“I wanna ask you something,” you whisper underneath her ear, pushing her against the counter of the bathroom. The plush of your lips graze against her neck, the tip of your nose dancing behind the curve of the woman’s ear. “If I ask this question and you don’t like it, you can shoot me,” chuckling, you feel her head turn, nervous olive colored eyes not once meeting yours, but you take it upon yourself to take advantage of her facing you, placing a gentle peck at the corner of her lip.
You can feel the heat radiating off of Grace, the sheen along her forehead and the rouge on her cheek making her look more like a rose than a woman. “Has anyone eaten you out before?”
The pair of you are trapped in the bathroom by your own doing. It was Grace that accidentally spills that beans that she thought others experiences are much more valid than her own. That sex isn’t anything too exciting to anticipate. She wish she can eat her words now, but now she has to face the music and you were one for confrontation. If she told you (or anyone) the truth, her life was just far too serious to indulge in bedroom games. How can she really enjoy it knowing she has responsibilities that don’t allow her to live in pleasure for long?
Grace in all twenty two years of her life has never thought that she would have an encounter so intimate, or intense until she had met you. You’re someone who is devoted to being a consistent lover in her life. You want to belong to her, just like she tries to give herself to you. Everything you did for her only exuded passion, care and a little something else that you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge just yet. Maybe you’d call it yearning if your ego let you breathe, for now, you’d call it an extreme care for her.
And gosh, does she adore you just as much. Her life practically revolves around you despite you being there or not. Confronting her feelings head on never felt so freeing until she met you. Now, she takes the leap with a little extra faith. With you, she’s a Grace you both can be proud of.
The lights are low and the apartment is far too silent for the both of you. It’s late and the city is sleeping. The after hours approach you steadily, only hearing the rumble of cars or the croak of nearby birds from outside of the window.
The question alone makes the blonde hum in an attempt to maintain composure. Her chest rises and falls, shifting in her stance only slightly as one of her hands grip the rim of the sink. The other is loosely clung to your belt loop. You watch Grace's eyes shut, shaking her head.
Checking in, you of course see through on your word, seeking consent to continue, “was that okay to ask?”
“Yes,” she immediately nods, ripping her hand from the sink to wrap behind your neck. With her lack of experience, the only thing she wants to feel is your lips on hers again, finding your kiss swiftly. “And no,” she whispers against your mouth. “No one ever did.”
Her eagerness fuels your lust; lowering your body at an achingly slow pace. Swollen lips miss yours the moment your kiss trails down her chin and down to her jaw, peppering her neck with your mouth. “That’s a shame isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
With a quiet laugh, your hands run down her torso, fingertips running over her top, feeling the bra underneath her shirt to the quick breath through her abdomen. The second your fingertips meet the band of her bottoms, you tug at them for a moment to help lower yourself to your knees. The whole time, Grace’s hand never abandon you, seeking refuge in your hair as you leave her mouth lonely.
Heavy breaths fill the thick atmosphere and they’re all hers. She thought that this would go a completely different way. A way that carried more structure and less carnal desire. But maybe that wouldn’t have been half as enjoyable. She has so much that she wants to say but her throat stops her from getting the words out every time. Grace will never admit that she is a virgin, but when you watch her clam up at intimacy and need a bit of a boost for physical connection, you figure her romantic prospects have been limited in the past, but it didn’t deter you from becoming her girlfriend after you confessed your feelings to her. It clearly bothers her since she can’t even tell you. In fact, her timidness invites you to be in her life more because you want to be the one to expose her to all of her firsts. You want to be her first kiss, the one who figures out how she wants to be touched and the one she craves when her temperature begins to rise.
“Such a shame,” she hears you coo, finally snapping out of her train of thought to realize the only thing she has to do is kick off her pants. It’s enough for her to do so, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Can I eat you out?”
There the woman stands in a simple t-shirt, her grip slamming over her mouth, wanting to remain quiet as she possibly could in a moment like this. Seething, she gives you a nod lacking confidence, but not consent. “Y-y-yes,” she mutters quietly like your apartment is filled with company and you had to keep hush. Grace nods without a proper pace. She’s eager to see what you have in store for her, but her heart races a mile a minute, feeling like she could either throw up or cry. Was Grace standing there going to be enough for you? She didn’t know if she should stand a specific way, try to say something sexy or maybe even pose.
“Wanna hold my hand?” you try to ease the anxiety in her heart, holding out a palm for the hand she’s got on her face.
With trust, the woman reaches for your hold, observing you closely. Your grip is firm, but comforting and your smile is just as warm. “Just breathe, if you want me to stop, I will. You just need to tell me.”
“I don’t want that, you haven’t even touched me yet,” the analyst blushes from your concern, turning her head away after hearing you chuckle. But it doesn’t last long when the tips of your fingers began to dance and curl round the lace of her panties. She honestly wasn’t the one to reach for underwear so scandalous until she saw yours. Panties and bras were comparable to any secret, fantasy lingerie store when hers are rather plain. Now, she relishes in the gentle feeling of the damp warmth of your tongue leaving a stripe over the fabric of her hips, happy to be in a set that makes her feel good.
“Put your leg on my shoulder,” you direct comfortably, adjusting for her do exactly as you ask, getting the right amount of room to work with.
Quickly, you take it upon yourself to use a thumb to pull her panties to the side, breathing in the scent of her and to much to your amazement, it damn near intoxicates you. Your tongue is careful, running down the inside of her thigh and licking up and in between her flesh. The woman above you holds your hand tighter, resting both of your hands on her thigh, whimpering without any inhibitions. “Fuck,” her hips roll in shock, jolting agaisnt your face that causes you to work on her body. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes, but with no time to entertain her insecurities, you feed her impending orgasm.
Your face dives in her, keeping her panties away from your goal. Grace’s taste on your tongue is something you devour all day, and in a perfect world with a lot of time, that is what you would rather be doing. You salivate at the pulse of her core, hungry to latch onto her swelling bud.
Grace shudders at your expertise, feeling your tongue massage against her. She wishes she can be louder, be needier, greedier. Whatever she wants she knows all she has to do is ask, but considering you can’t properly respond, there’s a weak pull at your head. Looking up to find Grace looking directly at you, lips parted and begging for air. She gasps, pushing herself deeper between your lips. “Fuck,” she cries, grinding her teeth at the feeling.
Her body is trembling, but you continue your task. She’s not shaking as much as you thought she would, but you know it’s not because you’re not doing your job. Sweet girl. And while you know she’s aches to be quiet, there’s something deviant in you that desires for her to get a little loud without care for consequences. You continue to work on her with a fond devotion that makes her feel like it’s just you and her for miles.
Squeezing her hand in yours, you use it as a way to check in on her, but she is not immediately responsive. She feels it all; the tenseness is her stomach growing larger, you working on her and not letting up. Grace usually has an assortment of toys that she used to get her to where she needs to be until she climaxes and can continue with her day. Though with you attached to her like this, it felt much more different than batteries could give and there is no way in hell that she would ask for it to end.
As the time passes, you hum at her taste. She soaks your face more than you anticipated, but it drives you to keep going. The analyst pulses against your face, tongue trapping her bud against your top lip; suckling mischievously. It’s as though she’s even scared to move. If you lost your place on her, you would’ve found it again, but you don’t blame a girl over her nerves.
“Ah– shit!” hissing, the woman doubles over, glasses falling off of her face and onto the ground, luckily not breaking in the process. Grace on the other hand is too out of it to care, lips apart, her gasping for air turning more into groans. “Please, please keep going.”
Her wish? Your command and with you more than willing to oblige, her body losing its posture. “Please…”
You don’t let up on her. Not when the hand she has in yours shakes, not when her hips shiver against you and especially not when she seizes against the bathroom sink, throwing her head back and calling out your name in relief. When Grace finishes, it’s uneven, loud and messy. Your mouth has nothing left to do after you devour her clean, but your hands hold out for her when she sinks onto her knees in front of you.
“Fuck– Grace?” you ask, holding her body close to you, kissing the top of her head as her body relaxes into your chest. “Grace,” you demand, hoping to get a word out of her.
“I’m okay,” she promises, “I’m fine.”
Sighing out, fall to your bottom, resting your back against the tub as you hold her. “I told you that it was better to get it instead of reading about it,” teasing her, your head falls back. All of that work you put in made you tired. Your eyes shut with only a few seconds passing until your girlfriend’s lips press against yours. Her body is limp in your hold, lazily climbing into your lap.
“Thank you,” Grace chuckles. “You’re right.” she admires your tired face, smiling though you don’t spare Grace a glance. “Oh!” reaching over for her lenses, she pops them on once more. “So…” she waits for you to look at her, kissing you one more time before speaking again. “I want to learn– how to do that to you.”
Chuckling, you shake your head. “You can do whatever you want to me when I'm done wearing you out.”
Your voice has been ringing in her ears since she’s gotten home. Over small things; Grace is always receptive to conversation with her favorite girl. But since you're whipping up something over the stove, she’s the most involved spectator in history. Grace could eat anything you make and not complain. At this point, she’s just there. She stopped hearing what you said maybe not even a whole five minutes ago. What was supposed to be a sweet evening between the both of you turns into you rambling about something she stopped caring about before the world around her turned red.
“Grace?” you call for her, but she’s silent.
Tired eyes, smudged with mascara violate your body. They rip your clothes off every limb just to see every curve, contour and mark that makes her pick you from a crowd. She doesn’t hear you when you call her again, but she does jump when you spin around with a spatula in your hand. There's a playful threat in your stance. Her eyes blink, clearing her throat and sending you a soft smile.
She’s knelt on one of the stools in the kitchen, (trying) to keep you company. “H-uh?” A look that says ‘I hope I didn’t get caught’ flashes on her eyes and before she can fix it, she catches a smirk on your lips. Her breath catches before she inhales again, clenching her fists in her bent over position, leaning over the counter.
“What did I say?” She can see the flustered look in your eye. Upset is not an emotion she can see on you, so hopefully that means she’s still in the clear. Through her silence, your face falls flat, "I don't know what you’re thinking about Grace, but it must be very serious. I would hate to tell that story all over again.”
Despite the mental fog, she did pick up on some things. Work has been hell for you. In fact, it's all Grace had been (willingly) hearing about all week. “You… were talking about work,” she attempts to shoot in the ballpark. After she watches you turn back around, the red in her eyes begins to falter. The energy radiating off you is something flustered but she can’t pinpoint it.
“You’ve been distracted a lot Grace,” you pose the chance for her to say why, egging on a proper response, “especially recently and you haven’t told me why.” That heat, so warm in her skin, comes back to burn. If she tells you why, it would put her in a position to act. And this act is daring. Still, with not a word from the woman, Grace slowly stands up without you sparing her a glance.
“I’m sorry,” the woman apologizes with genuineness that breeds your shoulders falling. It’s as if she can see the smile on your lips without even seeing it. And when her feet bring her close to you, the pulsing in her ears grows louder, but she won’t back down, “there’s been a lot on my mind.”
It comes out more like a question, observant eyes looking for your gaze, hoping you'd turn around. A shaky hand of hers lifts to reach for your jaw, but before Grace can get her hands on you, you see the attempt at affection that stops her dead in her tracks. You say nothing; eyes flicking between her hand and her eyes, but you let her have it. You don’t move it, and as her fingers shakily wrap underneath your face, her breath steadies. Slightly.
“Like what?” Grace’s lips part when you lean into her hold, dropping your task to live in her palm. Through knit brows, her nose guided her face to yours, ghosting her lips over yours. A smile glitches on her mouth before she exhales against your skin, feeling you grip the waist of her top.
“You,” she whispers.
“Nervous?”
“N-no,” the analyst breathes out, even shaking her head in uncertainty. Not uncertain of you, but uncertain of her ability. “I just– shit. I want you.” Her fingers tremble against your face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t listening. Th-there’s something I… wanna do before you tell me.”
This time it’s you who doesn't answer her, instead shaking your head. The touch you give her spare hand shakes the woman, placing it on your hip, feeling Grace wrap her fingers into the band of your pants.
Your lips keep a hungry distance, wanting to mesh but only capable of brushing against each other. You didn’t push for her to move; in fact, you let her have all the power she wants. In your mind, it’s to alleviate the anxiety buzzing in her feet. Green observes you lazily under hooded eyes, hidden behind thick, black framed glasses. Almost as if she’s begging for permission, she holds out for a few seconds. It feels like a break in time before the shift in Grace alters into something darker, dominant. It’s easy to see her swallowing her emotions, decision clear in her mind. She doesn’t need to beg when you look at her so expectantly.
Her tongue dangerously laps a kiss from you, closing the gap.
When you fall into her grip, pushing you into the counter becomes an easy task. “Don’t– don’t move,” Grace mumbles under your ear. There’s a steadiness in her voice that makes your legs go weak. However, a moment later, “please?”
You nod, winded from her kiss. Trapped against the counter, the blonde keeps you upright and against her chest. “Here,” she beckons, shifting your position so you're resting against her body as she’s the one leaning against the countertop– all too close to the stove.
Grace doesn’t care.
She watches your body breathe; up and down the rise and fall of your chest makes her body throb. There was no way in hell that she would try to stop now when she has you right where she wants you. She can feel your hands drag down her thighs, your breath quake on her. It drives her.
“I- I–” there’s a pause in the air.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She’s got this. She’s made it this far. She can keep going. And though you can’t read minds, when your fingers grip at her flesh over her jeans, the woman relaxes completely.
Grace knows she doesn’t have it under control. With every wiggle, writhe and whimper against her body, she feels like she’s the one giving her body to you. But she remains strong. The hand she has on your jaw falls, using her other arm to wrap underneath your bosom, clutching your ribcage with a sense of protection rather than intimidation.
Her other hand snakes down your torso, fingers jumping at the ragged rhythm in your breath, her arm feeling the goosebumps on yours. There’s heat that lingers on your skin when her fingers plunge into your pants, shifting past panties and a shock under your girlfriend’s skin when your hand wraps over her arm.
“Grace,” you whimper.
“Yes?” She's attentive, analyzing your every move, feeling your body arch off of her as she toys with your heat slowly.
It’s hot. And not because of the stove. Grace can’t even think straight; she’s too busy keeping an eye on your chest breathing heavier, lips parted against your jaw, leaving sloppy, messy kisses along your neck.
Nothing matters to her other than making you finish on her hands. It’s genuinely the only thing she has been thinking about for the longest time. Your toes curl, back falling back into her torso with a low grunt from the woman behind you. There’s a heavy, choked cry from you that sends a wave through her body. If you had anything to say, now you don’t.
“I’ve got you,” the analyst’s voice cracks in your ear, holding onto you tighter. Her fingers work along your flesh quicker, never minding the fabric of your denim fighting back with her strength. But Grace is stronger. The tip of her nose plants into the apple of your cheek, using hushed whispers to keep you quiet though if she didn’t give a fuck about your neighbors, she would’ve found away to get you loud just for her.
She doesn’t even have to feel it happening to her because she can feel it through her. Your electrifying moans, hands getting antsy as they pull and prod at your girlfriend the needier you become.
“You do?” you breathe out, now filling the air both for your breaths and the sound of something wet.
“Yes.”
Underneath all of that work, there’s an equal match of intensity that both of you feel. And as she spends her time working on the heat between your thighs, she loses track time. It took her days to build the courage up to do this– without anything holding her back. Respectfully, everything that was racing in her mind up until she had the courage to do this made everything outside of her irrelevant.
She didn’t care about the mundane tasks at work.
She didn’t care about silly little chores at home unless you needed them done.
She didn’t mind small talk, but she wasn’t one for full blown conversations either with people who weren’t you.
She just wanted to please you.
And as you falter under her touch, quietly begging in a high pitched whisper, she takes it upon herself to tighten the grip she has on your body. Grace sits in the lust with you, keeping you upright when your body seizes in her hold.
The woman gasps at the mess you make in your pants, cooing you back to reality, slowing down her pace.
“Fuck,” your mind finally is able to use words again, taking it upon yourself to turn your head, feeling your girlfriend peck your lips.
“Satisfied?” you question, chuckling out quietly.
“Now I can hear about your job,” Grace teases with a smile. That’s not what’s on your mind exactly. Not yet.
“Okay,” you start. “But since you disrupted me making you something to eat, would you like to shower with me and then help me?” you ask, but she knows that there isn’t really an option. Grace giggles a small laugh, hiding her face in the curve of your neck.
warnings: slice of life, fluff, genz!grace (so–canon), genz!reader, fem!reader, for people who feel like they’re too childish for their interests we love u xoxo
“What a-are you doing?”
There’s a warm stutter asking for your attention as you type fiercely, resting on the arm of the couch in your shared place with your girlfriend. If it’s not for having one earbud in, you wouldn’t have heard her. She sits beside you, nudging your shoulder before you spare her a rather focused, sharp glare. “I’m drafting the next meeting agenda for these fuckers at work,” speaking to her relaxed your face, melting your pressed lips into a proper smile. Instead of smiling back to you, Grace grimaces as she glances back down at her phone. That look makes you feel uneasy, shifting your face from something comfortable to unsure, “...why?”
“It’s nothing, I just– that’s very responsible of you.” Grace locks her phone as her cheeks burn. “Mature even.” the comment makes your eyes narrow, only being a few years apart, ‘mature’ feels too adult of a descriptor for you.
It isn’t necessarily what you’re doing, but it’s more of what she’s not doing. Here you are, being productive by her side when she is on her phone, scrolling through posts on Reddit that vary from questionable to very questionable. Her response resets your face, chuckling. “Not really. I mean, you’re in the FBI. I wouldn’t want to come home and do more work, I get it. And I’ve never been an honorary member of the DSO, so I’m just trying to catch up,” you joke. “What are you even looking at?”
So Grace doesn’t overthink herself anymore than what she probably already has, you shut your laptop and toss it on the nearby love seat. In a matter of moments your head rests on her shoulder, planting small kisses on her jaw. The analyst receives your affection, but keeps her phone locked. “I was just on Reddit,” she mumbles, turning her head in a way to steal a peck from your lips.
Much to her shock, your eyes widened, “Am. I. The. Asshole?” Olive eyes sparkle at this revelation, but you’re off by… a lot. You do know a fair deal of Reddit communities, but you dabble in all of the apps as a spectator. If you see the posts Grace has made under alias’, she’d want to move towns. Don’t get her started on her fanfiction era.
“Yes! Kinda…” Your girlfriend finally springs up the courage to open up her Reddit to showcase a feed ridden with fandom content from different forms of media. Anime and Gaming didn’t shock you at all. Though you snort, titling your head.
“So what’s the problem with this? Why’d you try to hide it?”
“List your top three Reddits,” Grace asks, and much to her dismay, you prove her right. When she heard them and not one of them contained a fandom and more discussion based forums, she sighs.
“Wait a minute. So you hid it because you’re a fangirl and you suppose that I’m not?”
“What?” she supposes that does sound bad coming out of your mouth instead of hers.
With knit brows, you smile to hide the confusion brewing in your mind. “You like Five Nights At Freddy’s, I like Heated Rivalry, but I don’t hide my TikTok feed from you. If you feel immature, I feel batshit crazy.” It honestly feels electrifying getting deep lore from your girlfriend who only ever gave you baseline ‘likes’ that everyone says. Harry Potter, this thing, that thing that everyone else in the world can agree is enjoyable. But this– this is the meat and potatoes of your night.
“I-I’m–”
“You’re plotting theories of evil children in animatronic suits and I am literally watching two men kiss for my own entertainment, Grace. It's so hot that you know how to do that. I feel like the weird one, because I want two real men to kiss forever, yours is less committal,” you joke. “And that’s because we are allowed to a: rest when we want and b: acknowledge our efforts without criticism. Especially with people we love,” you correct, but Grace’s eyes only shut. She can’t deny that it’s amusing trying to listen to you rationalize how you're on each end of the fandom spectrum and she appreciates it, truly.
“You’re right,” it’s easier to give into your words of wisdom, simply because she did need to hear that. “And I don't think it’s weird you like to see two men kiss and play hockey,” Grace’s tone is so flat, it makes you laugh harder than you intended while hearing her playful jab.
Snorting, you grip her chin, “of course, I am,” and steal a kiss from her pouting lips. “Now, you’re gonna tell me the plot of your favorite video game that I saw in your feed just there. You scrolled fast as hell, but I caught the same character five times.”
“We can play the game, if you want.” Grace suggests, smiling genuinely, happy that you like stepping into her world.
a/n: yes, i know i love leon! but i love grace too, and i think that we don’t give her enough credit as a newbie to the series <3 i am simply inspired by wanting to dive deeper into grace as a person and less of an agent. i like to think she’s living a bit of a double life with a pretty girl from the strip club.
warnings: drug mentions, adult content (not smut), stripper!reader, fem!reader, fluff, subtle confessions that don't feel so subtle, LESBIANISM FR, we love grace here
Words: 1.8k
DON’T KILL THE PARTY ⭒ GRACE ASHCROFT
I’m feeling a little lazy, but I love this girl.
I think about her.
Grace Ashcroft saunters into a place that’s all too loud, all too dark, where the money is wasted like the girls she comes to see. The walls glow with shades of purple and red, clamshell-shaped couches, and each pole is taken by a woman who knows exactly how to move. The way one of them seduces the crowd with her body is so skillful that Grace almost falls victim to her energy.
Maybe it’s PARTYNEXTDOOR, maybe it’s Gunna. She doesn’t know the difference, but the bass from the music rumbles from her feet up into her body.
The scent of cheap perfume, money, cigarettes, and cannabis lingers in the air, but the blonde doesn’t mind. She claims the room quietly in her work clothes, low pony, and glasses. After a tiring shift, the stresses of work keep her up late, and who else can keep her company other than women who choose to stay up this late? Bonus points because they’re beautiful dancers.
Sometimes she thinks about what happens if her boss catches her coming to a place like this. Sometimes it bothers her that she doesn’t have a partner at home, but commitment feels like too big a responsibility right now while she’s still figuring out her place in the FBI. At least that’s what she tells herself, but there’s a reason she comes here every so often. She only finds this place after hearing a few rookies talking about it outside her office when life feels ‘too dull.’ So much for dull.
She almost makes it past the crowded bar before she spots a familiar style of shoe you’ve mastered walking in lately. You don’t see her since you’re off in the back, chatting with your housemother about something petty.
A woman around her age, proud in her mature top and lusty eye makeup, beckons her. “You know, you keep coming in here, we’re gonna start thinking you’re trying to blow up the spot,” the tender jokes, tilting her head. Grace clears her nerves, downs two shots, and makes small talk with the bartender who’s been eyeing her since she walked in. The woman in front of the blonde is simple in comparison to you, but in the other patrons’ eyes, she’s as sweet as a Long Island Iced Tea; sweet, but a bit too forward. “And this is a gentlemen’s club anyway,” she says, slipping Grace a free shot of tequila with a smug grin. She already knows who the agent is here for.
The agent chuckles slightly, unease bubbling through her body over the staff noticing how often she comes in, but there’s someone here who keeps her wanting more.
You.
She waits a bit longer, entertaining the woman who made her drink. Then, as if a switch flips, Grace loses her pliant amusement and turns firm and controlled. “If I spend as much as any other man in here, you can call me Mr. Ashcroft.” Clearing her throat, she downs her last shot and eyes you slipping toward one of the private rooms— until you notice her, sheepishly awestruck by your scantily clad figure and gentle smile. Her eyes falter behind thin, black-framed glasses, her head hanging low with shyness… but something more intentional brews under her skin. You confidently wave, and she shoots you a short wave back.
She knows she probably shouldn’t be here, considering you’ve built a rapport with multiple clients. Still, when she comes here and it’s just the two of you, she buzzes. Her eyes never leave you as if she’s studying your behavior. To Grace, this is a safe haven— of sorts. When it’s just you two, she doesn’t have to care about her job or her worries. She gets to be flirted with, enjoy comfortable touches, and receive a little dance just for her from a woman who’s happy to bend for her.
In a profession like this, closed mouths don’t get fed. That’s what draws you to Grace. Her mouth stays closed, but you know she wants to say something. Anything. So you pursue her. She used to stay by the bar, but you notice she always watches you dance, so you offer her a private dance for free. That night she pays you an amount that makes her punch her steering wheel at four in the morning. You, of course, love it. Over time, she only looks for you, and you only look for her, which is how you both end up here now. And honestly? Your smile gets wider and your heart beats faster when she gives you a small gift or admits she’s been thinking about you.
So, you don’t let up. Grace is your best customer, and you make sure to lure her in with a curl of your index finger. If she’s watching as carefully as you think, she can see your lips say “come here,” and before she pays, the bartender lifts a hand to tell Grace you’ve offered to cover her drinks tonight.
With that, Grace clumsily fixes her posture and makes her way to you.
“Hi, honey,” you croon. “It’s been a minute.” You greet her comfortably, hand on her waist, watching her shift into your touch. “I missed you all week.”
The blonde allows you to take off her glasses as you lead her to an empty room. “I was here Tuesday,” she embarrassingly admits, and you’re amused. She watches your figure fill out your set, flesh hugged by lace, nets, and sparkles. She can’t forget the small stretch marks that scratch at your flesh.
As the door shuts, you slip her glasses on your head. “Four days feels like a long time without you, Grace.” You pull down her blazer, toss it onto a table, rest your hands on her hips, and walk her backward until she stumbles onto the loveseat. Grace squeaks but calms when she sees you above her. “And I’m not saying that just because you’re a client,” you add, smiling as the words flow out, “you also let me take my shoes off.”
You both laugh, but you’re a little serious. Sometimes she doesn’t even want you to dance; she might just want to talk. As you slip into her lap and her hands ghost your hips, your fingertips tuck her baby hairs behind her ears. “You know it’s okay to touch me. You’re never disrespectful.” Her hands land on your skin with a relieved sigh.
“What do you want, Grace?” you ask, running your fingers through her hair and pulling out her hair tie, slipping yours into a messy bun. You tease, “What can I do for my prettiest customer?” You bop your head and pop her glasses onto your face, making her stare with a satisfied expression.
Grace tries to avoid blushing, the red lights hiding the heat in her face. “I don’t want anything tonight. I just wanted to see you.”
Your eyes widen, and your head cocks in amusement. “Took you long enough. Don’t make me think you’re seeing other girls when you’re away from me, Grace.”
“I—I’d never!” the woman blurts, leaning closer. “I hardly have time to come here. I wouldn’t,” she insists, fingers dragging lightly along your waist. Then a thought makes her smirk. “You like saying my name?”
Your brow lifts; you didn’t think you said her name that much, but if she noticed, you don’t mind playing into it.
“I used to think it was the most boring name ever until I met you. Now I say it all the time.”
Grace tilts her head. You wink.
Rolling her eyes, Grace scoffs. “I don’t know if it’s this place, the music—”
“Not the mixed drinks.”
“Maybe not the mixed drinks,” she continues, laughing, her eyes falling to your bosom. “But there’s a reason I keep coming back here. I know it doesn’t make me special, but—”
“I think you’re very important.” Your hands run through her hair, smirking softly. It’s soft and smells of lavender. Her confession, like many, feels cute. Grace carries a falsified confidence from this angle, and you’re desperate to play into her nerves as you lean closer. “I can only kinda see with these glasses. Can you see without glasses, Grace?”
It catches her off guard. She blinks, thrown. “U-uhm yes. I can see.”
“Can you see me clearly?” you tease, watching her brows furrow.
“Y-yes…”
“I think you’re more important than the old fucks I see most nights. More important than the younger men seeing a woman’s body for the first time. And I think you’re far more important than you believe if you come here just to see me.” Leaning into her jaw, your fingers play with the collar of her V-neck.
Grace’s eyes veer away, smirking. “I don’t think you should sell yourself short just because you can have anyone in here.”
