stepped out of another kind of weather. She walked the short block to where the driver waited, the sound of her shoes small against the pavement. When she closed the car door, the city folded back around her—traffic, horns, a fragment of music from somewhere above.
The driver asked for her address. She gave it automatically, then sat back, watching the skyline retreat. She replayed pieces of the night: his apartment too perfect, the way he'd said you see me too clearly.
She tried to decide if that was good or dangerous.
Halfway over the bridge her phone buzzed.
You home yet?
Not yet.
Didn't mean to make this night long.
She typed back.
It was perfect.
I feel the same way as you. I like you a lot.
She smiled faintly. She chose not to reply. She turned the screen face-down and looked out at the river, black glass streaked with light.
When she reached her building she stood on the sidewalk a moment, unsure whether to text home like she always did.
The phone buzzed again first.
I'm glad you came.
She leaned against the cold railing outside her door.
Me too. I like you a lot as well.
You make the noise quieter.
The words landed the same way they had in his apartment. Simple, disarming. She didn't answer. She wanted to keep them whole, unsaid on her end.
Upstairs, the apartment felt smaller than usual. She dropped her bag on the couch and went straight to the window. The night moved slowly outside, long lines of cars, a siren somewhere distant.
After a few more minutes, she felt tired so she went to her bedroom, washed off all her makeup and threw on a large t-shirt to go to bed.
It was weird; she really needed to sleep, but thinking about him made her stay awake as she kept replaying the memories from earlier hours.
18+ only!!
reader has a pussy but no pronouns used :)
jarren's biiiig on eye contact
“cmon baby look at me” “eyes here cmon” “eyes on me”
also lives to mark you up
if you say not in visible places he’ll stick to that but nothing makes him feel more satisfied than looking at that physical proof of the pleasure he gives you
your thighs, chest, collarbone
also big on leaving handprints, whether that's handprints on your ass or just marks from holding onto your waist that tight
and loves when you leave marks on him as well
scratches down his back, hickies, whatever you have to give he will take
but he's not just a taker
he needs a little encouragement but once you hype him up his head game will take you to new dimensions
hands gripping your thighs, keeping your legs spread for him, juices dripping down his chin, completely pussy drunk
initially he didn’t think he was that good but the ego boost he gets by getting you off from just his mouth is its own kind of high and just encourages him more
on the other hand, he goes completely slack jawed, eyes rolled back and empty brained when you wrap your lips around his cock
he swears there's nothing like it, even what you might feel isn’t your best doesn't fail to make him crazy
but he truly cannot fathom a better feeling than when he finally presses his cock into your warmth
the sounds you make and the look on your face and just the way your body responds to him
but once he's made sure you’re ok and comfortable he always sets a brutal pace
pounding into you and god does it feel good
he’ll throw in a little “this one works for you?” “feels good like this?” "yeah? is that good baby?" making sure its still feeling good and teasing you a little ofc
he has an appreciation for doggy and cowgirl but he loves being able to set a merciless pace and watch each reaction on your face
missionary is a classic for a reason!
almost always ends up with him leaning down with his head by your face
he’s able to hear all the little sounds you make
and your ears are filled with all of his encouragements and moans
you can always tell when he’s close to his high
his panting gets faster and more intense
and he really loses the ability to form any sort of coherent thought outside of the sensations running through both of your bodies
“fuck fuck fuck fuck baby fuck fuck fuck”
your moans and the tightening between your legs and your nails cutting into his shoulders and scratching down the length of his back all combine for the ultimate symphony to drive him over the edge
and in turn the white hot sensations running down the base of your spine are truly the combination of his brutal pace along with his grip on your hip and hot breath on your neck and groans into your ear
he maybe didn’t quite get it the first few times but once you suggested he try touching your clit he felt like he had the cheat code
not only does it make you go crazy and react so beautifully with
he can't get over your sounds and the way your back arches
but it makes you clench down on his dick in a way that feels unreal
he makes sure you finish before him, if only because seeing you go over the edge makes it feel so much better for him
once you’ve both caught your breath he’s the one to carry you to get you cleaned up
he's really big on communication and talking through how you’re feeling and making sure that you felt good the whole time
if you have any feedback or suggestions he will absolutely keep that in mind for the next time and check in
even when it comes to going to sleep after he’ll make sure you know how good it was for him
The sound of the front door slamming was what alerted you that Nico was home.
"Fuckin' ridiculous," he yelled, throwing his bag down.
It was a late game that night and you'd had a long week at work, so you'd stayed home and put the game on the tv. You were now realizing that you'd fallen asleep during the seventh inning and hadn't seen the end of the game, but based on the sounds of Nico swearing as he moved around downstairs, you knew they must've lost. You sat up in the bed and waited for him to come up to the bedroom, listening as he muttered angrily to himself.
When he finally came into the room, his jaw was tense and his eyes were dark. You took a deep breath, suddenly feeling guilty for not seeing the game, and nervous about how he would react.
"That call was fucking ridiculous," he muttered, slamming the bedroom door behind him, "did you fucking see that?"
"Um, I-" you shifted.
His eyes narrowed, "you didn't watch?"
"I did!" you immediately started defending yourself, "I turned it on and watched the first six innings, but then I- I fell asleep. Nico, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, I was just so tired. I'm sorry."
He sighed and flopped down onto his side of the bed, "it's fine," he looked over at you, "I'm kinda glad you didn't see it."
"That bad?" you asked, bringing a hand up to run your fingers through his hair.
"I don't wanna talk about it," he grumbled.
"You want me to help you take your mind off of it?" your voice was low and soft, your fingers scratching gently at the nape of his neck.
He let out a dreamy sigh and leaned into your touch, "you don't have to do that, I know you're tired."
You shook your head with a smile and moved down the bed, pulling his pants and boxers down as you settled between his legs, "I want to," you assured him as you kissed the tip of his now hardening length.
"Shit," he laced his fingers through your hair.
"Just relax," your hand wrapped around his dick and stroked him until he was throbbing, his body begging for more.
You leaned forward and took his tip into your mouth, sucking gently. After staying like that for a minute, you started moving down his length, slowly taking more of him into your mouth.
"Oh yeah," he groaned.
You sped up now, moving up and down on his dick, your tongue swirling around the tip every time you reached the top. Nico's breathing grew heavier, his grip on your hair tightening. Your jaw was slack, spit dripping down his length and your chin.
It wasn't much longer before he was moaning your name, guiding your head faster. You looked up at him through your lashes, and you saw his breath hitch as his eyes met yours.
"Fuck," his head fell back against the pillow and his hips thrust up into your mouth. He held your head in place as he came.
You swallowed everything he gave you, breathing deeply through your nose. Once he let go of you and his body fell slack against the bed, you sat back on your heels and tried to catch your breath.
After a couple minutes, Nico sat up and pulled his boxers back on, "it's ridiculous how good you are at that," he muttered.
That made you giggle softly as you laid down on his chest, "feel better?"
"Yeah," he laughed softly and pressed a kiss to your forehead, "you gonna go back to sleep now?"
You nodded in response, your eyes already slipping closed.
He held you tighter, "I love you."
"I love you too," you mumbled before letting your eyes close completely and falling asleep against his chest.
A/N - this was inspired by the foul ball that was called fair on Thursday
summary: you and Anthony hadn't seen each other for a long time because you were so far from home.
Word count: 2.6k
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Since many months ago you were far from home, far from your city, your family, your friends and above all far from Anthony, you had been accepted to study as an exchange student in a very important university on the other side of the world... yes, in Japan, you had longed for a long time to go to study in another country and even more if it was Japan, it was one of those places that has striking places and a striking culture, without forgetting that they have very good universities.
You were very happy when you got the news that you had passed all the requirements to study abroad but at the same time that day you were very sad, you had to leave your family and you had to be many miles away from Anthony, which you and he had only 1 year of relationship.
At the time you thought their long distance relationship was not going to work, you thought it was nonsense too, not always long distance relationships work, either because of infidelities, one of the two gets bored, no longer feels the same etc etc.
But your relationship with him went unexpectedly well, although at first it was difficult because of the time difference, at the end both were able to fix everything and always called each other, texted each other and once in a while in the evenings after he had a game you would make video calls asking about each other's day, both always tried to keep up with each other.
It wasn't the same as being in person but every day you loved each other more and more for being close to each other, until finally your vacation came and you could travel for 2 weeks and come back home, you were happy that they gave you that opportunity, to be able to go home, be with the people you love and mainly to see Anthony, you were so anxious that you couldn't sleep thinking about the trip.
Until finally the day of the trip arrived, that day you had talked to Anthony as usual catching up but what he didn't know was that you were coming home, you wanted to surprise him, only mom and dad knew you were coming, you made it very clear to them days before that they couldn’t tell Anthony about your trip.
"Mom, please I beg you, don't tell him I'm coming home, I want it to be a surprise yes...also tell dad not to say anything if you both get to talk with him, ok?" you told him seriously, because you knew that your dad used to let some things slip and more so when he was talking to Anthony.
"It's okay, we won't say anything" your mom had said.
"we promise honey" your dad said crossing his fingers on the video call, you grimaced as you squinted your eyes, knowing he would probably miss something.
With your luggage at the door you said goodbye to your roomie Sophie. "I'll miss you but I'll be back in 2 weeks" you said to Sophie.
"I'll miss you too, I'll wait for you here, bring me something from new york!" said Sophie as she hugged you.
"I'll bring a huge subway rat" you said laughing, while she looked at you with a displeased face." You grabbed your luggage and headed for the airport.
After hours and hours of traveling, you finally landed in New York, you were very nervous and happy to have arrived home, when you did all the check in and took your luggage, you could finally leave. As you were walking to the exit, you could visualize your mom, dad and older brother with balloons to welcome you, you walked faster until you could finally hug them.
"my girl! you are finally home" said your mom as she hugged you tightly.
"I know! i missed you guys so much!"
"and we missed you sweetie" said your dad.
"did you bring something from japan?” said your brother.
"no!" you said automatically and then nudged him in the shoulder "is it really? I'm coming and the first thing you say is that if I brought something?” You said laughing ironically.
"sure" said your brother while laughing "just kidding, we missed you, I just wanted to know if you brought anything".
"yes, yes I bring things" you said "but until later I'll give them their presents".
"okay, let's all go home" said your mom.
"please, I want to go home to take a quick shower and change, I have to go and see Anthony at his apartment"
We went home, you dropped your stuff in your room, took a quick shower and changed your clothes. "I'll be back in a while... or maybe not" you said to your mom as you grabbed your car keys and quickly left the house smiling.
And then… there you were, finally in front of the door of Anthony's apartment, you were nervous and happy to see him, with all the nerves on top of you as if it was the first time you were seeing him, you rang the doorbell until you heard how he opened the door.
When he opened it, you just smiled widely when you saw him, he looked like he was resting or lying down, he was wearing training shorts and a camisole, with his hair a bit tousled and his face... just as handsome but with a shocked face when he saw you standing there at his door.
"surprise!" you said smiling and with your arms outstretched until you saw how he smiled and easily lifted you up with his arms and made you wrap your legs around his waist while he hugged you tightly.
"Have you missed me?" you said as you laughed and hugged him.
"isn't it obvious?" he said as he smiled and looked you in the eyes "I missed you babe" he gave you a kiss.
"me too sweetie, now let's go inside or you'll have me every outside huh?" you said with a raised eyebrow and he just laughed.
When he entered to his apartment with you, he put you down but didn't let you go, he hugged you again. "but how is it possible that you are here? why didn't you tell me you were coming? I would have picked you up at the airport" he said as he let go of you and walked to the couch taking your hand.
"Mmm... it's a long little story" you said caressing his hand.
"But you should have told me or warned me you were coming, anyway I'm happy you're here with me" he said as he walked up to you and gave you a kiss on the cheek.
"yeah, I should have but I wanted it to be a surprise for you so that's why I didn't say anything... but let's forget about that, right now I want to spend time with you" you said caressing his cheek. "How about if we watch a movie, yeah?"
"Whatever you want baby, I'll go make popcorn, I'll be right back."
As you watched the movie and ate popcorn snuggled up with each other on the couch, you felt so good, you missed this kind of thing together with Anthony, the two of you together, in the comfort of his home, you and him were together again.
"You don't know how much I missed this... I missed being with you, being home" you pulled away from him a little and looked into his eyes.
"I missed you too, you don't know how bad I felt sometimes, there were days where I just wanted to give you a hug or give you a simple kiss" he said while caressing your hair " sometimes after a bad game I just wanted to be cuddled up with you, watch a movie or just wanted to have you closeness" he said to then get closer and give you a long kiss.
He pulled away from you and you saw him, you saw every detail of his face and then you saw his lips, you slightly bit your lip at the sight of his, you moved back closer putting your hands on his neck and kissed him again but with more desire.
He followed your rhythm while you kissed him desperately until you finally climbed on his lap, he grabbed your hips, you didn’t resist and started to move your hips in circle on his lap, when you did that he let out a small grunt and stopped kissing you to take a breath.
"wow, you've come a bit bold hm?" he said with a husky voice and smiling while one of his hands was caressing your thigh.
"silly..." you rolled your eyes and suddenly you feel how he lifts up a little to catch your lips on his, kissing you again with a lot of desire, you moved your hips again on his lap and you could feel his erection, you let out a little moan but you kept moving your hips on him.
Anthony was touching you from your waist to your ass enjoying every move you made with your hips, not only he was enjoying it, but you were also enjoying every touch and squeeze he gave you on your ass, you were getting excited with each of his touches and the way he kisses you, how his mouth wanted to eat you, his tongue playing with yours were driving you crazy.
"Mmm..." you let out a small moan as he slipped one of his hands under your shirt, his hand traveled from your abdomen, then to your waist until he finally reached one of your breasts and squeezed it gently.
You felt yourself getting wetter and wetter as you held onto his arms and rubbed yourself on his erection, then you stopped kissing him and moved down to his neck, filling it with kisses and sucking, then he stopped touching you and took off your shirt, leaving you with only a bra, he stopped your hips and lifted you up to take off your pants, leaving you in just your underwear.
He sat you back on his lap and began to kiss you, bite you and give you little licks on your neck, then he kept moving his kisses down to your collarbone, you just let out little moans as you threw your head back giving him room to have better access to your neck.
"oh... Anthony" he kept giving you kisses on your neck until you felt his hands unfasten your bra, exposing your breasts to him, you could feel his kisses going down to your tits and felt his tongue wander on them, you took one of your hands off his shoulders and put it in his hair while he licked your tits "oh shit" you said as you gasped and felt him suck one of your tits while with one of his free hands he touched and caressed the other one.
You felt in heaven, you kept panting as you felt him working on your breasts until you gave him a little tug on his hair as you felt him nibble on one of your nipples.
"My God Anthony..." you moaned a little louder, he just laughed a little after the pull you gave him "it's not fair that only I am almost naked" you said with your voice shaking.
Anthony left your boobs and said "Calm down honey" he held you in his arms, got up and took you to his room.
Once in his room he closed the door and left you on his bed, you stood up a little holding yourself with your elbows while you watched him attentively as he took off his camisole and then his shorts leaving only his boxers, revealing his big erection "happy?" he said as he approached you and gave you a little kiss on the lips.
"Now… yes, i am" you said playfully as you put one of your hands on his neck and your other hand went down from his chest to his boxers, you kissed him again and started massaging his dick against your hand.
“oh fuck" Anthony murmured into the kiss, feeling you stroking his dick in his boxers, you just smiled slightly as you enjoyed stroking him, suddenly you felt one of his hands on your pussy and you let out a moan, now the one smiling was him. "oh shit... you're so wet baby" he said as he pulled away from your lips.
Anthony stopped touching you and licked the juices that were left on his hand that was in your pussy, you just watched what he did.
"mmm delicious" he said smiling slightly, you moved closer to him and kissed him, then you moved your hands down to his boxers and slowly pulled them down, when you pulled down his boxers you saw how his dick came out and you bit your lip when you saw how hard it was.
Anthony finished taking off his boxers and then laid you down on the bed, getting on top of you and going down to kiss you again, you grabbed his shoulders and kissed him desperately "make me yours now baby" you said to Anthony after you stopped kissing him.
"wait a moment babe" he said kissing you again as he took his dick and started rubbing it on your entrance, you moaned into the kiss as you felt what he was doing "come onnn..." you murmured into his lips "make me yours please" you said desperately.
"Wait a little longer baby" he said then turned away from you and reached into his nightstand for a condom "I almost forgot this" he said smiling slightly as he opened it and put it on.
Then he got back on top of you and rubbed his dick on your wet entrance again, until he finally started to slowly penetrate you "ohh hell" you said as you felt him enter you.
"oh shit, so tight babe" he said as he pushed his dick in further until he finally managed to get it all in and started ramming you gently until you got used to him, since both had a long time without having sex.
"Anthony I want more" you said a little agitated.
"Are you sure?" he said looking at her intently.
"Hmm.. yes baby" you said while biting your lip with your eyes closed, he only heeded and started to increase the pace of his thrusts.
You felt how each time his hips collided with you harder, you loved how he did it, he did it delicately but at the same time hard but without hurting you, you were both enjoying the intimate moment you were having.
You searched for his lips desperately, you put your hands around his neck while you kissed him and moaned lightly, when his thrusts started to get deeper, you wrapped your legs around his hips.
"Oh shit, you're getting so much tighter babe" he said after he pulled away from your lips and threw his head back.
"I think I'm going to cum already" you said with your voice shaking as you squeezed tighter as you felt his onslaught.
"Cum for me baby, come on honey, I want to feel you cum" he said softly near your ear with his voice hoarse.
You lowered one of your hands to your clitoris and caressed it while he kept on ramming you “oh fuck..." you said trembling under him, as you felt your orgasm coming.
"yes baby, that's it" he said as he felt you cum on his dick, he kept moving but this time more lightly until he pulled out of you and took off the condom and then he masturbated his himself a little and more later cum on his hand and a little on your abdomen.
"shit..." he said letting out an agitated sigh with his eyes closed "oh shit..." he said again to then lean on one of your shoulders and give you a kiss on it.
“Another thing I missed so much" you said smiling while caressing his hair and his back "I missed this too" he lifted his head and gave you a soft kiss on the lips, you smiled and he got up looking for wipes to clean them.
After both were clean, he lay back down next to you with his arms around you while your head was on his chest.
"babe... you know what surprised me about you coming back" he said as he stroked your hair.
"what?" you said lifting your head a little to see him.
"I didn't expect you to come just today" he smiled biting his lip slightly to keep from smiling completely.
"wait, wait... what? you knew I was coming? not today but that I was coming?" you said perplexed looking at him "oh... no, dad!" you said with a frown as you heard Anthony laughing.
———————————————————————————
Hey! this is my first smut, I hope you enjoyed it, if you have any suggestions I’m open to take them.
2.2k words of you trying to get Tyler to fuck you and him not giving in...at first
It was almost cute that Tyler thought he could resist you. Granted, a charity dinner maybe wasn’t the best event to seduce your boyfriend but you were sure the marine animals would forgive you, if only they could see Tyler all dressed up.
The plan had been simple. Barely appropriate short dress + no underwear = getting fucked in the bathroom until you could see stars.
But what you hadn’t counted on was your boyfriend’s stubbornness. While he had stared at you all night, he was yet to touch you in not so innocent ways. What fun was holding your boyfriend’s hand when you’d rather have it between your thighs, playing with you under the table?
The dinner itself was relatively tame, completely pescetarian, for some reason. If the point was to fundraise for marine animal conservation, why serve them to the guests?
The table decorations weren’t too bad though. A giant coral piece in the middle of the table obscured you from the view of those seated on the other side and the long table cloth provided cover for what you had planned.
Both the slightly unlawful acquisition of the cutest manatee-shaped salt and pepper shaker you had ever seen —and that were just coincidentally sized small enough to fit into the tiny excuse of a purse you paired with your tiny excuse of a dress, right beside a tube of lipgloss, your phone, and a strip of condoms that had yet to see any action— and the shameless groping of your boyfriend. You were feeling nice though so you waited until after the dinner to do both.
Tyler had removed his tie after dinner and the open collar of his white shirt showed off his strong neck, sadly devoid of any love bites. For now.
Had anybody been paying attention to Tyler they probably would have noticed the way he jumped in his seat —just a little bit, not noticeable unless you watched closely— when your hand came to rest on his thigh. Part of you wanted to skip the buildup and go right in and cup his dick over his suit pants but you were a classy girl at a classy dinner so you would work your way up his thigh slowly, making sure Tyler knew how much you needed him.
Things moved slow and you were impatient but rushing things just didn’t seem smart. You wanted to drive him wild until he couldn’t hold back and simply had to take you.But that meant you had to pace yourself.
For all intents and purposes Tyler was great at acting unbothered. He carried a certain nonchalance that came from experience. This wouldn’t be the first time you did this and it wouldn’t be the last.
You had traced your pointer finger along the inseam of his pants for what felt like hours, up and down without moving your hand, before Tyler finally acknowledged it.
“What are you doing?” He asked, voice low and just a hint of strained.
Huh, you’d thought he’d be more desperate by now.
Turning to look at Tyler when you answered him was only polite, using your upper arm to push your boobs together and make them look bigger on the other hand wasn’t polite at all, but it got him to look.
“You know exactly what I’m doing.”
Below the tablecloth your hand inched higher. Not dangerously so but just enough to make Tyler react.
“We’re getting out of here as soon as we can.” He hissed.
Great idea. As a reward you slid your hand higher, to the top of his thigh.
Tyler leaned back in his chair, sliding down just slightly so that more of his lower half was obscured from view, long legs disappearing under the tablecloth.
You spent the next hour or so just palming his thigh as the night's entertainment proceeded. After a small presentation about the planned conservation efforts a small band took the stage, providing a background sound to the mingling.
Some of his teammates came over from their tables —how the Rays’ owner invited the entire team but split them up over several tables, you didn’t know— and asked Tyler if he would join them at the bar. He wouldn’t drink tonight, taking his driver duties seriously, but there was no reason he couldn’t socialize with the boys a little bit before taking you home.
You went to find their partners in the meantime, talking about holiday plans and cooing over pictures of children and puppies in little costumes.
After maybe half an hour the men started to make their way back, joining their better halves and hanging out glasses of bubbly.
“Tyler’s outside.” You get told when you fail to spot him. “Said he wanted to get some fresh air.”
So he was probably trying to hide his big frame in a corner and discreetly vape. By the time he joined you again there was a faint fruity smell lingering around him, confirming your suspicions.
“Ready to go?” He asked you, casually, as if he wasn’t holding his jacket in a way that was almost certainly meant to conceal a bulge in his pants.
Beside you one of the guys frowned. “Already?”
“We have an early day tomorrow.” Tyler answered for the two of you.
You rushed through the goodbyes and out of the hotel ballroom the event was held at. Tyler left to get the car but you had the foresight to idle in the lobby until he pulled up, just to escape the sinking temperatures outside.
He held the passenger door open for you and you climbed in, watching as he did a small half jog around the car to reach the driver side.
You trusted Tyler but you also knew that distracted driving could only lead to accidents so you waited until he pulled into the street to your neighborhood before you let one of your hands wander beneath your dress, teasing your folds while you waited for him to notice. It didn’t take long, but instead of saying anything he just reached over, wordlessly replacing your hands with his.
“Finally.” You breathed out, spreading your legs wider to give him better access.
Tyler didn’t comment on your lack of underwear, focusing on the road and burying his long fingers deep inside you without preamble.
A moan left your lips before you could stop yourself but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of another.
He knew how to touch, the way he needed to move his fingers to drive you wild.
You were so lost in the feeling of having something in you that you didn’t even notice that the car had stopped. That was until Tyler withdrew his fingers from you, pushed his seat as far back as the car would let him, and then hauled you over the middle console and onto his lap in a move that shouldn’t have been as smooth as it was.
By the time you caught onto what happened he was already working on getting his belt open and you tried your hardest not to think about the fact that those thick long fingers had been inside you just moments before.
“Fuck.” He hissed as he struggled with the clasp.
You pushed his hands away, getting to work opening it. “Here, let me…”
The second his belt was open you moved on to his zipper, pulling it down carefully but fast before sliding your hands into the fabric on either side of his hip and pulling both his suit pants and underwear down as much as you could in your position.
Tyler lifted his hips to help you free his dick and you thanked him by sinking down on him in one smooth motion.
No matter how many times you would do this, there was a part of you convinced it would be impossible to ever get used to the feeling of him inside you. Tyler filled you in ways no other man could ever hope to and your heart ached at the thought of moving, but you planned on getting fucked tonight so you inevitably had to.
The car didn’t leave much room for you to move but you wouldn’t let that stop you from getting what you so desperately needed.
Tyler’s hands came up to grip your hips, moving your body with ease as you switched from deep grinds to riding him. There was no build up, no gently waiting to adjust, you just took. And Tyler gave.
He managed to hold back, head thrown back and moans held back by him biting his lip, as you moved on top of him. It felt easy to lean forward and attach your lips to his neck. Twin moans left your mouths at the change of angle and you finally felt him come alive below you.
The next time you rose up he kept you there, hovering above him just enough that he could fuck up into you.
Tyler didn’t hold back anymore, putting his strength to good use.
It didn’t take long for you to get close —not after spending the entire night waiting. Your boyfriend didn’t seem to be too far away from release either, by the way his thighs were beginning to shake against the seat below you.
“Don’t come—” He bit your shoulder, making you tighten around him while a moan forced its way past your lips. “Don’t come until I say you can.”
It was an order, plain and simple. Tyler had made you wait for so long that it only seemed fair to make him wait in return.
His hips bucked at the request, throwing off the perfect rhythm he had before. The whine you let out in response didn't help so you started moving again, meeting his thrusts as you tried to chase your high.
You were close, so so close, but no matter what you did, release seemed to stay just barely out of reach. You whined again, moving faster, changing the angle, anything to push you over the edge.
It was Tyler that finally brought you release.
His fingers, his wonderfully long and skilled fingers, found your clot and you fell apart above him not even a single breath later.
Thigh shaking, you fell forward, letting Tyler bear your weight as he continued to thrust up into you, fucking you through your high while he chased his own.
He was beautiful. He was a mess.
Tyler had his head hung long, forehead buried in the crook of your neck as he mindlessly rutted up into you. His long hair brushed against your skin and when you combed it back with your fingers he groaned against your pulse.
Part of you wanted him to beg for forgiveness —just a little bit, because he made you wait all night before taking you— but the feeling of him deep inside of you was starting to turn from pleasurable overstimulation into too much.
“Ty.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.
“Tyler.” You repeated when he didn’t react.
He still continued to move his hips, too lost in the feeling to react. It wasn’t until you used your grip in his hair and pulled his head back that he snapped out of it.
“You can come.”
He did so silently, pulling you against him as close as possible and burying his face in the crook of your neck again.
It took a while for Tyler to come down, dace still hidden against your body while he slowly softened inside you, heart racing.
You pulled off carefully before sitting back down on his lap. It was only then that you noticed that you completely forgot about a condom, Tyler’s release slowly dripping out of you and onto his suit pants.
The two of you watched silently for a moment before you spoke. “Do you think these are ruined or could we bring them to a dry cleaner?” Tyler didn’t wear these pants often but he looked amazing when he did. It would be a shame if you’d have to get rid of them.
“I don’t think we can save these.” Was Tyer’s response.
He tried to put his ruined pants back on but you were a little in the way. It was only when you tried to lift yourself up to give him some room that you noticed how weak your legs felt. Tyler must have noticed it too because after he tucked himself back into his pants he wrapped one arm around your middle and pulled you close again before opening the car door and stepping out with you in his arms.
Once outside you noticed that he had parked the car in your driveway and you realized that you had fucked there too. What if any of your neighbors saw?
Tyler just hiked you higher in his arms and carried on walking towards your front door, unlocking it one handed. Once inside you found yourself with your back pressed against the door, Tyler looking down at you with a glint in his eyes that told you the night was far from over. Without meaning to your hips jerked, the drag of your core against his hard middle sending a shock through your body.
“Don’t worry,” he said, as if he could sense your thoughts, “I won’t make you wait a second time.”
