Simply thinking about Jack Abbot correcting your posture.
He’s a doctor, so sure it starts there, in the territory of alignment and strain and long-term damage, all the tiny indignities a body absorbs when nobody’s paying proper attention to it.
And he worries about you, of course. Worries about the set of your neck and the rounded drag of your shoulders, about how you curl in on yourself over your charting like the screen might swallow you whole, about how you hunch over your phone texting those ridiculous little emoticons and memes he glances at with visible suspicion.
So he makes an effort to fix it.
A broad hand behind your chair, angling it closer to the desk until your spine has no excuse but the lengthen. Two fingers slipped beneath your chin when you’re bent out of shape around your phone on the couch, tilting your gaze upward until the vertebrae stack properly and the ache in your neck eases. Even in transit — plate to sink, fridge to stove — he stops to cup your shoulders, easing them from your ears with a downward glide of his thumbs.
A silent reward hums through the touch: a silent good girl, there you go.
“Sit up, sweetheart.” “Uncross your legs.” “Laptop higher.” “Relax your jaw.”
He knows he’s a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someone’s dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time.
He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isn’t that he sets out to make you squirm, though he’d be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look.
It’s just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then it’s already too late to pretend you’re not going to listen.
So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesn’t hesitate.
Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.
“Up.”
You mutter, “I hate you,” eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.
His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jaw’s hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nurses’ station pretends their screens are riveting.
Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbot’s touch far faster than to your own irritation.
“There’s a whole skeleton under all that,” he observes dryly. “Try using it.”
You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. “Stop manhandling me at work.”
He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.
“Better,” he decides. “And if I catch you bent over that phone again, I’m taking it.”
He likes the line of you best when he’s the one arranging it.
You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like he’s smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.
“Uh-uh,” he grunts, and you’re too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. “Arch for me — c’mon, deeper bend, don’t cheat your lower back.”
Your breath catches when he palms the dip he’s just created, fingers splaying and then he’s sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because he’s engineered it that way.
Every push has a tiny corrective tap — shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl — until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.
MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye
Warnings: friends/coworkers to lovers, established mutual feelings, fluff, drunk reader, whipped Jack.
Summary: Jack decides he’s done hiding exactly how whipped he is for you.
After a brutal week of work, your shift crew was letting loose, trading complaints about management and downing cheap drinks.
But Jack wasn't paying attention to any of them.
He was leaning against the table, a half empty beer in his hand, with his gaze entirely on you. You were sitting across the table, throwing your head back as you laughed at a joke someone just made. The warm ambient lighting of the pub caught the edge of your smile, and right then, something shifted heavily in Jack’s chest.
God, she’s easily the most beautiful person in this room, he thought, a sudden clarity hitting him.
It wasn't just a fleeting work crush anymore, and he knew it.
Watching the way you effortlessly commanded the space around you, he realized he was completely done for.
He found himself thinking past the walls of the bar, imagining what it would be like to be the one walking you to your front door tonight. He’d willingly play the perfect gentleman, do whatever it took, even charm your mom if he ever got the chance to meet her; anything just to ensure he got to stay in your life.
The mere thought of a future with you, spoken out loud or just kept in his head, made his heart race.
As if feeling the weight of his stare, you turned your head. Your eyes met his, and your smile softened into something private, just for him.
Jack didn’t look away. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
The music in the bar shifted to something with a pulsing beat, and a few people from the shift immediately dragged you out toward the cramped dance floor.
Jack stayed at the table, but he didn't join the conversation around him. His eyes followed you through the lights. He watched the way you moved, the unbothered laugh on your lips, and the way you completely shook off the stress of the past week.
Every second he spent watching you only hammered the realization deeper into his chest.
When a song ended, you made your way back, flushed and laughing. The drinks had fully caught up to you by now, leaving your mind pleasantly fuzzy and your movements a little loose.
Instead of reclaiming your original seat, you slid straight into the tight space right next to Jack.
The moment your hip met his, his hand slid effortlessly around your waist, his palm warm as he pulled you against his side. The warmth of your body radiated through his clothes, and because of the alcohol blurring your usual boundaries, you happily let yourself sink heavily into him, leaning your head back against his shoulder and looking up with slightly unfocused eyes.
"Too much dancing?" he murmured, dropping hus voice so only you could hear him over the bar’s bass.
"Maybe a little," you hummed, a smile playing on your lips. "Or maybe it's the drinks."
"You're a lightweight," he teased softly. As the words left his mouth, he leaned his head down and pressed a kiss right against the bare skin of your shoulder, his lips were warm against your skin.
A shiver ran down your spine, and you let out a soft giggle, shifting even closer until there was absolutely no space left between you. You reached up, your fingers playfully tugging at the lapel of his jacket. "Are you being sweet to me, Jack?"
"I can be whatever you want me to be," he replied without a hint of hesitation, his hand at your waist gently squeezing. He was completely dialed into you, entirely forgetting that you two weren't alone.
Across the table, a few looks were traded. A couple of eyebrows went up. One of the paramedics cleared their throat loudly, a massive smirk spreading across their face.
"Uh, Jack? You want us to leave you two alone?"
Jack blinked, fucking finally remembering the rest of the world existed. He looked up, catching the knowing grins of the entire shift crew staring.
Anyone could see it: the way he was holding you, the softness in his eyes, the absolute focus he had on you. He was totally whipped, and there was absolutely no denying it anymore.
Instead of pulling away or getting defensive, Jack just looked down at you, seeing the faint, beautiful flush on your cheeks. He chuckled, his arm adjusting around your waist.
"Mind your business," Jack said to the table, not a single bit of shame in his voice. "I'm minding mine."
Before anyone could even process his words, Jack turned his head down toward you. His hand slid from your waist up to the nape of your neck, his fingers gently tangling in your hair as he tilted your face up and captured your lips in a deep kiss.
The kiss was deep, slow, and full of all the unspoken words he’d been keeping to himself for months. It was a warm claim that left you completely breathless. He tasted faintly of the beer he’d been sipping, his lips incredibly soft but firm as they molded against yours, demanding a response you were more than ready to give.
The shift went absolutely wild around, cheers and loud whistles erupting from everyone, but Jack didn’t pull back. Instead, he only deepened the kiss.
The sheer excitement of the crew brought a shy heat to your cheeks, and a breathless smile broke across your lips right in the middle of the kiss. Jack let out a chuckle against your mouth, loving the feel of your lips curving against his.
Yielding completely to the fuzzy rush of the alcohol and his touch, you wrapped your arms tighter around his neck, burying your fingers in the collar of his shirt. You tilted your head and kissed him back softly, your smile pressing directly into his as you let him completely steal your breath away.
jack abbot for all his strength and resilience, still had his moments. when the two of you finally came together, he was so surprised to find someone so dedicated to self-regulation. you were a creature of habit, and practicing self-care was of the utmost importance. every day after work, carving out the time to just unwind, sometimes that's in the form of a workout, a home-cooked meal, or baked, or like tonight, a long bath finished with copious amounts of body lotions & oils worked into the skin until you smelled sweet of almonds and raspberries. the grey cotton nightie is soft against your skin. jack comes into the shared bedroom, stopping at the foot of the bed seeing you propped up against the pillow, laid out and with a book in your hand raised up to your nose. the sound of his bag hitting the floor pulled you out of the your concentration, a warm smile pulled at your lips, setting the book down watching as jack started to strip himself of his scrubs.
"is my honeybee home? i missed you. how was work?" your voice was syrupy sweet, filled with warmth. jack got down to just his boxers before sitting at the edge of the bed, removing his prosthetic, peeling off the sock, and massaging the stump where blood had likely pooled beneath the skin.
he was awfully quiet, a telltale sign of a difficult night. explained why he came home a little later than usual. he was clean, freshly showered. he only ever showered at the hospital for 2 reasons: covered in too much fluid for it to wait till he got home or whatever was weighing him down needed to be left at the hospital. he had become a bit spiritual in terms of energy transfer. there was a steady few months where he'd find himself feeling even lower when he got home, and by consequence, lashing out at you in unwarranted ways. at some point, he made it a rule that whatever shitty things happened at work, stayed there; he couldn't bring that baggage home, into the one domain he so ferociously protected. he found showering at the hospital, washing it all away, both physically and mentally, made it easier to come home.
crawling up behind him, his back is to you as he worked to massage the ache. you pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder, hands resting on his biceps as you kissed along his shoulder blade. trailing your lips up to his neck and stopping just below his ear as you settled behind him. hands sliding from his arms to around his waist until they settled on his stomach, a huff of breath came as he exhaled and relaxed back into your touch, one hand resting atop yours as you peered at him over his shoulder. exhaustion settled into the fine lines of his face, the same wrinkles by his eyes that you'd grown to love that crinkled with joy when he looked at you, remained unmoving now. his eyes drifted up to yours when you brought your hand to rest on his cheek, tilting his face up. brows knit with concern, sparkling doting eyes, your thumb smoothed over his cheek, a creeping thought of what wrong he turned right to have been so lucky to have you in his life.
"bad day, just a bad day, angel." his voice was rough; he did his best to sound reassuring, but the pained expression and tension in his shoulders were enough to tell you he needed comfort.
"let me make it better now," he followed your voice like a siren calling, hands tugging up and into the bed. beneath the sheets and blankets, his body was warm, pressed firmly against you. his thigh slotted between your own legs as he pulled you into his embrace, strong arms wrapped around your waist as he rested his head on your chest. one hand was tangled in the soft grey curls of his head while the other ran up and down the expanse of his back, his breathing evening out with every stroke and scratch. eyes closed, stubble scratched against your chest as he placed a chaste kiss to your breast where his face was buried. nails dragging lightly against his scalp and shoulders while you pressed kisses into his forehead, he lay content. not a single thought of the day's work that had him so close to collapse was gone, the weight lifted off his shoulders the minute his angel was there to take it.
3 times the pittlings suspect Robby is married and the 1 time it’s confirmed
cw: married!robby, robby and reader have a kid, godfather!jack abbot, medical inaccuracies (trying my best), age gap (unspecified)
wc: 4.7k
a/n: i couldn’t decide a name for their daughter so i just used a nickname ‘bug’ for her!
Doctor Michael “Robby” Robinavitch was not a married man.
Or so his residents thought.
The Chief Attending Physician never mentioned being married, kids, or any other indicators that typically pointed to a relationship.
Besides, while Robby was brilliant, he was also incredibly cynical. They weren’t quite sure that trait screamed husband material.
That was until one by one the ‘pittlings’ as they were called slowly uncovered aspects of Robby’s life that were more than meets the eye.
1. The Rings
Robby didn’t wear a ring.
His left hand was left completely barren during the duration of his shift.
He dodged questions about his love life left and right, especially from the older patients who learned of his last name origins and wanted his whole life story.
Never denied having a wife, just danced around the topic.
Even Abbot who was widowed still wore his wedding ring
Naturally, those who saw his left hand (including those who worked at PMTC), all assumed he was unmarried.
The Emergency Room today is scarily quiet. Not quiet necessarily, just not the typical rush of screaming patients and understaffing issues.
Robby stands by Dana at the central hub, typing away at the tablet to update charting information. Dana works by him silently, clearly savoring the moment of calm before the inevitable storm.
And then the peace is broken by two paramedics bursting through the ambulance bay doors.
Robby discards his tablet immediately and slings his stethoscope back around his neck.
“What do we got?”
“42 year old male. Experiencing chest pains and shortness of breath. Likely a stemi. EKG has been applied.”
“Whitaker! Jesse! You’re with me,” Robby demands.
The two men follow him right into Trauma 2, gloving up immediately and awaiting further instructions.
They know the procedure at this point. Stabilize the patient, call surgery, don’t lose the heartbeat.
Of course that last one is a lot harder to ensure.
But when they lose the heartbeat, Robby immediately springs into action. He rambles off something about the proper number of compressions.
Robby places his hands on the patient’s chest and began the familiar rhythm of CPR.
Whitaker takes over securing the airway while Jesse preps the defibrillator.
They’ve seen many stemi’s in Trauma 1 and 2 but each time it’s a stressful race against the clock.
Robby pauses his compressions, waiting on his internal clock before he starts again.
Still no pulse.
He places his hands once more, applying slightly more pressure as he begins his second wave.
Whitaker stands on deck, fully ready for Robby’s next set of instructions. The endotracheal tube was successfully inserted into the trachea. All he could do now was wait.
And even something catches his attention.
A shiny piece of gold slips out of Robby’s shirt, hitting his chest as it’s stopped by the chain it’s connected to.
Whitaker probably wouldn’t have noticed if the ring hadn’t caught the fluorescent emergency room lights. And then it hits him. Robby has a wedding ring around his neck.
“Whitaker!”
The resident doesn’t respond immediately. He’s too focused on the newest gossip point he may have just uncovered.
“Whitaker!” Robby yells again.
“Right! Sorry!” He rushes out before rambling off the patient’s vitals.
And then…..
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Robby removes his hands, a sigh escaping his lips as he allows the others to take over with the proper procedures.
Whitaker watches as he reaches for his exposed necklace. The attending runs his finger around the band before tucking it securely under his scrubs.
Like wearing a wedding band was nothing at all.
Whitaker doesn’t wanna ask. It isn’t the time, place, or status to question if Robby was married. Just morbid curiosity.
He’ll have to mention it to Santos if he remembers.
Robby shoots two thumbs up as the stemi patient is moved out by surgery.
“Good work everyone,” he announces before slipping out to see where he’s needed.
Huh.
Maybe Dr. Robby is secretly married.
2. Stitches
You don’t expect to end up at the Pitt, truthfully you never had.
Frankly, if you had a choice you would rather head to Westbridge. Okay, maybe that was a stretch but something about going to the Pitt felt like teetering in your husband's territory.
But now your hand is bleeding bad and if you were able to look past the blood, you swear you could see bone. You cursed yourself out for causing such a disastrous scene from simply trying to cook dinner.
You were incredibly grateful your daughter was being watched by your parents for the night.
You drive to PTMC in a haze. Your hand is throbbing and the blood has already started seeping through the thick towel you wrapped around. Should you be driving? Maybe not. But calling an ambulance for a deep wound wasn’t realistic.
In your dazed state, you don’t even think about texting Robby.
It must be your lucky day when you walk into the emergency department and there’s actually empty chairs available. Robby had come home many nights complaining of being understaffed and overrun.
Check-in went smoothly and when the triage nurse saw your hand, she called right for a nurse to bring you back.
You didn’t see Dana at the nurses station and you knew Jack wasn’t due in for another hour or so. Robby also seemed MIA, probably back with a patient.
Instead, a nurse named Sam shows you to your room. “You can have a seat on the bed. Someone should be with you momentarily.”
The pain in your hand continued to increase. Maybe it was the blood loss or the adrenaline fading but you let your eyes shut until there’s a knock on the door and the curtain slides open.
You're greeted shortly after being shown to North 14 by a dark haired doctor.
You squint your eyes to read her badge. Doctor Trinity Santos.
Ah. So that was Santos.
Robby subtly talked about almost all of his coworkers at home. You knew Whitaker was resilient, Javadi was young but highly gifted, Mel was brilliant, and lastly you knew that Santos, begrudgingly, was a lot like Robby.
“I’m Doctor Santos and I’ll be taking care of you today,” she starts. “What’s going on?”
You lift your band up weakly to show the blood stained towel. Despite all, you manage to force out a laugh.
“Kitchen accident. Knife slipped right down my palm.”
Santos sits in a stool and slides over to the edge of the bed.
“Mind if I take a look?”
You nod, only wincing slightly as she unwraps the towel.
“Yeah you got a nasty cut here. I’ll clean it up and we’ll probably need to do a few stitches. How’s the pain?”
“Not great.”
Santos stands up. “I’ll get you something to numb your hand. You should be in and out.”
You give her a warm smile. “Thank you Dr. Santos.”
She’s gone for another few moments before entering the room with the proper supplies. You swing your legs over the bed and rest your hand on the table and bring it over.
Robby is taking a lap around the floor when he double takes at one of the hospital's newest admitants.
Santos is at your bedside, saline flush in hand as she works to clean out the blood from your wound.
“Doctor Santos? What do we have here?” An all familiar voice enters the room.
Your eyes shoot up. Busted.
“Uh,” Santos starts. “Just a deep hand laceration. Kitchen accident. I gave a low dosage to numb the area. Should be good after I finish cleaning and stitch it up.”
The young doctor doesn’t seem to notice the intense eye contact between you and Robby. There’s a silent conversation between you and him. Something between an are you okay? and a why didn’t you ask for me?
“I’d like to take over here if you don’t mind Dr. Santos.”
There’s a long pause of silence in the room.
“Are you sure?” Trinity draws out each word.
“Yeah, I got it,” Robby starts. “Haven’t done some stitching in awhile. Need the practice.”
“I watched you stitch up someone this morning.”
You stifle a laugh, though clearly not well enough for Robby and Santos to not hear.
Santos stands. “But she is all yours. I’ll be back to discharge her when she’s ready.”
Once Santos leaves, you finally have the courage to look your husband in the eye.
“Michael-“ you start.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine. I was just being stupid in the kitchen.”
Robby sighs. “Accidents happen. I just wish you called me. Or texted.”
The saline continues to clean your hand as silence overtakes you.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble after a moment.
“Bother me?” Robby quietly laughs. “Honey, I'm your husband. You’re allowed to bother me when you're hurt. I’d actually prefer it if you did.”
It feels stupid to you now. You were married with a child for god's sake and you still felt guilty asking for help when you had a huge gash down your hand.
“I was trying to make you dinner,” you winced as Robby began his stitches. “Since my parents are watching Bug I wanted us to have a romantic night.”
Robby laughs. Not in a mean way but simply at your kindness.
“We can still have a romantic night. Just gotta be careful of these stitches.”
“Yeah without dinner I guess.”
“I’ll grab something on my way home,” Robby responds to your quip without missing a beat.
He says it so casually too that you can’t help but smile.
“I like seeing you in your scrubs.”
“Oh yeah?”
You loll your head to the side so it’s resting on your arm. “Sorry, I just find my husband looks too good taking care of me.”
“Careful,” he warns.
“Always am.”
Robby’s mind is still in doctor mode. You managing to flirt with him despite your hand was a good sign.
You grimace one final time as Robby makes the final knot.
Your hand already looks miles better.
“Once I wrap it up for you you’ll be all set.”
Robby turns your hand over and wraps his fingers gently around yours. Still careful of your pulsing wound, he brings your hand up to his lips and places a gentle kiss.
His lips linger for a moment, just long enough for Santos to go wide-eyed as she walks past the room. Despite Robby taking over your stitching, you were still technically her patient.
Now, instead of entering your room, she turned on her heel and made a mad dash for where Whitaker sat charting.
“Huckleberry,” Santos sharply whispers.
The boy looks up at her. “What’s up?”
Santos looks behind her back, clearly afraid that her attending could sneak up and hear her gossiping about his personal life.
“My patient in North 14, the one that Robby hijacked?”
Whitaker’s brows furrow in confusion. “Yeah?”
“I swear Robby just kissed her.”
This immediately grabbed Whitaker’s attention. Chart now forgotten, he peers over Santos’ shoulder to see if he can catch a glimpse of the room. No luck.
“What? There’s no way.”
Santos pushes her stray hairs back. “I am so beyond serious you have no idea.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
They’re both silent for a moment before Whitaker speaks up. “You know maybe that’s just his girlfriend?”
“No,” Santos shakes her head. “She had wedding rings on. A massive one too.”
Whitaker finally scoffs. “Huh. Maybe Robby does have a secret double life. You know he wears a necklace with a ring on it?”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t think it mattered until now!” He defends himself.
“So you’re saying I may have just taken Robby’s wife as my patient,” Santos starts.
“Yup.”
“Oh wow. Huh.”
Silence once more. Santos stays deep in thought as Whitaker goes back to charting. She can’t help it, she’s behind nosy.
“Do you think I should just ask?”
“Absolutely not,” Whitaker replies immediately.
Santos rolls her eyes. Curse her roommate for always being the voice of reason.
After checking up on her kid with severe road burn and an older man with chest pains, Santos decides it’s time to check in on you. That is until she sees Robby by the hand sanitizer station.
“Hey Dr. Robby!” Santos calls after her attending.
Robby promptly stops in his tracks and spins around.
“I’m about to go discharge North 14 and then I’ll need a consult in South 6,” Santos explains.
“No need, I already took care of discharge.”
Oh. Robby discharged her patient. Her patient. While Santos was getting better, she still struggled with when to stand up for herself or step down.
“You discharged my patient?”
“Is there a problem Dr. Santos?” Robby inquires.
Oh shit. Santos knows immediately that’s his tone of voice saying are you questioning my authority?
She backtracks immediately. “No, not at all. You are the boss.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at South 6 in a few.”
Santos stays glued to her spot for a moment after Robby walks away.
“Huh,” she thinks to herself. “Maybe I did just stitch up Mrs. Robinavitch.”
3. Little Bug
Jack Abbot walking in the E.R. is an immediate sign that shift change had begun and day shift was finally off the hook.
Jack Abbot walking in with a child on his hip, however, was a totally different story.
Plus, the Paw Patrol backpack he had strung across his shoulder.
Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi sit around their desks. All three are frantically typing away at their charts, desperate to get out of the hospital at a seemingly normal time.
It’s Javadi that spots the scene first.
“Holy shit,” she starts. “Is Abbot holding a kid?”
It felt like the entire E.R. at that moment noticed the attending.
It’s a silent game of if anyone needs to react or not. On one hand, a child in an emergency room is a clear red flag. On the other hand, that kid was with Dr. Jack Abbot.
Jack is unbothered by the wandering eyes.
He heads right to the central hub. Dana spotted them minutes ago and already circled around to greet the pair.
“Day-Nuh!” Bug annunciates both syllables in the nurse's name when she spots the charge nurse.
“Hi Jellybean,” Dana beams, accepting the transfer from Jack and fixing the girl to sit on her hip.
Bug’s hands grasp at Dana’s stethoscope.
For your daughter's birthday, you and Robby had gifted her a play doctor set. She was familiar with the basics and was clearly interested in the real-life thing.
“You have fun with Uncle Jack today? Dana asks.
The girl nods.
“Pirate Jack,” Bug corrects as she points down.
“Pirate huh?” Dana chuckles.
“She learned about my leg a few weeks ago. Started calling me a pirate once she stopped crying,” Jack spoke.
Dana boops the girl on her nose. “Well aren’t you the cutest.”
The attending and charge nurse chat for a few minutes as Bug grabs at everything in her reach: Dana’s badge, her cross necklace, and even the pen that’s clipped to her pocket. Dana, of course, doesn’t mind in the slightest.
Bug quickly gets distracted and wiggles out of Dana’s arms the second she spots Robby in her sightline.
“Da-da!” Bug exclaims. It takes Robby only two quick strides to get to her.
God knows he doesn’t want his daughter running around this place.
Robby, as if he had already sensed his daughter's presence in the E.R., had gathered his things from his locker.
“Oof. Hi Bug,” Robby grunts as he’s hit full force in the legs by the toddler.
The second he picks her up, it’s like his entire demeanor changes. The tension in his shoulders eases and for the first time all day, he doesn’t look steps away from a breakdown.
Robby takes note of his daughter’s outfit that was certainly not the one he dressed her in this morning.
A jersey meant only one thing.
“You took her to a Pirates game?” Robby questions his friend.
Jack nods. “Yeah. They won.”
Robby slides a hand down his face. “So let me get this straight. You took my daughter to a 1:35 start game and are now here to work a 12 hour shift.”
Jack nods again like this isn’t difficult to comprehend. “I’m a shoe-in for uncle of the year.”
That gains a laugh from Robby.
“You’re insane,” he begins. “I’m assuming the jersey was a new addition.”
“Of course. Her cleaned ice cream helmet and hat are in her backpack.”
Javadi turns to their little group who has long abandoned their charting to watch the two men interact.
“You think that’s Robby and Abbot’s love child?’ Javadi inquiries.
That elicits a laugh. The new sound causes Bug to immediately lose her attention on her dad and look over towards the three doctors. Her little hands grasp at the hems of Robby’s scrubs as she focuses mostly on Javadi.
“Looks like she chose you,” Santos says quietly.
Javadi raises her hand tentatively to wave, clearly not wanting to overstep any boundaries with the dynamic most of the emergency department just learned about.
Bug shows a toothy grin as she waves back.
Robby feels Bug shifting around and turns to face the group who suddenly look like deer in headlights. Like Bug when she gets caught pulling puppy dog eyes on Dana for another cookie.
To the pittlings shock, Robby laughs.
“You guys are allowed to say hi.”
Robby points to Santos first. “That’s Trinity.”
“Trin-ty!” Bug repeats.
“Dennis.”
“Dennis!”
“And Victoria.”
Bug’s face scrunches up in concentration. More than two syllables were rough. “Vic-tora!”
Robby shrugs. “Eh close enough, Bug.” He then turns his attention away from the girl. “We’re working on phonics right now.”
Santos holds her hands up. “Alright I’ll bite. You have a kid? And it’s not yours and Abbot’s?”
Dana bumps Jack with her shoulder. “Told ya people would say something.”
Robby glares at the two before turning back to Santos.
“Yes, I have a kid. Yes, I am married. Yes, Jack has been helping me while my wife is out of town. Any other questions?”
Whitaker clocks Santos’ look immediately. So their suspicions were correct.
“Was your wife my patient that you stitched up?” Santos bursts out. She can’t help it. The curiosity has been eating her up.
“Yes it was. She didn’t want to bother me for help.”
“Aw. No wonder you two get along.”
Bug is growing not just tired, but restless too. A bad combination for a toddler.
“When does the missus get back?” Dana asks.
“Tomorrow night,” Robby starts. “Can’t thank you guys enough for everything.”
To everyone in the room, this made perfect sense. Two of Robbie’s close support systems helping him out with his daughter.
“But this little one seems pretty tired from romping around with Uncle Jack. Can you say thank you, Bug?”
Bug turns her head to her uncle. “Thank you pirate Jack!”
Dana squeezes the young girls cheek and with a final wave goodbye, Robby is out the door. Probably the earliest he has ever left PTMC.
Safe to say he left the Pittlings in shock.
+1. Meeting
Your hand takes a bit to heal. Given how deep the cut was, you were fully expecting a long road to recovery.
Robby checked over the wound almost daily. He explained in simple terms to Bug that “mommy’s left hand was hurt right now” and that “she needed to be extra careful.”
Of course Bug was determined to kiss it better. Just like her dad had done to you.
Robby insists that you set up a 3-week checkup.
He told you that the surface skin should be healed by three weeks (sometimes longer with it being such a utilized area), but there would be a road ahead for deep tissue recovery.
Your phone pings as you’re packing your purse.
What time are you coming in?
About to leave! Need anything?
All good. I let the triage nurses know you’re coming so you should be able to come right back. See you soon. Love you
Love you too!
After your initial incident, PTMC didn’t feel as scary. Also probably given the fact that you and your husband had a long conversation about it being okay to ask for help.
The irony was there best believe it.
You’re waved through once you enter the waiting room. This time, thankfully, you spotted Dana immediately at the central hub.
“Well look who’s back!” Dana exclaims.
You hold your wrapped hand up. “Michael insisted I come for a checkup.”
Dana rounds the hub and wraps you in a greeting hug. “Sounds like him.”
She pauses to notice there is no toddler trotting in with you. “No Bug?”
You roll your eyes playfully. “You know I do have a life outside of my daughter.”
“Eh. Debatable.”
You glance around the bustling emergency room. No signs of Robby. “Is my husband around?”
“Let me page him.”
Robby appears just moments after being paged. He looks tired and worn. You can’t imagine what the day has already thrown at him.
But when he sees you, he slaps on a tired smile and walks like the day hasn’t beat him down.
“Hi honey,” Robby greets you, shocking even you as he places a soft kiss to your forehead.
You know he prefers private displays of affection. Can’t live without it actually. In public, however, holding your hand suffices for both of you.
“I can get you set up in a room so we can look at that hand. In and out promise.”
You wave him off. “Take your time. I know you’re busy.”
Dana scoffs and laughs. “When is he not.”
“Tell me about it.”
Robby shoots both of his hands up in the air as an ‘i’m innocent!’
“South 10’s open.”
You’re so close to stealing your husband away to do your checkup when the phone rings and Dana’s face falls.
“Car pileup on 376. Incoming in 5 minutes.”
Robby slides a hand down his face. You squeeze his arm.
“It’s okay Mike. I can wait.”
Robby shakes his head as his eyes dart around the emergency room.
“Santos!” Robby calls. The young resident’s head snaps up, eyes immediately locking on you. “You free?”
She stands up. “I can be.”
“Mind doing a three week checkup? Since I hijacked it last time.”
You chuckle. “Don’t worry, I chewed him out for it.”
You and Robby can both tell Santos is treading in uncharted waters.
“I’m assuming this is your wife?” Santos asks.
You stick your uninjured hand out for her to shake. “Yes I am and Y/N is fine.”
Oh she can’t wait to tell Whitaker.
“Sorry about last time,” you apologize.
Santos shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Nice to meet you.”
Dana looks at the group and repeats. “South 10.”
“Right,” Santos presses her lips together.
You can sense that Robby is on edge about the incoming trauma. “I’ll be okay Mike. It’s just a checkup. Besides, based on what you’ve told me I’m in good hands.”
Santos tries not to glow with pride.
“Okay okay. I’ll swing by when I can.”
Santos guides you to South 10. You take a seat in the chair before she slowly unwraps your bandage. While Robby’s stitches were flawless, it was still a nasty injury to heal from.
“I’m gonna do another cleaning and then test your movement,” Santos explains. “Just gotta grab the stuff and I’ll be back.”
True to her word, Santos is back but this time she’s accompanied by Robby.
“Thought you had an incoming trauma?” you inquire.
“Got re-routed to Westbridge.”
You nod, winching only slightly as Santos begins poking the area for tenderness. Safe to say she found it!
“Do you want to remove your rings?” Santos asks
You nod before sliding the two bands off. “Don’t want them in the way for either of us.”
Robby steps forward and opens his palm. You drop them down as he unclips his necklace chain and slides them on. They hit his respective wedding band with a satisfying clink.
“Want me to stay?” Robby offers.
“Not if you’re going to terrorize Santos,” you fire back.
Santos is enjoying this a bit too much.
“I will go see if someone else needs help then. Please call if you need anything.”
The young resident works in silence. Despite Robby not being in the room, his presence lingers over. If she fucked up working on his wife, she was screwed.
But surprisingly, you’re the one to break the silence.
“Robby told me you’re interested in general surgery,” you speak.
Once again, Santos is taken aback. Robby doesn’t just talk about her outside of work but he talks highly of her outside of work.
“Yeah I think so. I’m still figuring it out.”
“Eh you have time. Don’t tell him I told you this but he thinks you’ll be a great fit.”
Santos smiles. “I think I’m just in shock to be treating you now that I know who you are. And your daughter too.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have no problems telling Robby off,” You laugh. “Just didn’t want to make a big deal last time.”
“I get it. How long have you to been together?” Santos asks and then immediately freezes. “Oh I’m so sorry I don’t mean to interrogate.”
What has Robby been doing to these poor residents to make them so scared?
“We’ve known each other for 10, married for 8, and we’ve had Bug for three years now.”
“She’s adorable. She waved to us when Dr. Abbot brought her in.”
“Yeah she likes Jack more than me sometimes,” you grin.
Your checkup doesn’t take much longer after that. Santos wraps your hand up once more and goes through aftercare instructions. “But I’ll let Dr. Robby know as well,” she finishes out.
You walk back to the central hub as you make small talk with Santos. She tells you about how she used to be an athlete and how she’s fluent in Tagalog. You, in turn, tell her about your own work and all the details that come with that.
Robby strategically positioned himself to be waiting with Dana when you’re done.
“Dr. Santos is fantastic,” you praise when you find him. “Everything looks a-okay.”
Santos slides past you to sit down at her desk with Whitaker and Javadi.
“Just treated Mrs. Robinavitch,” she whispers. The other resident and student doctor lean in close. “She’s so nice. Like scary nice. And smart too.”
And just like the pittlings feared, Robby appears behind them to interrupt their gossip session.
“Well I’m glad you find my wife nice and smart,” Robby muses.
Then you’re popping up right behind them. “Cut them some slack, Mike. They’re just curious.”
It’s like you have him under a spell with the way he relaxes at your touch.
“Wanna walk me out?” you offer.
Robby points at the group of three. “Any of you need anything?”
It’s amusing so see how quickly they shake their heads no.
“Alright, I’ll be back soon.”
As Robby turns to leave, you grab his arm to stop him.
“It was nice to meet you guys! Thank you again Dr. Santos for all your help.”
Dana laughs loudly at their shocked expression. It was definitely weird to see their strict attending doctor be so relaxed around his wife.
“So you do have a wedding ring,” Whitaker points out.
Robby reaches under his scrub top to pull out the chain. “Eight years.”
“And a child together,” Javadi jumps in.
“Three years,” Robby adds.
“I’ll have to bring her back sometime. She’s been asking about you guys non-stop,” You laugh.
Your phone pings. It’s daycare sending you and Robby Bug’s report of what she did today.
“Well duty calls. See you guys!”
Robby wraps his arm around your shoulder as he steers you out of the emergency room.
Santos, ready as ever to pounce on an opportunity to hype herself up, looks at Whitaker.
“Y/N told me that Robby thinks I’d thrive in surgery.”
She pushes away from her desk, laughing loudly and ready to go check up on her next.
Whitaker and Havadi follow immediately, a chorus of “What!” and “Did she say anything about me!” fall from their lips.
Santos gloats.
“You’ll just have to find her next time.”
And just like that she escapes, still riding on the high of Robby’s praise.
And above all, the emergency room feels a little lighter.
i’m obsessed with your rabbot dad/daddy! maybe one of full aftercare after a punishment went a little too overboard? bc reader is genuinely still feeling guilty and sad and quiet and they get concerned? I kinda love the makingup fluff after being too mean
rabbot x reader, cw: fauxcest, aftercare, but also they can’t stop trying to fuck you, robby is dad, jack is daddy
the moment you feel your vision going spotty, you attempt to tap out. you hit the couch. once. twice. but it doesn’t come out as a tap. it looks like you having a tantrum, which is what got you into this mess in the first place. your chest heaves. you can’t breathe. distantly, you hear robby click his tongue behind you. “we hitting the leather now?” your head swims and you slam against the arm of the couch, going completely limp.
when you come to, robby is the one who looks like he’s about to crack in two. your head is in jack’s lap, and dad keeps wiping your face and brow with a cool cloth. your lips part. robby’s face crumples with complete relief. “oh god, honey. you were trying to tap out, weren’t you?” you try to muster a nod. jack bends to kiss you hair. “our poor baby. dads got too mean, huh?”
robby’s large hand envelopes your own. he brings it to his lips. “i’m so sorry, baby. i wasn’t listening right. that was on me.” you move to nuzzle his cheek. “‘s okay, dad… love you.” he looks to jack, who nods. robby pulls you into a crushing hug. “my baby. i love you so much. so, so much. dad got out of hand.” his voice cracks. you shake your head. “was bad… was so, so bad.” your breath hitches. you’re close to tears again. robby rocks you, back and forth and back, “you did so good. we’re so proud of you. we love you so much.”
your eyes are glassy with devastation. you repeat “didn’t wanna be bad.” jack presses a kiss to your head. “you’ve never been bad a day in your life, angel.” he looks to robby, who clears his throat. “daddy’s right. you’ve never been bad. you know we love you.”
jack wipes at his eyes, though he’d deny it if you ever asked. he forces a smile. “you want cocoa, princess? think that’ll make it better?” you shake your head miserably. “don’t deserve cocoa.” robby fights the ugly, automatic urge to lecture you. to slap you. to say “you don’t decide that.” instead, he rubs your back, tilts your chin, and peppers kisses on your cheeks. “course you deserve it, baby. sweetest girl in the world deserves sweet drinks.” he adds, semi cruelly, “you trust us, don’t you?”
you nod your head fervently. if there is one thing you trust in this world, it’s your dads. jack kisses your head again. “daddy’s gonna make you cocoa, okay?” you make a pitiful sound. “okay…”
while jack works in the kitchen, robby kneels in front of you. he presses your thighs apart. “lemme say sorry, angel.” his mouth works against you. your head tilts back. “‘s my fault.” again, he fights the urge to smack your thigh. he shakes his head, beard scratching against your skin. “no, baby. it wasn’t. you did so well.”
jack comes back into the living room, cup of hot chocolate in hand. he smiles softly, then settles beside you as robby continues. “dad helping you out, bunny?” his lips are on yours, firm, steady. you feel the tension in your heart ebb. jack kneads at your breast. “we just want you to feel good, honey. wanna cum for your dads?”
your body begins to spasm. you clutch at robby’s hair. he doesn’t flinch. his tongue works until you fall apart, and pulls away without overstimulating you. jack pulls you into his lap. robby kisses your cheek, lips still glossy with your release. “forgive us.”
Summary: The continuation of Not Here. Jack Abbot said he was trying to do this properly. You should have asked him what that meant before you got in his truck.
Warnings: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, age gap, one-night stand energy with feelings starting to creep in, protected sex, oral sex/female receiving, face-sitting, riding, from behind, dirty talk, praise, light bossiness, jaw holding but no choking, prosthetic leg mention/removal, body-inclusive intimacy, aftercare, Jack being infuriatingly competent, Reader having the best orgasm of her life and realizing she is in so much trouble.
Author’s Note: This is the continuation of Not Here, aka Jack Abbot, one black T-shirt, and the deeply unfair eroticism of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
Xoxo, Del
Previous Part: Not Here
The passenger door shut, and the quiet almost hurt.
No bass. No flashing lights. No Santos yelling from the dance floor, no Robby laughing somewhere behind you, no Liv’s hand squeezing yours before she disappeared into the night with Brown Eyes and a location pin turned on. Just the low rumble of Jack’s truck when he started it, the clean, warm scent of him in the cab, and the fact that your mouth still felt like his.
Your pulse did something stupid.
He did not look at you right away. He adjusted the mirrors, checked the lot, and kept both hands exactly where they belonged, like the steering wheel was the only thing in the city with a chance of keeping him civilized. Then his eyes flicked to you.
“Seatbelt,” Jack said.
You looked at him.
His gaze stayed forward. “Don’t look at me like that. Seatbelt.”
Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “Bossy in the car too?”
Jack’s jaw flexed. He put the truck in reverse. “You’re about five seconds from finding out I’m bossy everywhere.”
Heat moved through you so fast you forgot how to answer. Jack saw that. His mouth barely moved, but something in his expression sharpened as he backed out of the parking space. You reached for the seatbelt. The click sounded too loud in the quiet cab.
“There,” you said.
Jack glanced over once. “Good.”
The word landed exactly where he meant it to. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them. Jack looked back at the road, but his hand tightened on the wheel. You noticed. He noticed you noticing. Neither of you said anything for a full block.
The club disappeared behind you, swallowed by the dark streets and yellow streetlights. The city moved past the windows in broken pieces. Storefronts. Parked cars. A crosswalk. The reflection of Jack’s profile in the glass beside you.
He drove like he did everything else. Controlled. Focused. One hand on the wheel, the other resting low near the gearshift. His forearm flexed every time he turned, the tendons shifting beneath skin you had already had your mouth too close to and your fingers wrapped around.
You looked at his hands. You knew you should not. You did anyway.
Jack exhaled through his nose. “Don’t start.”
Your eyes lifted to his face. “I’m sitting here.”
“I know,” Jack said.
His voice had gone lower. “That’s the problem.”
Your stomach dipped. You turned toward the window because looking at him was starting to feel like touching him, and touching him was the one thing you could not do with his hands on the wheel and both of you trapped in the unbearable quiet between the club and his house.
Your reflection looked back at you in the glass. Mouth swollen. Eyes too bright. Hair a little mussed from his hands, his door, his body crowding yours against the truck. You touched your lower lip before you realized you were doing it.
Jack’s eyes cut toward you. “Don’t.”
Your hand froze. Slowly, you looked at him. “Don’t what?”
Jack kept his eyes on the road, but his jaw was tight enough to tell on him.
“That,” Jack said.
You let your finger drag once over your lip before lowering your hand. His grip tightened on the wheel. The reaction moved through you like a spark catching.
“You’re very observant,” you said.
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Been told.”
You shifted in your seat, turning toward him more fully. The movement was small. The space was not. His eyes flicked down for half a second, then back to the road.
“You always this careful?” you asked.
Jack’s answer came too fast. “No.”
Your breath caught. He glanced at you then. Only briefly. Long enough for you to see the heat there. Long enough for it to matter. Then he looked back at the road.
“Just with things I don’t want to fuck up,” Jack said.
The words hit harder than you expected. Not because they were sweet. They were not, exactly. They were too blunt for sweet. Too low. Too honest.
Your teasing fell quiet in your throat.
Outside, the streetlights moved over his face in flashes, catching on the hard line of his jaw, the tired set of his eyes, the control he kept putting back together every time your gaze touched him.
The truck slowed at a red light. For one suspended second, there was no motion to hide behind. Jack looked over. Really looked. His gaze moved over your face, your mouth, the bare line of your throat where his lips had been in the parking lot. His expression did not soften exactly, but something in it changed. Something quieter. More dangerous.
“You can still change your mind,” Jack said.
Your pulse tripped. There it was. Not a warning. Not a test. A door left open.
You looked at him. “Did you?”
His jaw flexed. The light turned green. Jack looked back at the road and drove through it.
“No,” he said.
Your stomach dipped.
Then his eyes cut toward you, dark and steady. “But you can.”
For a second, you forgot to breathe. It should not have made you want him more. It did. So much that it almost annoyed you.
You looked down at your hands in your lap, then back at him. “I’m not changing my mind.”
Jack’s hand tightened once on the wheel. “Good.”
The rest of the drive passed in a kind of unbearable quiet. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full of everything neither of you could do yet. Your knee shifted once toward the center console, and Jack’s eyes dropped to it. His thumb moved once against the steering wheel. You watched his hand. He watched the road. Both of you pretended that was enough.
It was not.
When he turned onto a quieter street, your pulse started climbing again. You knew without asking. His place. The truck slowed in front of a townhouse set back from the sidewalk, porch light glowing soft over the steps. It looked like him, somehow. Quiet. Solid. Not showy. Lived-in without being messy. The kind of place a man came home to when he did not want the world following him inside.
Jack pulled into the drive and put the truck in park. The engine cut off. The silence after it was worse. Neither of you moved. Jack’s hand rested on the keys. Yours rested on the seatbelt. The house sat dark and quiet in front of you, and suddenly the night felt very real. Not like a club. Not like a parking lot. Not like heat and music and bad decisions hidden under flashing lights.
This was his driveway. His house. His door. His life, waiting on the other side.
You turned toward him. Jack was already looking at you. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Yours dropped to his. For one breath, you thought he might kiss you right there. You wanted him to. You leaned closer before you could think better of it. Jack’s hand tightened around the keys.
“Inside,” he said.
Your mouth parted. The word went through you with a warm, sharp pull.
You looked at him. “Still not here?”
His gaze moved over your face, slow and heated. “Not in my driveway.”
You smiled. “You have a lot of rules.”
Jack unbuckled his seatbelt. His eyes stayed on yours.
“You keep making new ones necessary,” Jack said.
Then he got out of the truck before you could answer. You sat there for half a second, pulse loud in your ears, staring through the windshield at his front door. Then Jack appeared at your side. He opened your door and held it, one hand braced on the frame, the other offered to you. Not because you needed help. Because he wanted to touch you. Because he had decided this was allowed.
You put your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours, warm and firm, and your body remembered the exact pressure of them at your hip, your jaw, your throat. You stepped down from the truck. The ground felt less steady than it should have. Jack’s hand shifted to your waist immediately, catching you before you could even pretend you needed it. You landed close to him, too close, your hand still in his and your chest inches from his.
His eyes dropped.
Your breath caught. For a second, the driveway disappeared. There was only the porch light, the quiet, and Jack’s hand at your waist, holding you like he knew exactly how easy it would be to pull you back against the truck and finish what he had stopped in the parking lot.
His jaw flexed. Then he turned, keeping his hand at the small of your back as he guided you toward the front door. The walk was short. It did not feel short. Every step was a decision. Every brush of his hand against your back was a promise he had not made out loud.
At the door, Jack reached around you to unlock it. His chest brushed your shoulder. Barely. You closed your eyes. Jack paused behind you. Just for a second.
Then the lock clicked.
The door opened, and he let you step inside first. The house was quiet in a way that made your skin feel too warm. No music. No neon. No bodies moving around you. No laughter spilling from the bar or bass shaking through the floor. Just the soft click of the door shutting behind Jack. Just the sound of him locking it.
Just the sudden, impossible awareness that you were inside his house with your mouth still swollen from his and your pulse still too high to pretend this was casual.
Jack moved past you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, and set his keys down on the small table by the door. The sound was ordinary. Small. Final.
Then he turned back to you.
For one second, neither of you moved.
The only light came from somewhere deeper in the house, low and warm, catching along the side of his face and the black of his T-shirt. He looked different here than he had in the club. Still controlled. Still guarded. Still Jack. But quieter. More real.
Your breath felt too loud.
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. Your mouth. Your throat. The red top that had apparently been a problem all night. His jaw flexed.
You swallowed. “What?”
Jack crossed the space between you.
That was the only warning you got.
His hand came to your jaw, firm and certain, and then his mouth was on yours again.
Your back hit the wall beside the door.
The sound you made disappeared into his mouth.
Jack followed you in, one hand braced against the wall near your head, the other sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck. He kissed you slower than he had in the parking lot, but that somehow made it worse. Deeper. More deliberate. Like he finally had time and intended to make every second of it count.
Your hands caught in his shirt. Jack made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled him closer, and the hand at your neck tightened just enough to make your stomach flip.
There was no truck door at your back now. No parking lot. No reason for him to stop. The thought made you arch into him before you could help it. Jack felt it. Of course he did. His mouth left yours and moved to your jaw, then lower, dragging heat down the side of your throat.
“Jack,” you breathed.
His hand pressed against your waist.
“Yeah,” Jack said against your skin. “I know.”
You did not know what he knew. That you wanted him. That you were already losing your mind. That every careful thing he did made you worse. Maybe all of it. Your hands moved over his shoulders, down his arms, finding the warm strength of him beneath the sleeves of his shirt. You felt the flex of his forearm under your palm, and Jack’s mouth curved against your neck.
“You still want this?” Jack asked.
You huffed a breathless laugh, almost offended he had to ask.
“Yes,” you said. “So badly.”
His hand tightened at your waist. “Good.”
The word went through you.
Your knee knocked against his when you tried to shift closer, and your shoe caught awkwardly against the edge of the rug. You stumbled half an inch. Jack caught you immediately, one hand firm at your hip, his mouth still close enough to yours that you felt his laugh before you heard it.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did,” you replied.
Jack’s expression shifted, amused and heated all at once. “That right?”
You pushed at his chest, but there was no force behind it. “Shut up.”
Jack kissed you again instead.
You forgot what you were arguing about.
Your shoe came off somewhere near the wall. Then the other. Jack stepped out of his own shoes without looking away from you, his mouth finding yours between every clumsy shift and half-laughing breath. It should have broken the tension. It did not. It made it worse. More real. More intimate. More like you were both trying to strip the night down to nothing but touch and heat and Jack’s hands on your body.
His fingers found the hem of your red top. He stopped. Not far away. Not cold. Just stopped. His mouth brushed yours once, barely there, and his eyes lifted to yours.
The question was silent.
You answered by lifting your arms.
Jack’s jaw flexed. Then he pulled the top over your head.
The fabric disappeared somewhere near your shoes.
And Jack stopped again. Only for a second. But you felt it. The pause. The shift. The way his breath left him slower than before. There was nothing underneath but skin. Jack’s eyes dropped. His jaw went tight.
“Fuck,” he said.
The word was low. Rough. Almost unwilling. Heat rushed through you so hard your knees almost forgot their job.
Then Jack was on you again.
His mouth caught yours, hungry and deep, and his hands came back to your waist like he had run out of whatever thin patience had gotten you both inside. His palms slid over bare skin, up your ribs, across your back, learning the shape of you without apology now.
You made a sound against his mouth. Jack swallowed it. His hand spread at your back, dragging you closer, and the other moved up your side, thumb brushing high enough to make your breath catch. That was all the permission he seemed to need.
His mouth left yours and found your throat again, hot and open, then lower, dragging over your collarbone with a rough breath that sounded too close to restraint breaking.
Your fingers caught in his hair. “Jack,” you breathed.
His hand tightened at your waist.
“Yeah,” Jack said against your skin. “I know.”
His mouth moved lower. The first touch of his lips against your chest made your back arch. A low sound left him, rough and pleased, and his hand slid to your lower back, holding you there as his mouth opened against you.
Your head tipped back. The wall was cool behind you. Jack was hot everywhere else. His tongue moved, slow and deliberate, and your knees threatened to become useless. You tugged at his hair without meaning to. Jack made another sound against your skin, and the vibration went through you.
“Careful,” he said, mouth still pressed to you.
Your laugh came out breathless and ruined. “I don’t want careful.”
Jack went still. His mouth lifted from your skin. For one second, you thought you had said the wrong thing. Then he looked up at you. His eyes were dark. Focused. Gone warm around the edges in a way that made your stomach dip.
“That’s not what careful means,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. His hand slid to your hip, firm enough to make the point.
“Careful means I’m paying attention,” Jack said.
His thumb pressed once into your skin. “Careful means I know exactly how hard you’re breathing.”
His mouth brushed your chest again, barely enough to count. “Exactly where you go quiet.”
Another kiss. Lower. Hotter. “Exactly what makes you pull my hair like that.”
Your fingers tightened in his hair before you could stop them. Jack’s mouth curved against your skin.
“There,” he murmured. “Like that.”
Heat rushed through you. You swallowed. “That’s not fair.”
Jack’s hand pressed into your lower back, keeping you arched into him.
“No,” Jack said. “It’s careful.”
Then he sucked, slow and firm, and the rest of your answer disappeared into a broken sound.
Your answer broke apart in your throat.
Jack stayed there for another second, mouth hot against you, hand firm at your back like he knew exactly how close your knees were to giving up.
Which was unfair. Because he was the reason. You dragged in a breath and tugged harder at his hair. Jack’s mouth lifted from your skin. His eyes found yours. Dark. Focused. Too pleased by what he had done to you.
“You look smug,” you said, but your voice had no strength behind it.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your waist. “Do I?”
“Yes.” You breathed.
His mouth brushed yours. “Observant.”
You made a frustrated sound and caught the hem of his shirt again.
This time, Jack let you pull.
The black fabric dragged up his body, and your knuckles brushed warm skin, the firm plane of his stomach, the solid rise of his ribs. He helped only when your hands got impatient, reaching back and pulling the shirt over his head in one smooth motion before dropping it somewhere near yours. For one second, you forgot what you were doing.
The corner of Jack’s mouth shifted. “Problem?”
Your hands landed on his chest.
“No,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “Not a problem.”
He was warm under your palms. Solid. Real. Not the fantasy you had built from forearms and black cotton and the way he leaned back in a booth like he owned the right to be tired. This was Jack without the shirt, without the club, without the convenient distance of a crowded room.
Your fingers moved over him slowly. His chest. His shoulders. The old scars and lived-in strength of a body that had been through things and kept going anyway. Jack watched your face as you touched him. You felt it immediately. Not insecurity, exactly. Not embarrassment.
But attention.
He was reading you with the same brutal focus he seemed to bring to everything else, waiting for the smallest shift. A flinch. A pause. Some sign that the reality of him was not what you had wanted.
He did not get one.
Your hands moved over his chest again, firmer this time, because now you could. Because you had wanted to know what he felt like all night. Because the answer was somehow better than your imagination, and your imagination had been doing impressive work.
Jack’s breath changed. You looked up at him. His eyes had gone darker, but there was something quieter under it now. Something more exposed. You touched his jaw. Jack turned his face just enough for his mouth to brush your palm.
The tenderness of it hit you so sharply that your teasing vanished. Then your hand slid down his chest. Lower.
Jack’s hand closed gently around your wrist before your fingers reached his belt.
You stilled immediately.
His breathing had changed again. Not colder. Not distant. Just careful in a different way.
You looked up at him. “Jack?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “There’s something you should know.”
For one awful second, you thought he was taking it back. You made yourself breathe. “Okay.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist.
“My right leg,” Jack said. “Below the knee.”
Your gaze flicked down before you could stop it. Not far. Not long. Then it came back to his face. He saw it.
“Prosthetic,” Jack said.
The word was plain. Controlled. Offered without apology. But something in his face had gone guarded in a way that made your chest ache.
You did not move away. You did not let go of his hand. You did not look at him like anything had been taken from the room. Because nothing had. Your pulse was still too fast. Your skin was still too warm. His mouth was still too close, and you still wanted it back on yours badly enough to ache.
So you moved closer.
Slowly.
Close enough that he could stop you if he wanted.
He did not.
Your free hand touched his chest, light at first, then steadier when his breath caught.
“Okay,” you whispered.
You kissed the side of his neck.
Jack went still. Not cold. Not distant. Still.
Your mouth brushed the warm skin beneath his jaw, soft enough to ask, sure enough to answer.
“Tell me what you need,” you murmured against him.
Jack’s hand tightened around your wrist. Only once. His voice came lower. “I’ll handle it.”
You kissed him again, just below his ear, and felt his control shudder under your mouth.
“Okay,” you said.
Jack moved. Fast enough to steal your breath. His hand left your wrist and caught your jaw, firm and certain, and then his mouth was on yours again. Not careful in the slow way. Not hesitant. Not like the quiet had cooled anything down.
He kissed you like that one word had undone him more thoroughly than any teasing could have. Like the thing that finally broke his restraint was not your mouth at his neck or your hand near his belt, but the way you had listened.
The way you had stayed. The way you had said okay and meant it. Your back hit the wall again, and Jack followed, crowding you there with a rough sound low in his throat. His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his thumb beneath your chin, tilting you open for him.
You gave.
Jack felt it.
His kiss deepened, hot and hungry, and the hand at your waist dragged you closer until there was no space left between you.
When he broke the kiss, his mouth stayed close to yours. His breathing was rough. So was yours.
“Bedroom,” Jack said.
Your lips brushed his when you answered. “Okay.”
His eyes darkened at the word. Like it still did something to him. Like it might always. Jack kissed you once more, hard and brief, then took your hand. This time, when he led you deeper into the house, there was no pause at the door. No driveway. No almost.
Just Jack’s hand around yours, your shirt on the floor behind you, and the impossible knowledge that you were still going. That he still wanted you. That you still wanted him so badly it was starting to feel less like a choice and more like a condition.
The hallway was dim.
You caught pieces of his house as he moved you through it. A framed print on the wall. A pair of boots by the back door. A jacket thrown over the arm of a chair. A kitchen light left off. A living room that looked quiet and lived-in and entirely too Jack.
You wanted to see all of it later.
Right now, Jack’s hand was warm around yours, and every step toward his bedroom made your pulse climb higher. He pushed the bedroom door open and let you in first. The room was dark except for the low light he turned on near the bed. Warm light spilled over rumpled sheets, a dresser, a chair in the corner, the ordinary intimacy of a space that belonged to him.
Your breath caught again.
Jack shut the door behind you. The click was softer this time. It still felt final. You turned toward him. He was already watching you. Shirtless. Mouth swollen. Hair slightly ruined from your hands. His gaze moved over you, bare from the waist up, standing in his bedroom like this was still something either of you could slow down.
Then Jack stepped closer.
His hand came to your waist again, familiar now, and the other brushed your hair back from your face with a gentleness that made the heat twist into something more dangerous.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
The question was quiet. Real. You nodded, then remembered him. Remembered the way his eyes sharpened when you tried to get away with less than words.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m okay.”
Jack studied your face for one more second. Then his thumb moved along your cheek.
“Good,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “There’s that word again.”
His mouth curved.
“Seems to work on you,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. His eyes dropped to your mouth.
Then he kissed you again.
The room seemed to shrink around it.
Jack’s hands found your waist, and yours found his shoulders, and for a few seconds there was nothing careful about the way you came together again. Your bare skin met the heat of his chest, and both of you made a sound at the contact. His was lower. Yours was less controlled. Jack noticed.
His mouth curved against yours. “There it is.”
You pulled back just enough to glare at him. “Do not sound smug.”
“I’m not,” Jack said.
“You are,” you said.
Jack’s hand slid down your side, slow and warm, and his thumb pressed into your hip. “Maybe a little.”
You bit his lower lip. Not hard. Enough. Jack’s smile disappeared. His hand tightened, and the next kiss was hotter, rougher, his mouth opening over yours as he stepped you backward toward the bed.
Your knees hit the mattress.
You sat because there was nowhere else to go. Jack followed, one hand braced beside your thigh, his body leaning over yours, mouth still on yours like he had not finished proving a point. You let yourself fall back onto your elbows, and Jack’s gaze dropped, moving over you with a heat that made your stomach pull tight.
Then he stopped.
Not abruptly. Not in a way that made the room cold. He just drew in a breath and pressed one last kiss to the corner of your mouth before straightening.
“I need a second,” Jack said.
You sat up immediately. “Okay.”
His eyes flicked to yours. Something passed over his face. Not surprise exactly. Closer to relief, maybe. You did not make him explain. You did not reach for him right away.
You just stayed where you were, sitting on the edge of his bed with your shirt somewhere by his front door and your heart beating too hard in your chest.
Jack turned slightly and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. For a second, he was close enough that your knee brushed his thigh, and the ordinary intimacy of it hit harder than you expected. Not kissing. Not touching. Just being there in his room while he trusted you with the unglamorous part.
The real part.
Jack leaned forward and reached for his belt. You watched his face first. His jaw was set, his eyes focused, his movements practiced and efficient. There was no ceremony to it. No apology. No invitation for you to make it softer than it was. So you did not. You let him handle it. Because he had said he would. Because you believed him.
He opened his belt, then the button of his jeans, moving with the same controlled precision he brought to everything else. You stayed quiet for exactly three seconds. Then you moved. Jack glanced over his shoulder as you shifted onto the bed behind him.
You settled on your knees, close enough that your bare chest brushed the warm skin of his back when you leaned in. His hand paused at his zipper. Your mouth touched the side of his neck. Jack’s shoulders went still. You kissed him again, softer this time, just below his ear.
His breath left him through his nose. “What are you doing?”
You let your lips move down to the slope of his shoulder. “Nothing.”
Jack huffed once. “That’s not nothing.”
You smiled against his skin and kissed lower, following the hard line of his shoulder, then the warm plane of his back.
He was solid beneath your mouth. Scarred in places. Tense in others. Real everywhere. Your hand slid carefully around his side, resting against his stomach, and you felt the muscles tighten beneath your palm. Jack’s head dropped forward a fraction.
“You’re making it hard to focus here,” he said.
Your answer was to open your mouth against his shoulder and bite him. Gently. Enough to feel. Enough to make his whole body react.
“Fuck,” Jack said.
The word came out rough and immediate. Your stomach flipped. You kissed the spot after, soft and pleased, and Jack turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes were dark. Warning. Wanting.
“You think you’re cute?” Jack asked.
You let your mouth brush his shoulder again. “A little.”
His jaw flexed. “You’re trouble.”
You smiled against his skin. “You keep saying that like you don’t like it.”
Jack stared at you for one heated second. Then he looked forward again, breathing a little harder than before.
“I’m trying to take my pants off,” Jack said.
You kissed down his back, slow enough to make his shoulders tense again. “I noticed.”
His hand closed over yours where it rested at his stomach.
“Behave,” Jack said.
The word should not have worked on you. It did. Your fingers curled lightly against him. Jack felt it. His thumb dragged once over your knuckles.
“Yeah,” he said, voice lower. “Thought so.”
You pressed one more kiss between his shoulder blades, then rested your forehead there for half a second. Not hiding. Not pitying. Just close. Jack’s grip on your hand changed. Softer now. Still firm.
You lifted your head. “I’m still here.”
He went quiet. You had not meant to say it like that. Maybe you had. Jack’s thumb stopped moving. For a second, the room held still around you. Then he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles once.
Quick. Rough. Almost too small to count. But you felt it everywhere.
“I know,” Jack said.
Then he let go of your hand and finished handling his jeans.
You stayed behind him, kneeling on the bed, your hands resting loosely at your sides even though every part of you wanted to touch him again.
Jack moved with practiced efficiency.
Jeans first. Then the rest. Then the prosthetic, handled and set aside with quiet care.
Just Jack, doing what he needed to do, exactly like he had said he would. You watched his shoulders while he moved. The shift of muscle. The old tension beneath his skin. The way his head angled slightly, focused and calm, like he had done this a thousand times and did not need you to make it easier by pretending not to notice. So you noticed. And you stayed.
When he was done, Jack sat there for half a second, one hand braced beside him on the mattress. You moved closer before you could overthink it. Your hand touched his shoulder. Lightly. Not asking for anything. Just there.
Jack turned his head. His eyes found yours over his shoulder. For one second, his expression was impossible to read. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth. That was easier to understand. You leaned in and kissed the corner of his jaw.
Jack’s eyes closed for half a breath. You felt it. The smallest surrender. Then it was gone. His hand came up, caught the side of your neck, and pulled you around into another kiss. You went willingly, shifting until you were beside him instead of behind him, one knee pressed into the mattress near his hip, your hand sliding over his chest as his mouth opened over yours.
The kiss was hot immediately.
No slow build. No careful return. Just the two of you crashing back into the thing you had interrupted, except now there was something else under it. Something steadier. More intimate. More dangerous than want by itself.
Jack’s hand moved down your back, then to your hip, pulling you closer until your bare chest met his again. You made a sound against his mouth. Jack swallowed it and turned into you, guiding you back against the bed. Your spine met the mattress. His mouth moved to your throat. Your hands went into his hair.
“Jack,” you said, already breathless again.
His teeth grazed the side of your neck. You arched. He felt it.
“You keep saying my name like that,” Jack said, voice rough against your skin.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Like what?”
His hand slid down your side. “Like you want me to do something about it.”
Your stomach flipped. You opened your mouth, but his hand moved to the button of your jeans before you could answer. He stopped there. Eyes on yours. The pause was not hesitation.
It was a question.
Your breathing changed. Jack’s gaze sharpened.
“Words,” he said.
You hated him a little for how fast heat moved through you.
“Yes,” you said.
His thumb rested just beneath the waistband. “Yes, what?”
Your face warmed. Jack waited. Not impatient. Not smug. That was a lie. A little smug.
You swallowed and held his eyes. “Take them off.”
Jack’s expression changed. Barely. Enough to make your pulse jump.
“Good,” he said.
Then he did. Slowly. Too slowly. His fingers opened the button, drew the zipper down, and hooked into the waistband. He watched your face as he eased the denim over your hips, like every hitch in your breathing was something he intended to file away and use later.
You lifted your hips when his hands guided you. Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours.
“There it is,” he said.
Your breath caught. “What?”
His hands slid the jeans lower. “The part of you that listens.”
The words went through you so sharply your hips almost lifted again. Jack saw that too. His mouth curved, barely.
“Yeah,” Jack said, voice rough. “Thought so.”
You covered your face with one hand. Jack stopped immediately. His hand closed around your wrist and drew it away.
“Don’t hide from me,” Jack said.
You looked at him. He was not smiling now. Not teasing. His thumb moved once over your wrist.
“Not now,” he said.
Something in your chest went soft and hot at the same time.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Jack held your gaze for one second longer. Then he lowered his mouth to your stomach and kissed you there, just above where your jeans had stopped. Your breath caught. His mouth moved lower, following the denim as he eased it down your legs, kissing skin as he uncovered it. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he had meant what he said earlier.
Careful meant paying attention.
And Jack was paying attention to everything.
By the time your jeans joined the rest of your clothes, you were warm all over and unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with standing.
Jack did not move away.
His hands came back to your legs, sliding slowly up from your knees to your thighs, his gaze following the path like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of rushing. Your breathing caught when his thumbs brushed the edge of your underwear. Jack looked up at you. The pause was small. Barely a pause at all. Still, you felt the question in it. Your hands tightened in the sheets.
“Yes,” you said before he could ask.
His mouth curved.
“Good girl,” Jack said, low enough that the words felt like they belonged against your skin.
Then his fingers hooked into the fabric and drew it down your legs with the same infuriating patience he had used on your jeans. Slow. Controlled. Like he knew exactly what the waiting was doing to you. Like he liked it.
You lifted your hips when his hands guided you again, and this time Jack did not tease you for listening. Not with words. His eyes did it for him. By the time he tossed your underwear aside, your face was hot, your pulse was everywhere, and Jack looked entirely too satisfied with the state of you.
Then he looked up at your face, and whatever he saw there made his jaw flex.
“Come here,” Jack said.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows. He shifted back against the pillows, settling with the kind of practical ease that reminded you again that he knew his body. Knew what he needed. Knew exactly how to move without making you guess.
You thought he wanted you in his lap.
So you moved toward him. Jack’s hand caught your thigh.
“Not there,” he said.
You froze. His gaze lifted to yours.
Then he nodded higher. “Up here.”
Your breath stopped. Jack watched as understanding hit your face. His mouth curved. Not smug.
No, that was a lie.
A little smug.
“Jack,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Hands on the headboard.”
The words went straight through you. You stared at him. Jack stared back. Waiting. Patient in the most unfair way.
Your mouth felt dry. “You want—”
“Yes,” Jack said.
The answer was immediate. No hesitation. No embarrassment. No room for you to make it smaller than it was. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.
Jack saw, and his eyes darkened.
“Come here,” he said again.
This time, you moved. Slowly at first, because your body knew what he meant now, and knowing made every inch feel impossible. You climbed higher on the bed, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his head, one hand reaching for the headboard because he had told you to.
Jack’s hands came to your thighs. Warm. Steady. Guiding.
Not pulling yet.
Just showing you where he wanted you. You settled above him, breath already trembling, fingers curling around the headboard.
Jack looked up at you.
The sight of him there should not have done what it did to you.
But it did.
His hair was mussed from your hands. His mouth was swollen. His eyes were dark and focused, fixed on you like the rest of the room had stopped existing. Like this was not a novelty to him. Not a performance. Not some half-drunk idea born from a club and too much tension.
This was a decision. Jack’s decision. And he looked entirely too calm about it. You were not calm. You were barely breathing. His hands slid up your thighs. You hovered. Not much. Enough. Jack’s eyes flicked to your face.
“Don’t hover,” he said.
Your stomach flipped. “I’m not,” you said.
His brows lifted. You huffed a breath. “Okay, maybe a little.”
His thumb moved against your thigh. “Why?”
You swallowed. The answer got stuck for a second, not because you did not know it, but because saying it out loud made you feel too exposed. Jack waited.
You glanced down at him. “I don’t want to make it harder for you.”
His expression changed. Not offended. Not hurt. Clear.
“Then listen to me,” Jack said.
Your fingers tightened on the headboard. His hands slid higher, firm enough to make your breath catch.
“If I need something different, I’ll tell you,” he said.
You nodded, but he did not look satisfied.
“Words,” Jack said.
Your breath shook. “Okay.”
His gaze held yours.
“You told me to tell you what I needed,” Jack said.
His hands tightened. “I’m telling you.”
Heat went through you so hard you almost forgot how to stay upright. Jack’s arms looped around your thighs. Not tentative. Not careful in the way you had misunderstood. Careful in the way he meant. Certain. Attentive. Devastating.
“Right now,” Jack said, voice rough, “I need you closer.”
Then he pulled you down to his mouth.
Your breath broke.
Both hands tightened on the headboard as sensation shot through you, hot and sudden and so sharp your hips jerked before you could stop them.
Jack held you there.
His arms locked around your thighs, forearms firm against your legs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as his mouth opened against you. Not hesitant. Not polite. Not even close.
His tongue moved against you, slow at first, deliberate enough to make your spine arch and your fingers grip the headboard harder.
You gasped his name.
The sound tore out of you before you could make it pretty. Jack made a low noise against you, pleased and rough, and the vibration went straight through your body. Then his tongue pressed firmer. More certain. Your elbows nearly bent. His arms tightened.
“No,” Jack said, voice rough against you. “Stay.”
You whimpered. There was no other word for it. You hated that. You loved that. Jack’s mouth curved against you like he knew both things were true.
“Good,” he said.
Then he went back to it. His tongue found the place that made your hips jerk and stayed there.
Your head dropped forward between your arms. Your fingers gripped the headboard hard enough to ache. The world narrowed to Jack’s mouth, Jack’s tongue, Jack’s hands, Jack’s arms around your thighs, Jack beneath you and somehow still in complete control.
You had never understood how someone could be under you and still make you feel like you were the one being taken apart. Now you did.
Jack knew exactly what he was doing. That was the problem. Not guessed. Not hoped. Knew. He found what made your breath catch and stayed there. He found what made your hips jerk and did it again. He found what made you go quiet and changed the pressure until sound broke out of you.
Careful meant paying attention. Careful meant he was learning you in real time and using every bit of it against you. His tongue dragged over you again, slower this time, and your body gave itself away with a full, helpless shudder. Jack’s hands shifted on your thighs.
“There,” he said, rough and low. “That’s better.”
You made a broken noise. You could feel him smile. Your hips moved before you could stop them. Once. Then again. The motion was small at first, almost accidental, your body chasing the pressure of his tongue before your brain could catch up and tell you to be embarrassed.
Jack went still for half a second. Not stopping. Reacting.
Then a rough sound left him, low and pleased, and his hands shifted on your thighs like he had just found something he liked far too much.
Your face burned. You almost froze. Jack felt it immediately. His arms tightened around your thighs.
“No,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. His tongue dragged over you again, slow and devastating, and your hips rocked into his mouth before you could stop them. Jack groaned. Actually groaned.
The sound went straight through you.
“Again,” Jack said.
The word hit you like a command. Like permission. Like praise. Your hands tightened on the headboard, and you did it again, rolling your hips against his mouth with a broken sound you could not keep in your chest.
Jack’s grip turned firmer.
His tongue met you this time, pressure perfect, rhythm changing to match yours like he had been waiting for you to stop holding back.
You were not hovering now. You were not careful now. You were moving against his mouth because he had told you to, because he wanted it, because the sound he made when you did it again made you feel powerful and ruined all at once.
Jack loved it.
You could tell. You could feel it in the way his hands held you there. In the way his mouth followed you. In the way his voice came rough and pleased against you.
“That’s it,” Jack said. “Take it.”
You were going to die here.
That seemed obvious.
You were going to die in Jack Abbot’s bed with your hands on his headboard and his arms locked around your thighs, and the most humiliating part was that you were probably going to thank him for it.
The thought shattered when he changed the angle.
His tongue moved harder, more focused, and your breath caught so sharply it hurt. Jack noticed. He stayed there. Your body went tight. Your hands slipped against the headboard. Jack’s arms tightened again.
“Don’t pull away,” Jack said.
Your breath broke. “Jack—”
He hummed against you. Like he knew. Like he could feel it coming before you could make sense of it. Your thighs trembled around his head, and the sound that left you was barely a word.
“I’m gonna come,” you gasped.
Jack’s grip turned almost punishing. Not enough to hurt. Enough to hold. Enough to make it clear he had absolutely no intention of letting you go anywhere. A rough sound left him, low against you, and then he dragged you closer.
“I’ve got you,” Jack said, voice rough. “You’re doing so good.”
That did it.
The words hit you at the same time as his tongue, and your body broke open around the feeling.
“Jack—oh—fuck, Jack!” You came saying his name.
Not quietly. Not prettily. Not with any of the control you had been pretending to have. Jack held you through it. He did not let you disappear from it. Did not let you pull away from its force. His arms stayed firm around your thighs, his mouth softer now but still there, his tongue easing you through every last wave until your body trembled so hard you could barely keep your hands on the headboard.
By the time the last of it rolled through you, you were breathing like you had forgotten how air worked. Jack eased his hold slowly. Carefully. Actually carefully this time. His hands stayed steady at your thighs as he guided you down, like he knew your body had forgotten how to do simple things.
Which was fair.
It had.
You ended up half-kneeling over him, one hand still braced against the headboard, the other pressed to his shoulder, staring down at him like he had just ruined the entire concept of sex for everyone else.
Jack looked up at you. Mouth wet. Hair wrecked. Eyes dark and too pleased with himself. Worse, he had earned it.
Holy shit.
The thought arrived slowly, almost stupidly, through the static in your head.
Holy shit.
That was the best orgasm of your life.
Not close. Not even in the same category. Your body knew it before your brain could make language out of it. There was no polite way to compare it to anything else, no reasonable little caveat you could attach to make it less dramatic.
It had not been like that before. Ever. You were not even sure you had known it could feel like that.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your thigh. Your eyes refocused on his face. And that was the problem. Because you were in so much trouble.
You were going to want that again.
Not vaguely.
Not in some distant, theoretical way.
You were going to want it again tonight.
Tomorrow.
Every time you saw his hands.
Every time he said “Careful.”
Every time his eyes dropped to your mouth, like he knew exactly what you tasted like.
Again and again and again.
Jack’s mouth curved. “There you are.”
You tried to answer. Nothing came out. Jack’s smile faded by a fraction. Not completely. Just enough. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, then higher, steadying you with a touch that had gone less possessive and more careful in the way he had taught you to understand.
“Hey,” Jack said.
You blinked down at him.
His eyes moved over your face, sharp now. Focused. “Are you okay?”
You nodded too quickly. Jack’s brows drew together.
“Words,” he said.
The command should not have affected you after that. It did anyway. You swallowed. “Yeah.”
His hand stayed at your waist. “Yeah?”
You let out a shaky laugh, half embarrassed, half still somewhere above your own body. “I’m okay.”
Jack studied you for one more second. “You sure?”
You nodded, slower this time. “I’m sure.”
His thumb moved once against your skin. Only then did the edge leave his face. Not all of it. Enough. You looked at him again. His wet mouth, his dark eyes, the absolute wreckage of his hair from your hands and heat rushed back in so fast it nearly made you dizzy.
Jack noticed that too.
His mouth curved again, but softer this time. “Good.”
Your laugh came out breathless. “Good?”
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist, grounding you.
“Good,” Jack said again. “Because we’re not done.”
The words went through you like a spark catching.
Your body was still trembling. Your breath still had not figured itself out. You were still half-kneeling over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other braced near his head, trying to understand how the hell you were supposed to keep functioning after that.
And Jack was looking at you like he had every intention of making it worse. You should have said something smart. Something teasing. Something that made you feel like you had even one piece of yourself left.
Instead, you kissed him. Hard. Messy. A little desperate.
Jack caught you with one hand at your waist and the other at the back of your neck, steadying you as your mouth opened over his. You tasted yourself on him, and the realization made your whole body go hot again, fast enough to make you dizzy. Jack made a rough sound against your mouth.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. “I want you.”
His eyes darkened. Your hand moved down his chest, over the warm, solid strength of him, lower this time without stopping. Jack’s breath changed. Not cautious now. Not guarded. Hungry.
“You sure?” Jack asked.
You looked at him. Really looked. At his swollen mouth. His wrecked hair. The way his hand stayed firm at your waist, grounding you even while his eyes made it very clear he wanted you spread out beneath him again.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m sure.”
Jack held your gaze for one second longer. Then he shifted, reaching toward the nightstand. You watched him open the drawer. Your stomach flipped at the ordinary sound of it. The slide of wood. The small pause.
The foil packet in his hand when he turned back to you. Protection should not have felt like part of the heat. With Jack, somehow, it did.
Practical. Certain. Adult.
Like he knew exactly what he was doing and had no interest in pretending otherwise.
His eyes flicked to yours. “Still yes?”
Your breath caught. You nodded, then corrected yourself before he could.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
The word still worked on you. Annoyingly. Devastatingly.
He tore the packet open, and for a second your brain shorted out at the sight of his hands. Those hands. The same ones that had held your thighs open, guided your hips, kept you from pulling away when your own body tried to run from how good it felt. You were in so much trouble. You already knew that.
Jack rolled the condom on with efficient, practiced focus, and you hated how hot that was too. Everything he did was calm. Competent. Unrushed. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. When he looked back up, his gaze moved over your face.
“You with me?” Jack asked.
Your mouth felt dry. “Yes,” you said. “Very much with you.”
His hand came to your thigh. “Then come here.”
You moved before you had a chance to think better of it. Jack guided you into his lap, hands steady at your hips as you straddled him. The position should have made you feel in control. It did not. Not really. Not with the way he looked at you from beneath lowered lids. Not with the way his thumbs moved slowly against your skin. Not with the way he sat back against the headboard like patience was something he had weaponized.
Your hands settled on his chest. His skin was warm beneath your palms. His heart was beating faster than he looked like it was. That made something inside you turn over. Jack was not untouched by this. He was just better at hiding it.
You shifted above him, and his jaw tightened. There. You saw it. The crack. Small, but real.
Your pulse jumped. Jack’s eyes lifted to yours.
“You like that?” he asked.
You swallowed. “What?”
“Seeing what you do to me,” Jack said.
Your fingers curled lightly against his chest. You wanted to lie. You could not.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Jack’s hands tightened at your hips. “Then look,” he said.
Your breath stopped. He guided you down slowly. So slowly, your whole body tensed with it. The first press of him into you made your eyes flutter, and Jack’s hands flexed at your hips immediately.
“Look at me,” Jack said.
You forced your eyes open. He was watching your face. Of course he was. The stretch of him filled your body inch by inch, slow and overwhelming, and your mouth fell open because there was no way to stay quiet through it.
Jack’s jaw locked.
His head tipped back against the headboard for half a second, and the sight of it almost ruined you. Then his eyes found yours again. Dark. Focused. Barely controlled.
“There you go,” Jack said, voice rough.
Your hands pressed harder against his chest. You sank down the rest of the way, and both of you went still. For one breath, there was nothing. No teasing. No smug little smile. No careful corrections. Just the two of you trying to survive the first full second of it. Jack’s thumbs pressed into your hips.
“Breathe,” he said.
You tried. It came out broken.
His mouth curved faintly, but his voice stayed rough. “Close enough.”
A laugh caught in your throat and turned into a moan when you shifted. Jack’s hands tightened. You felt him everywhere. Deep. Heavy. So real it made the room tilt. You looked down at him and thought, wildly, that this was what you had wanted in the club.
This exact thing. Jack beneath you. Jack watching you. Jack trying not to let you see how badly he wanted to take over.
You moved again. Slowly. His jaw flexed. You did it again. Jack’s breath left him through his nose. His eyes stayed on yours. Patient. Hungry. Dangerous. He was letting you have it.
That was the worst part.
He let you set the rhythm. Let you rock down against him, let you find what felt good, let you watch his control tighten and tighten and tighten beneath your hands. He let you see the exact second it started costing him.
You felt powerful for maybe thirty seconds. Maybe less. Then the angle caught something deep enough to make your rhythm falter. Jack’s mouth curved. Barely. Meanly.
“That all you’ve got?” he asked.
Your breath caught. The callback hit you low and hot. You glared at him, but it was ruined by the way your hips stuttered. Jack’s hands slid fully around your hips.
“Careful,” you said, breathless, trying to make it sound like a warning.
His eyes darkened. “We covered that.”
Then he moved you. Your whole body jolted. His grip took over the rhythm you had lost, guiding you down onto him with a slow, firm pull that made your hands clutch at his chest.
“Jack,” you gasped.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“You wanted to see if I’d last,” Jack said.
His hands dragged your hips down again. Slow. Devastating. “Now you know.”
Your head dipped forward. He caught your jaw before you could hide. Not hard. Enough.
“Uh-uh,” Jack said. “I said look.”
You looked. You had to. His eyes were on you, dark and intent, watching every reaction like he had already decided to memorize them all and use them against you later.
Your thighs started to shake. He felt that too. Jack’s hands slowed, but the pressure did not ease. He let you feel every inch of him. Every drag. Every deep, overwhelming second. You were warm everywhere. Loose and trembling and still somehow wound too tight to breathe right.
Jack’s thumb moved at your hip.
“There,” he said, voice rough. “That’s it.”
You made a sound you did not recognize. His jaw tightened at it. The pleasure built differently this time. Not the sharp, blinding shock of his mouth. This was deeper. Heavier.
A slow heat gathering low in your body with every drag of him, every firm pull of his hands, every rough breath he let out when you moved just right. Your hands pressed hard against his chest.
“Jack,” you said.
His eyes sharpened. “Yeah?”
Your hips stuttered again. You tried to keep going. Tried to hold the rhythm. Tried to stay above him like you had any control left at all. Jack’s hands tightened.
“Oh,” he said, low and rough. “There you are.”
Your breath caught. He knew. Of course he knew.
“I’m—” you started.
Jack pulled you down harder, and the rest of the sentence broke into a moan. His mouth curved.
“You’re what?” he asked.
You hated him. You wanted him so badly you could barely see straight.
Your nails dragged lightly over his chest. “I’m close.”
Jack’s expression changed. The smugness did not disappear. It sharpened. His hands shifted on your hips, holding you steady as he guided you through another slow, devastating roll.
“Good,” Jack said.
Your whole body clenched. He felt it. His jaw flexed.
“Fuck,” he said, almost under his breath.
The sound of him losing that much control nearly did it by itself. Your rhythm faltered completely. Jack took over. From underneath you, somehow, he took over.
His hands held your hips exactly where he wanted them, guiding you down onto him again and again, each movement controlled and deep and timed like he knew your body better than you did.
Maybe he did. Maybe that was the problem. Your head fell forward. Jack’s hand came to your jaw again.
“Look at me,” he said.
Your eyes opened. Barely. Enough. His gaze locked on yours.
“There,” Jack said. “Stay with me.”
Your breath broke. “Jack—”
“I know,” he said.
His thumb moved against your jaw. “I’ve got you.”
You shook above him, thighs trembling, hands slipping against his chest. Jack held you there. Kept you moving. Kept you taking him. Kept you looking at him until there was nowhere for the feeling to go except through you.
“You’re doing so good,” Jack said.
That did it. Your body broke around him. You came with his name in your mouth, sharp and helpless, your hands clinging to his chest as Jack’s grip turned firm enough to keep you upright through every wave.
He watched you through all of it. His eyes dark. His jaw tight. His body locked beneath yours like watching you fall apart on top of him was testing every piece of control he had left.
“Fuck,” Jack said, rough and low. “That’s it.”
You were still shaking when Jack pulled you down into a kiss. Hot. Deep. Almost rough enough to steal the last of your balance. When he broke it, his mouth stayed against yours.
“Turn over,” Jack said.
Your whole body reacted. The words went through you before your brain could catch up. You stilled. Jack felt it immediately. His hand softened at your hip. His eyes searched your face.
“Only if you want it,” he said.
Your pulse hammered. You looked at him, at the care under the command, at the restraint under all that heat, and wanted him so sharply it nearly hurt.
“I want it,” you said.
His gaze held yours. “You sure?”
You nodded, then remembered. “I’m sure,” you said.
Jack kissed you once. Hard. Approving. Then his hands shifted, guiding you carefully off him and onto the mattress. There was nothing hurried about the way he moved you. Nothing careless. He was intense, yes. Hungry, yes. But every motion still carried that same infuriating attention.
Careful meant paying attention. You understood that now. You turned over because he had told you to. Because you wanted to. Because the sound he made when you did sent heat crawling up your spine.
Jack’s hand came to your hip. Then the other. He settled behind you, his palms spreading over your skin, and for one suspended second, he did not move. He just looked. You felt it. The weight of his gaze. The exact fantasy clicking into place. Your fingers twisted in the sheets.
“Jack?” you asked.
His hand tightened at your hip.
“This,” Jack said, voice rough at your shoulder. “This is what I kept thinking about.”
Your breath caught. His mouth brushed your skin.
“Your hips under my hands,” Jack said.
His fingers flexed. “Your mouth trying to stay quiet.”
Heat rushed through you. You pushed back without meaning to. Jack went very still. Then he laughed once. Low. Disbelieving. Rough enough to make your whole body tighten.
“Fuck,” Jack said. “You are trouble.”
Then he pushed back into you. Your arms nearly gave out. The angle was different. Deeper. Sharper. Enough that the air left your lungs all at once. Jack’s hands held your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as he started to move. Not frantic. Not out of control. Worse than that. Controlled. Certain. Hard enough to make your fingers clutch at the sheets, slow enough to make you feel every second of it. You buried your face in the mattress to muffle a moan. Jack noticed. His hand slid up your spine.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
Your voice came out broken. “Do what?”
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “Go quiet on me.”
Your body clenched around him. Jack’s grip tightened.
“Oh,” he said, rough and low. “You like that too.”
You could not answer. Not properly. Not with him moving like that. Not with his hands on your hips and his voice at your back and the memory of his mouth still burning through your body.
“Words,” Jack said.
You dragged in a breath. “Yes.”
His hand slid around your waist. “Yes what?”
You made a helpless sound. Jack slowed. Cruel. Patient. Waiting.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “Yes, I like it.”
His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Good.”
Then he moved again, and your answer dissolved into a moan. It built differently this time. Not fast and blinding like before. This was deeper. Heavier. A slow heat gathering low in your body with every drag of him, every firm pull of his hands, every rough breath he let out against your skin.
Jack’s control was fraying. You could feel it now. In the way his grip tightened. In the way his breathing turned uneven. In the way his mouth found your shoulder and stayed there, open and hot, like he needed somewhere to put the sound building in his chest.
You pushed back again. His hips stuttered. Only once. But you felt it. Jack’s hand came down beside yours on the bed.
“Careful,” he said, but it was wrecked now.
Not the lesson from before. Not the warning from the truck. Something closer to a plea.
You smiled into the sheets, breathless and ruined. “I thought that wasn’t what careful meant.”
Jack’s hand slid to your jaw. He pulled you up. Not roughly. Not too fast. Just enough to bring your back against his chest, your body held upright by the steady grip of his hand at your jaw.
Not your throat. Your jaw. Firm. Certain. Keeping your face turned enough that he could see you. Keeping you with him. His other hand moved low over your stomach, spreading there with a pressure that made the feeling of him sharper, deeper, impossible to ignore.
Your breath broke. Jack felt it and his mouth brushed the side of your neck.
“There,” Jack said, voice rough against your ear. “Stay with me.”
You tried to nod. His hand at your jaw held you still.
“Words,” Jack said.
Your eyes fluttered. “I’m here.”
His hand pressed lower on your stomach. Just enough. Your whole body jolted. Jack’s breath went rough against your ear.
“You feel that?” he asked.
Your fingers scrambled for something to hold onto and found his forearm.
“Jack—”
His hand pressed again, careful and devastating. “You feel me?”
The sound that left you barely counted as an answer. Jack’s grip at your jaw tightened by a fraction.
“Words,” he said again.
Your whole body shook against him.
“Yes,” you gasped. “Fuck, yes, I feel you.”
A rough sound left him, and his forehead dropped briefly to your shoulder like the answer had done something to him too.
“Good,” Jack said.
Then he moved again, and there was nothing left in your head but him.
Only him. His chest against your back. His hand at your jaw. His arm around your body. The deep, relentless drag of him inside you, each thrust controlled enough to make you feel every second and rough enough to make your thoughts scatter before they could become words.
Your fingers locked around his forearm. Not pulling him away. Holding on.
His mouth brushed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth from the side.
His breathing was rough now. Uneven. The kind of uneven that made heat curl low in your stomach because Jack had been so controlled all night. So deliberate. So infuriatingly sure of himself.
And now he was starting to sound wrecked.
His hand pressed low over your stomach again, and the angle made your whole body jolt. You clenched around him. Jack swore against your throat.
“Fuck,” Jack said, low and broken.
The sound did something to you. Not composed. Not smug. Not careful. Broken. You turned your face toward him as much as his hold allowed, and his mouth caught yours in a kiss that was more breath than anything else, hot and messy and badly aimed.
It was not pretty.
Nothing about either of you was pretty anymore. Your body was trembling. His breathing was harsh. The sheets were twisted beneath your knees, and your skin was damp where his chest pressed to your back. His hand at your jaw held you there like he could not stand the thought of losing your face now, not when he was this close.
“Jack,” you said, and his name came out softer than you meant it to.
His rhythm stuttered. Only once. But you felt it. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.
“Don’t,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “Don’t what?”
His laugh was rough and breathless against your skin. “Say my name like that unless you want this to be over.”
Heat curled through you, slow and vicious. You should have let him have that. You should have been merciful. You were not.
“Jack,” you said again.
His whole body went tight behind you. The sound that left him was rough enough to make your stomach flip. Not quite a groan. Not quite your name. Something worse. Something dragged out of him. His hand left your stomach and caught your hip, holding you steady as he drove into you with less control than before.
“There,” Jack said, voice wrecked at your ear. “Fuck, there.”
Your fingers dug into his forearm. He felt it. His mouth pressed to your neck, open and hot, and the next sound he made was unmistakable. A groan. Deep. Rough. Dragged out of him. His hand tightened at your hip.
“I’m gonna fucking come,” Jack said, voice wrecked against your skin.
Your whole body went molten. The words hit you low and hot, and you turned your face toward him as much as his grip at your jaw allowed.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His rhythm stuttered. Only once. Then he drove into you again. Once. Twice. A third time, harder, his breath breaking against your neck.
“Oh fu—” Jack’s voice snapped off into a rough groan. “Oh, fuck.”
His hand at your jaw gentled even as the rest of him went tense behind you.
He came like that.
With his mouth against your skin. With that broken sound still caught in his throat. With your name rough and helpless on the next breath. You felt every second of it. The hard shudder through his body. The broken rhythm. The way his grip on your hip tightened, then loosened, then tightened again like he did not know whether to hold on or let himself fall apart.
He held you through it.
Or maybe you held him. Maybe it was both. For a few seconds, neither of you moved. Jack’s forehead rested against your shoulder. His breathing was harsh against your skin. Your own body still trembled in little aftershocks, too sensitive, too warm, too aware of every place he touched you. Then Jack’s hand slid from your jaw to your cheek. Gentle now. So gentle it almost hurt worse.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
You nodded before you remembered.
“Yes,” you said, voice hoarse. “I’m okay.”
His thumb brushed your cheek. “Sure?”
You let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Jack.”
“That’s not an answer,” Jack said.
You turned your face toward him, tired and warm and still entirely too aware of him. “I’m sure.”
His eyes searched yours for another second. Then his mouth touched your shoulder. Soft. Brief. Nothing like the way he had kissed you before.
“Okay,” Jack said.
He helped you down carefully, one hand at your waist, the other braced beside you. The shift made you hiss softly, and Jack stopped immediately. Your hand covered his.
“I’m okay,” you said.
His eyes flicked to yours. You managed a faint smile. “That one was preemptive.”
Jack huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if either of you had the energy for one.
“Smartass,” Jack said.
His voice was softer now. Still Jack. But softer. He moved away only long enough to deal with the condom and get a washcloth. Practical. Quiet. No performance, no awkwardness, no sudden distance after all that heat.
You stayed where you were for a second, cheek pressed to the sheets, trying to convince your body it belonged to you again. It was not going well.
Jack came back and sat beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped. His hand touched your hip first, warm and steady. “Can I?”
You nodded into the sheets, then caught yourself.
“Yes,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
You did not have the strength to be annoyed by how much that still worked on you. He cleaned you up with the same infuriating care he seemed to bring to everything, his touch gentle enough to make your chest ache and matter-of-fact enough to keep you from feeling exposed.
That might have been the worst part. Or the best part. The way he did not make tenderness feel fragile. The way he made it feel practical. Expected. Like of course he would take care of you. Like of course he would not leave you to figure out what to do with yourself after he had taken you apart.
Your throat tightened. You blamed exhaustion. Mostly. When he finished, Jack tossed the washcloth into his laundry basket and looked down at you.
His hair was a disaster. His mouth was swollen. His eyes were still dark, but the edge had gentled into something quieter. You pushed yourself up slowly. Your arms felt untrustworthy.
Jack noticed and reached for you immediately, one hand steadying your waist.
You let him. That should have worried you. It did not. You sat back on your heels and looked around for your clothes, reality creeping in around the edges of the room.
Your jeans were somewhere on the floor. Your underwear too. Your red top was still by the front door. Fantastic. You shifted like you were going to climb off the bed. Jack’s hand stayed at your waist.
“Where are you going?” Jack asked.
You glanced back at him. “Just getting my clothes.”
His expression changed. Not much. Enough.
“You don’t have to,” Jack said.
You blinked. “I don’t?”
His thumb moved once against your side. “Not if you don’t want to.”
The room went very quiet. Your first instinct was to make a joke. To shrug it off. To say something easy and casual and painless, because that was what people did after nights like this, wasn’t it? They found their clothes, fixed their hair, checked their phone, made the night smaller before it started asking for anything.
But you could not make this small. Not with Jack looking at you like that. Not with his hand still warm at your waist. Not with your body still aching in ways that made your stomach flip every time you shifted.
You were in trouble. Real trouble. Because it had been one night. One bad decision. One club. One black T-shirt. And already you knew. You were going to want him again. Again and again and again.
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, and whatever he saw there made his mouth soften.
“Hey,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “Yeah?”
He reached for the black T-shirt he had dropped near the bed and held it out to you.
“Put this on if you’re cold,” Jack said.
You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Something warm and dangerous moved through your chest.
“Bossy after sex too?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth curved.
“You complained less during,” Jack said.
A laugh broke out of you, tired and unsteady. Jack’s expression shifted at the sound. Like he liked it. Like he was relieved by it. You took the shirt from him and pulled it over your head. It fell soft and warm around you, smelling like him, and that should not have done anything to you after everything that had just happened.
It did anyway.
Jack watched you for a second too long. Then he shifted back against the pillows and opened one arm. Not demanding. Not assuming. Just offering.
You hesitated for half a breath.
Then you crawled back into bed. Jack’s arm closed around you when you settled against him, careful with your body, firm enough that you knew he wanted you there. Your cheek rested against his chest, and his hand moved slowly over your side, grounding and warm.
For a minute, neither of you said anything. The quiet was different now. Still charged. Still too intimate. But softer around the edges. You listened to his breathing settle beneath your ear.
Your eyes grew heavy despite yourself.
Then the thought slipped out before you could stop it.
“So,” you said, voice muffled against his chest. “That was careful?”
Jack’s hand paused on your side. Then his chest moved under your cheek with a quiet laugh.
“For now,” Jack said.
Your eyes opened. “For now?”
His hand resumed its slow path over your side.
“Sleep for a little while,” Jack said.
You tilted your head enough to look at him. “A little while?”
Jack’s thumb moved against your waist. His eyes met yours, dark and warm and entirely too sure of himself.
