#lewis pullman supremacy

[adelliet]

Bob Floyd x f!reader

FATEFUL BET

Summary: Your friend pushed you into an unusual bet, but it turned out completely different than either of you could’ve predicted.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, alcohol consumption, minor mention of violence, injury, teasing, sexual tension, dry humping, handjob, unprotected sex (p i v), sex while mildly drunk, whimpering, creampie, soft ending

Word count: 16k

A/n: Hii pookies! <3 I've been thinking about this plot a lot and finally decided to write it! As always, it's basically a porn with a plot :) Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

The evening was slowly settling in, the last traces of sunlight fading into shades of gold and violet as the summer sky surrendered to the night. The salty scent of the ocean drifted in each time the doors swung open, mixing with the heavy fragrance of beer, sweat, and laughter.

You felt the fourth margarita sliding into your hand with such ease that it was almost dangerous, the glass sweating in your fingers as the icy cubes clinked softly against the rim.

Beck had stopped counting her own drinks somewhere around the seventh, and by then neither of you cared anymore; after all, it had been far too long since you had last seen each other, and wasn’t this reunion worth a little celebration? At least, that’s what Beck kept insisting, and you had to admit she was right.

Your laughter had been echoing through the Hard Deck for hours, spilling louder than the jukebox and chasing after the music like waves colliding with the shore. At some point, you swore your stomach muscles began to ache so much that it almost felt like you were accidentally carving out a six-pack from nothing but relentless giggles.

Beck was always like that—an inexhaustible source of fun, mischief, and stories that carried just enough detail to make you question their authenticity, though she swore, with the seriousness of a priest, that every last one was true. You had never believed her, not entirely, but that was part of the charm.

You raised your drink, the strong but deceptively light taste swirling on your tongue, when you noticed the way Beck’s eyes suddenly caught fire, glowing with a mischievous spark that instantly made your stomach tighten with preemptive dread. Her lips curled into that devilish smile you knew too well, the one that usually meant trouble.

“Do you remember that one time you got so drunk you started doing a striptease on the ping-pong table?” she asked with a grin so wide it made your heart falter.

The memory slammed into you with the force of a brick wall, so sudden and merciless that you almost choked on your drink. You set the glass back on the table, coughing into your hand, your throat burning as tears blurred your eyes from the force of the fit.

“I thought you forgot about that,” you managed to rasp, your voice weak, your fingers gripping the glass with a desperation you hoped didn’t show.

“Oh, I’ll never forget,” Beck sang, her grin growing brighter, her whole face lighting up with the wicked satisfaction of someone who had just pulled the pin from a grenade.

“Actually…” She drew out the word like it was honey, already digging into her purse, “…I still have the video.”

Your entire body froze. It felt as though your heart dropped straight into the soles of your shoes, heavy and hollow at once, leaving you breathless.

“W-what video?” you asked carefully, each syllable cracking under the weight of panic. Your pulse sped up so rapidly you thought it might leap out of your chest.

Her fingers tapped across her phone with practiced ease, her eyes sparkling, her grin refusing to falter for even a second. Then her expression shifted, eyes widening with triumphant delight, a small chuckle escaping her lips as if she had just uncovered treasure. You knew instantly she had found it.

“Look!” she said, turning the screen toward you.

The moment your eyes caught the familiar but horrifying image of yourself, your face heated so fast you thought you might combust. Your cheeks flushed crimson, your breath stuttered, and your stomach twisted as though you had swallowed glass.

“Oh no…” The words slipped out of your mouth, more like a prayer to yourself than an actual protest.

On the screen, there you were: clearly drunk, swaying clumsily on top of the ping-pong table, dancing with a ridiculous amount of confidence that only pure alcohol could have granted you. The crowd around you cheered, clapping and whistling, while you grinned like an idiot and began tugging off your shoes as though it were some kind of grand reveal.

Beck’s giggles filled the air beside you, but you couldn’t tear your gaze from the horror unfolding on that tiny display.

“Oh God…” you breathed, covering your mouth with your hand as the video continued to play.

You watched in absolute mortification as your tipsy self bounced around, stripping layers off piece by piece, until you were left in nothing but your underwear, beaming at the audience like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the worst part was seeing that the video still had time left to go.

You saw yourself grabbing the strap of your bra, and that was it. You couldn’t take another second. Snapping into action, you grabbed the phone out of Beck’s hand and flipped it face down on the table, shutting your eyes tightly as if darkness could erase the shame curling inside you.

“Delete it. Now.” Your voice was low, sharp, strained through clenched teeth. The anger in your veins pulsed just as strongly as the humiliation, the cocktail of emotions almost unbearable.

But Beck was far too amused to care. Her giggling spilled out in a cascade, bubbling and relentless, like she was high on nothing but your embarrassment. She reached for the phone, swiping it back into her own hands before you could snatch it again, her eyes wide with glee as she kept watching the video alone.

You dragged your hands down your face, pressing your palms into your eyes, exhaling a deep groan that was half despair, half desperate wish to disappear for at least a decade.

“There’s no fucking way I’m deleting this,” she said with a grin so smug it made your blood boil even hotter. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, her laughter breaking every few seconds as she replayed the most humiliating moments over and over.

“Beck, please,” you whispered, your voice stripped of its sharpness now, breaking into something softer, almost pleading. You lifted your head, eyes wet with both frustration and shame, locking onto her as if begging her to understand that this wasn’t funny anymore.

Finally, after a long, agonizing moment, she closed the video and tossed the phone onto the table with a careless flick of her wrist. Her smile remained, but her eyes met yours, sparkling with secrets and unspoken promises of more trouble to come.

“Please, delete it,” you begged, your eyes wide and pleading, the kind of desperate look a puppy might give when it knows it has no other chance. You locked your gaze on Beck’s eyes, silently begging her to understand that you were serious this time. But Beck, being Beck, only tilted her head back and laughed, the sound bright and merciless, cutting through your growing shame.

“There’s no way I’m deleting such a treasure!” she declared, her grin stretched wide as if she had just uncovered a priceless artifact.

You growled low in your throat, frustration simmering beneath your skin, and dropped your head into your palms. The warmth of your hands pressed against your cheeks, your mind spiraling as you tried to think of anything that might persuade her.

“Beck, come on, that video could ruin my entire life,” you said finally, your voice sharp and laced with panic.

Beck’s expression shifted into a mock pout, her lips pursed like a sulking child. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s just a memory,” she said airily, before winking at you in a way that only made your blood boil hotter. She grabbed her glass, sipping slowly, her eyes never leaving yours, the mischievous spark in them only growing stronger.

You exhaled, long and weary, the kind of sigh that seemed to deflate your whole body. “A memory I’d really rather forget,” you muttered under your breath, loud enough for her to catch it anyway.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, interrupted only by the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter from nearby tables. You reached for your drink, finishing off the last sip of your fourth margarita with determination. The liquid burned on its way down, and you already knew you would need another—something stronger, perhaps—to carry you through the rest of this night.

Just as you set your empty glass on the table, Beck suddenly gasped, the sound sharp and dramatic, her entire body snapping to attention as her gaze locked onto something behind you. Confusion flickered through your chest, and you turned to glance over your shoulder, only to immediately understand her overreaction.

The Navy men had just arrived.

They entered the Hard Deck like they owned the place, their crisp uniforms catching the glow of neon lights, making them look impossibly sharp and untouchable. Each of them carried a different kind of allure—some tall and broad-shouldered, others lean with sharp edges in their posture—but all of them shared the same magnetic confidence that made it difficult to look away. A few women in uniform trailed among them, though there was no denying that the men dominated the room’s attention. The very air seemed to shift, the bar buzzing with new energy, a spark of excitement settling over every table.

You let your eyes linger for a moment, drinking in the sight as if you were one of the many already staring, then turned back to Beck.

She, of course, hadn’t blinked once. Her gaze was glued to the group like a moth to a flame, her lips parted in awe, and you knew exactly what was going through her mind.

“Hey. I’m right here,” you snapped your fingers in front of her face, trying to drag her back to reality.

“Yes, but they’re over there,” she answered dreamily, her voice slow, her pupils practically sparkling as if she was hypnotized.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. Whenever Beck saw an attractive man, she transformed into a giddy teenager, utterly shameless about her interest.

But then her expression shifted again. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twitching into a mischievous curve, and you instantly recognized the look. A spark of dread shot through you, cold and heavy, because you knew that whenever Beck’s face lit up like that, it meant only one thing: she had an idea. And Beck’s ideas were never harmless. They came with consequences, usually for you.

“What is it?” you asked warily, your brows furrowed as suspicion curled in your stomach.

“Let’s make a bet,” she whispered, leaning closer across the table, her elbows pressing against the wood as though she were about to reveal some priceless secret.

The very word bet made your body tense. You didn’t even let her finish before you shook your head violently.

“No. Absolutely not,” you said firmly, waving a hand as if that could brush away the thought itself. Your eyes dropped to the table, as if refusing to acknowledge her would somehow end the conversation.

“Wait, you don’t even know what the bet is about yet!” she protested, her voice high and eager, practically vibrating with excitement.

“I don’t want to,” you muttered, shaking your head again, tipping back the last drop from your glass. As the cool liquid burned its way down your throat, you were already debating what your next drink would be. Tequila. Whiskey. Anything to drown out whatever madness Beck was about to propose.

“What if,” she said slowly, dragging the words out with deliberate cruelty, “the bet was about that video?”

Your head turned sharply, your eyes snapping to hers. That wicked grin was back, curling on her face like smoke, and your heart sank into your stomach.

“I’m listening,” you admitted reluctantly, your curiosity pried open against your will.

Beck practically glowed with victory. Her smile widened, her eyes sparkling like a cat who had just cornered its prey. Her heart, you could tell, was practically leaping with joy at finally pulling you into her trap.

“Alright then,” she said, drawing closer, her voice lowering like she was letting you in on a dangerous secret. “I’ll delete the video.”

You nodded immediately, leaning forward, desperate to seal the deal before she could change her mind.

“Only if you sleep with one of them,” she added casually, her finger lifting to point over your shoulder at the Navy men. You didn’t even need to look to know exactly who she meant.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The hope drained from your face instantly, replaced by irritation, your excitement crashing down like glass shattering on the floor.

Beck just shook her head slowly, deliberately, her smug grin refusing to budge. You groaned, shaking your head in disbelief, but before you could form another protest, she cut you off.

“Oh, come on! We’re both single, we don’t owe anyone anything. Why not have a little fun?” she said with a shrug, her tone infuriatingly casual. And though her words carried a hint of truth, the idea still didn’t sit right with you.

“I’m not a whore,” you snapped, your words sharper than you intended, slicing through the air between you. Beck actually blinked, momentarily surprised by the intensity in your voice.

“Nobody said you were,” she countered quickly, her tone lighter, almost casual, though her eyes never left yours. You stared back at her without expression, your face stone-like, while she finished off her drink and set the empty glass down with a dull thud, the sound carrying just enough finality to irritate you further.

“I’m not going to sleep with someone just because of a stupid video,” you declared, your voice firm, every syllable pressed with the weight of certainty, as if the very act of speaking the words made the truth of them undeniable.

Beck exhaled slowly, her eyelids drifting shut for a brief moment as though she were calming herself, and then she shrugged with exaggerated indifference. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, lower, carrying an edge of something darker that made the hair rise on the back of your neck.

“Fine… but just so you know,” she murmured, leaning closer as her lips curled into a cruel smile, “if you ever piss me off, or if we get into a fight, I wouldn’t hesitate to post it online.”

Her smirk widened as her eyes flicked up to meet yours, clearly savoring the way your expression faltered, drinking in the storm of shock and fear that rippled across your face.

“You wouldn’t do that,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best effort to keep it steady, your head shaking in disbelief, your wide eyes locked on hers as if you could force her to deny it.

“Oh, but I would,” she replied without hesitation, nodding with deliberate slowness, her smug expression never changing.

“And sending that video to your boss? No problem to me,” she added, her voice dropping into something even colder.

That was the breaking point. You slammed both palms against the table, the wood vibrating under the sudden force, and leaned dramatically toward her. “No!” The word tore out of you, raw and desperate.

Beck only tilted her head, her grin stretching wider, and for a moment her tongue flicked over her lips as though she was savoring every ounce of control she had over you.

There were moments when you regretted ever letting Beck so close into your life, and this was one of them. She always needed to stir the pot, to add chaos where peace might have existed, because to Beck, a life without drama wasn’t a life worth living. Deleting the video would have been the simplest, kindest solution, one that would have spared you the agony, but Beck never chose the easy path. She chose the path that burned.

You pressed your fingertips against your temple, your mind racing for alternatives, desperate for any possible loophole that could free you from her absurd conditions. But the alcohol in your system was clouding your thoughts, slowing them down, tangling them in knots, and around you the noise of the bar seemed to grow louder, the laughter of strangers and the deep rumble of Navy men’s voices filling your ears until it was impossible to think clearly.

You sighed heavily, the sound escaping your lips like defeat, and lowered your head. Beck didn’t need words to know, she saw it instantly, the moment your resolve cracked. Her grin sharpened, triumphant, because she knew she had won.

“Fine,” you muttered, your voice heavy, almost resigned. Then you straightened, jabbing a finger at her with sharp warning. “But only if you promise me you’ll delete that video.”

Beck nodded eagerly, her grin never wavering for even a heartbeat. “Deal,” she said brightly, as if this were nothing more than a harmless game.

You gave her one last warning glare, narrowing your eyes as if your stare alone could burn her smugness away, before turning to glance back over your shoulder. Your gaze swept across the cluster of men, quickly assessing them, mentally calculating who would be the easiest victim of this ridiculous bet.

But Beck’s voice cut through your thoughts. “I get to choose the guy,” she announced proudly, lifting her chin as if she was claiming a crown.

You spun back to face her, scowling, your brows drawn together in sharp disapproval. Beck only lifted her hands in mock defense, her face painted with exaggerated innocence. “Hey, I don’t make the rules.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, because you both knew damn well that she did make the rules. Arguing with her was useless, so you turned back toward the Navy men instead, your eyes scanning the group once more. Beck followed your gaze, the two of you staring openly now, without a shred of subtlety, but neither of you seemed to care.

“What about him?” you suggested, nodding toward one of the men who clearly stood out. He looked every bit the leader—tall, confident, his posture commanding and his chest puffed proudly like a peacock. His brown hair was neatly combed to the side, his smile blinding, teeth so white they could have been weaponized.

Beck wrinkled her nose immediately, shaking her head. “No. He looks like he lives for sex.”

You bit back the retort bubbling on your tongue, because, damn it, she had a point. So instead you just tilted your head in reluctant agreement and kept scanning.

“What about him?” you asked after a beat, pointing toward another man who was harder to ignore—his wavy brown hair and distinctive mustache already making him stand out from the rest. From a distance, he looked kind, approachable even, though something about the set of his jaw suggested he could easily turn sharp if provoked.

Beck hummed, dragging out the sound, then shook her head again. “Too charming.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, suspicion prickling down your spine. It was becoming clearer with every rejection: Beck wasn’t looking for someone easy. She was deliberately hunting for someone who would make your night infinitely harder.

So you stopped. You crossed your arms and refused to point anyone else out, letting the silence stretch while you stared at the men and she scanned with her hawk-like precision. You knew she’d pick eventually, and you knew you wouldn’t like it.

And sure enough, it happened. Beck suddenly lit up, snapping her fingers like she’d just discovered the holy grail.

“Got him!” she announced loudly, her voice carrying halfway across the bar, drawing more than a few glances. She didn’t care. She pointed boldly, her finger cutting through the crowd.

You followed the line of her hand, squinting against the dim light until your eyes landed on the man she meant.

“The one with the glasses?” you asked carefully, already dreading the answer. Beck’s satisfied hum was all the confirmation you needed. Of course she had chosen him.

He was the kind of young man who, even from a distance, radiated shyness. The way he sat a little back from the group, listening far more than he spoke, laughing quietly now and then at something the others said—it was obvious he wasn’t the center of attention, nor did he want to be.

His hair was a soft, sandy blond that caught the light and seemed to shimmer as it fell neatly to the side, every strand perfectly in place.

The glasses perched on his small, slightly unusual nose had delicate silver frames that seemed to belong to him as naturally as a smile, shaping his face in a way that only emphasized the gentle innocence about him.

He looked like the kind of boy who would apologize if his shoulder so much as brushed against yours, the kind who would hold a door open every time without fail, not because it was expected, but because he couldn’t imagine not doing it. The kind who hesitated to start a conversation, not out of arrogance but out of fear of saying something wrong, of making the wrong impression. Nervous, shy, probably virgin, hiding behind the louder personalities of the men around him.

“Why him?” you turned toward Beck, though deep down you already knew the answer before the words even left your lips.

“He’s flawless,” she said with a grin so wide it made your own cheeks ache in sympathy. “If you can get him, you can get anyone.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, your gaze falling on him again, and your chest tightened.

“He looks so innocent. I don’t want to… take advantage of him,” you murmured, your voice quieter, almost guilty, because you meant it. He looked like the type who would only ever fall in love once in his life, and when he did, it would be forever. The kind of man who would build a family and live a simple, happy life with the girl he loved. You didn’t want to be the one to shatter that fragile, unspoiled image.

“Take advantage?” Beck scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Please. You’d be doing him a favor. Imagine it—an unforgettable night with an incredible woman. Who would ever complain about that?”

Her words, laced with unexpected flattery, warmed you despite yourself, but the guilt still pressed heavy on your chest. And yet, as you studied him again, taking in the sparkle of his eyes when he laughed at something one of his friends said, the boyish curve of his lips, the faint nervousness in the way his hands fidgeted, your heart gave an involuntary thud, harder and faster. You swallowed, torn in two directions.

But really, it wasn’t a choice. It was him, or the ruin of everything you had worked for. Your career, the years of blood and sweat, the fragile dream you’d built with such discipline, it would all collapse if you didn’t bend now.

“God,” you exhaled, the word carrying the weight of surrender, and turned back to Beck.

Her face lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all along, her eyes wide, her grin stretching with the same giddy impatience of a child waiting for a promised candy.

You scowled. “What?”

“Are you going over there or not?” she asked eagerly, her tone so casual it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

“Wait—now?!” You nearly choked on your own breath, your heart hammering in your chest.

Beck nodded, her smile widening to reveal every tooth, her whole face alive with anticipation. She was practically bouncing in her seat, her excitement sharp and undeniable. You felt like the damn candy she was drooling over.

“But he’s with the others, I can’t just—” You glanced nervously over your shoulder, the sight of so many uniforms in one place making your stomach tighten. The testosterone-filled atmosphere pressed against you like a heavy wall, amplifying your own social anxiety.

“Don’t be a pussy. Go,” Beck hissed, her voice sharp but encouraging, her eyes sparkling with wicked glee.

You closed your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to inhale deeply, to gather every scrap of courage hiding in the corners of your trembling body. Then you rose, adjusting the strap of your black handbag over your shoulder, the wine-red fabric of your dress hugging you as though to remind you of the confidence you were supposed to be wearing along with it.

Beck clasped her hands together, miming a cheer, silently squealing her support like a schoolgirl at a pep rally. You shook your head at her, smiling weakly despite yourself, before turning toward your target.

He was still sitting at the bar, his posture a little slouched, his hands resting awkwardly on the counter, and, whether it was fate or cruel coincidence, the stool beside him was empty, waiting like an open invitation.

Your mind instantly began scripting scenarios, rehearsing the words, the smile, the rhythm of your breath. Every step toward him felt too loud, your heels striking against the floor like drumbeats in your ears, but no one seemed to notice. The bar was crowded with men in uniform, the air buzzing with laughter, bravado, and the occasional deep burst of masculine shouting.

And then there was you—out of place, in a fitted wine-colored dress that clung to your figure, carrying a black purse like armor.

You felt like you didn’t belong, like the spotlight had been shoved on you without warning. But no one stopped you. No one even turned their head, at least, not yet.

You reached the bar. The stool beside him was waiting.

“Hi,” you said softly, your voice carrying just enough confidence to mask the chaos screaming inside you. You gestured to the empty seat with your finger. “Is this seat taken?”

He looked up at you, startled, his surprise written across every feature of his boyish face. And then you saw his eyes. From a distance you hadn’t noticed, but up close, they were impossibly blue, a deep ocean that you could drown in without regret.

For a moment, your knees nearly buckled, your body threatening to betray the calm façade you were desperately clinging to.

He blinked quickly, his throat working as he swallowed. His lips pressed into a thin line, his nerves bleeding into every motion. “N-no,” he stammered, the word catching awkwardly in his throat.

“Would you mind if I sat here?” you asked in a tone that was deliberately soft, warm, and polite, yet with just the faintest hint of seduction hidden beneath, a subtle attempt to score a few extra points right at the beginning.

He looked almost startled by your presence, as though the very fact that you were addressing him had knocked the ground from under his feet, and whatever little confidence he carried clearly wasn’t prepared for this kind of attention. He merely shook his head quickly, his gaze darting anywhere but directly at you, as if avoiding your eyes might keep him safe from drowning in them. You weren’t sure whether it was shyness that tied his tongue or if he simply found you intimidating, but either way, you weren’t about to back out now.

With a small, knowing smile, you slipped into the seat beside him, carefully smoothing the hem of your dress as you sat down, and placing your purse lightly on the bar counter just within reach.

You exhaled, slowly, keeping that charming smile alive on your lips as you tilted your head ever so slightly toward him, allowing your eyes to linger on the man who had just become your target. He didn’t look back at you; his attention seemed to cling to the half-empty glass of beer in his hand, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the rim, his posture giving him away as someone who wasn’t entirely at ease.

You decided, with a spark of playful determination, to help him out of his shell.

“So, you’re with the Navy, huh?” you began casually, letting your words carry a touch of curiosity.

He flicked his eyes toward you, just for the briefest second, as if to make sure you were indeed speaking to him, and when he realized that your question was directed at no one else, his expression shifted into surprise, almost like he couldn’t quite believe he was the one holding your focus. He blinked, glanced away, then back at you and for a heartbeat, his ocean-blue eyes locked on your face.

“Y-yeah,” he managed, his voice surprisingly deeper than you expected, though the restless play of his fingers betrayed the nerves thrumming beneath.

You felt a little thrill of satisfaction ripple through you; he was finally looking at you, acknowledging you, even if only for a fleeting moment. Before you could press further, however, his gaze darted back to the table, retreating again into that shy shell.

“And what exactly is it you do? Pilots or the naval side of things?” you pressed gently, eager to keep him talking, but before Bob could form an answer, a different voice, louder and brimming with arrogance, cut across the space from your other side.

“Air force, sweetheart.”

You turned sharply, as did your quiet target, to see the man who had spoken.

It was the very first man you had pointed out earlier, the one Beck had described as living and breathing sex, and now up close, you could almost smell it radiating off him in waves.

His cologne was strong, intoxicating, the kind that clung to skin and promised nothing but trouble, his smile dazzling in a way that seemed calculated, his entire aura oozing confidence, as though he had never once been denied what he wanted.

“Oh, I—” you started to reply, but before you could redirect your attention back to your boy, Mr. Sex-on-Legs was already leaning in.

“Hangman,” he interrupted smoothly, flashing his perfect grin as he extended a hand toward you in a way that screamed arrogance more than courtesy.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you gave him only the barest glance out of sheer politeness. You didn’t take his hand, letting your eyes deliberately drop to it in visible distaste before drifting back up with a small, unimpressed smirk.

“Hangman?” you repeated, your voice laced with quiet amusement that you couldn’t quite hold back.

He nodded proudly, as if expecting admiration. You let your gaze linger on him, skeptical and bemused all at once.

“That’s your name?” you asked, unable to resist a soft chuckle.

“Nah, it’s my callsign. The name they use for me in the air force,” he explained, his grin never faltering.

You gave a slow, unbothered nod, before smoothly turning back to the one who actually interested you—the shy boy with sandy hair and gentle blue eyes.

“And do you have a callsign too?” you asked, your voice softer now, your smile genuine. The question seemed to catch him off guard, his eyes widening as though he hadn’t expected you to care, hadn’t expected you to look past the loud and flashy presence of Hangman.

“Yeah… Bob,” he answered finally, and this time a small, warm smile curved his lips.

“Bob?” you repeated, tilting your head, your own smile softening. “That’s… kind of adorable. Does it have a meaning?”

Your visible interest seemed to fluster him, equal parts unsettling and pleasing, but before he could even open his mouth, Hangman’s voice barged into the space again.

“Baby on board,” he quipped, clearly amused with himself.

You and Bob both turned to him, but when your eyes landed back on Bob, you caught the slight shift in his expression. He looked offended. Heat rose in your chest as you turned back to Hangman, irritation flashing in your gaze.

“Do you wanna know what my callsign means?” he asked, his bright smile still glowing on his perfectly smooth face.

“No,” you replied, bothered. Hangman was clearly caught off guard, because this wasn't an answer he was ready for.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m having a conversation with Bob now.” Your smile widened, ironic and cutting, and both men blinked in surprise.

Hangman froze for a second, looking between you and Bob as though he couldn’t quite believe he’d been dismissed, before his jaw flexed and he finally gave a tight nod.

“Fine. Have fun,” he muttered, lowering his head, his smirk faltering as he backed away, shoulders a little stiffer than before.

You shook your head slightly, still smiling, then quickly turned back to Bob, who was watching the whole exchange with cautious disbelief.

“Is he always like that?” you asked, amusement dancing in your voice.

Bob allowed a faint smile to slip across his lips as his fingers curled again around his beer.

“Just with pretty girls,” he said, quietly enough that you almost thought you’d imagined it.

Your breath caught, your pulse stumbling as a shiver ran down your spine. That single line left a warmth blooming in your chest, and your smile grew wider before you could stop it.

“So… you think I’m pretty?” you teased, turning your full attention back on him.

His eyes went wide in panic, his cheeks flushing as he stammered, “N-no! I mean—yes! I—uh…” His hand flew to the back of his neck, scratching nervously, his gaze darting everywhere except at you.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head with a gentleness that cut through his panic. “Thank you,” you said, and then leaned in just slightly, your voice dipping into a sweeter register. “What if I bought you a drink for that compliment?”

This time, his eyes actually lifted to yours, and you swore you saw them brighten ever so slightly.

“Shouldn’t I be the one paying, since I’m the man?” he asked cautiously.

You tilted one shoulder in a graceful shrug, letting your gaze linger on him with a playful spark.

“Sometimes roles can switch,” you whispered, your words sliding out smooth and silky.

He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat a little too loudly, and you noticed the faint blush creeping steadily across his cheeks. To your own surprise, the sight of him sent an ache of desire tightening low in your body.

Heat pulsed between your thighs and you had to cross one leg over the other beneath the bar, your breath catching as you silently asked yourself why Bob, of all people, managed to stir something this strong in you without even lifting a finger.

“Another margarita for the lady?”

Your attention immediately shifted to the bartender, who was wiping down a glass with a rag, his warm smile directed straight at you.

“Yes, please,” you replied with a polite nod, your voice light and almost innocent, before turning your head toward Bob, who, to your surprise, had already been watching you.

“And for the aviator?” the bartender asked with a hint of playful teasing in his tone.

Bob glanced up at him briefly, then lowered his gaze again, letting out a quiet chuckle at the nickname. “I still have mine, but thank you.” He gestured slightly with the glass in his hand, the one he had been absentmindedly toying with all this time. The bartender simply nodded in understanding and disappeared down the bar, leaving the two of you in your own little bubble.

“So, another one, huh?” Bob asked, his voice carrying a shade of confidence this time, though he still avoided looking directly at you. There was something in the way his tone lingered, as if he was slowly warming up, inch by inch letting his guard down. You could feel it, and that shift in his energy was thrilling.

“I might have let myself get a little carried away,” you admitted with a soft laugh, seizing the opportunity to catch his eyes before he could look away again.

“But I swear, I’m not an alcoholic,” you added quickly, a trace of playful sarcasm in your voice.

That comment made his whole face light up, his lips stretching into an unguarded smile, the kind that softened every sharp edge of his features.

“Sure,” he teased, narrowing his eyes as if assessing you, “and how many drinks does that make so far?” His gaze stayed fixed on you this time, patient, waiting, the faintest spark of mischief in his expression.

“Fifth. BUT! But—” The moment you said the number, the look of mock shock on his face forced you into immediate defense, your words tumbling out faster.

“Wow. I’m surprised you’re still standing,” he remarked, his tone amused. His eyes flickered over you briefly, gliding from your legs upward, but not in a leering or intrusive way. It was observational, casual—almost like he was simply acknowledging the feat of balance you were claiming to achieve.

“We’re celebrating,” you explained, though you knew you didn’t have to. Something about Bob’s presence made you want to share, to justify, even though he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would ever judge you. If anything, he seemed more inclined to listen. “My friend and I—we haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

“Oh, so you’re here with a friend?” His tone was soft, curious.

You nodded and turned slightly in your seat, about to gesture toward her, only to notice that she was no longer alone.

The charming man with the mustache had claimed the empty space beside her, and she was giggling at something he had said, clearly entertained and caught up in the moment. You didn’t blame her; she deserved her fun.

“That’s Rooster,” Bob murmured beside you, his voice carrying a quiet certainty, and you realized he had been watching the same scene unfold.

“Rooster?” you repeated, scoffing lightly, as if the nickname itself begged to be questioned. Bob gave a small hum of agreement, clearly unfazed by your amusement.

You turned back to him, shaking your head with a smile that you couldn’t quite hide. “So far, you’re the only one with a nickname that actually makes sense.”

Your words held a trace of playfulness, and Bob seemed to bask in them. He gave the smallest nod of pride before lifting his bottle to his lips, taking a slow sip. But this time, his eyes never left yours.

The intensity of that held gaze sent a shiver racing down your spine, raising goosebumps across your skin. And to your own surprise, you were the one who broke eye contact first, glancing away because the weight of his stare was simply too much.

Perhaps it was the alcohol loosening his restraint, perhaps it was just the way the moment unfolded, but for the first time tonight, Bob carried himself with a thread of confidence that matched the courage you had been forcing yourself to show.

And the truth was, if you hadn’t already been riding the warmth of four margaritas, you weren’t sure you would have dared to speak to him this way at all.

“And what’s your name?”

It was Bob’s question—the very first one he had asked you directly—and from that moment on, everything between you seemed to flow effortlessly, unfolding with an ease that felt entirely natural.

The two of you drifted through what felt like every possible subject, and you ended up learning far more about him than you had ever anticipated. You spoke of your childhoods and school years, of your jobs and what they demanded from each of you, and even of relationships, a topic you hadn’t expected to touch but somehow found yourself sinking into with surprising comfort.

By the time Bob held his third beer in hand, you were deep into a conversation about pets, and you had long since lost track of how many glasses you yourself had gone through.

The alcohol wasn’t the cause of the warmth in your body, though, it was Bob.

You could feel him loosening, emerging gradually from the shell in which he had seemed so carefully tucked away at the start of the evening. And you knew he was comfortable, because little by little, he began to touch you. Not in any overtly flirtatious or inappropriate way, but with soft gestures that carried more weight than they should have.

A gentle brush of his fingers when you said something funny, a reassuring squeeze of your hand when you opened up about something that clearly touched you deeply.

You no longer felt nervous the way you had when you first approached him. Instead, you felt at ease, and, in a way, you felt something far rarer: as though the two of you fit together. It was almost like Bob was that missing puzzle piece that had been hiding for years beneath the couch, the piece that finally made the entire picture whole.

Yet throughout your conversation, you couldn’t help but notice the way he occasionally looked at you—the weight of his gaze, heavy and lingering, that sent tremors down your spine. And, truthfully, you were guilty of looking at him the same way.

Never before had your knees trembled like this, never before had you felt that insistent, pulsing throb of your core, a heat that soaked into your panties until you found yourself sneaking off to the bathroom more than once just to collect yourself. That was what Bob did to you. And judging by the way he kept shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the subtle adjustments of his posture, the fleeting brush of his hand against his own pelvis as though it had simply fallen there by accident, you realized that you had the very same effect on him.

The truth was, the bet no longer mattered. In fact, you had forgotten about it entirely within the first three words Bob had spoken to you. All that mattered now was getting to know him more, peeling back the layers of the quiet, gentle man who sat beside you.

Compared to every man you had known before, he was utterly different, in the best way imaginable. Somewhere deep down, you couldn’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, this could grow into something more, something deeper.

The video, the wager, the challenge—all of it had faded into insignificance. You no longer wanted to sleep with him because of a bet. He wasn’t just your target anymore, he was Bob. Sweet, shy, unexpectedly magnetic Bob, the man who made you ache with desire so strong that even the slightest friction against your panties threatened to tear a moan from your lips.

Even though Bob was already speaking with you far more openly than at the beginning of the night, there were still moments when his natural shyness surfaced, fleeting little gestures that betrayed just how bashful he truly was.

The way he would glance away mid-sentence, the subtle movement of his shoulders as if he were trying to fold into himself, or the awkward shuffle in his seat that revealed more than he would have ever admitted. And yet, despite all that, you couldn’t ignore the fact that he kept adjusting his pants in the very place you knew was betraying him most, his obvious arousal making your stomach twist with delight until you had to bite down on your lower lip to keep from smiling too much.

By now, the margaritas, perhaps your tenth, though who could say for sure, had loosened the last threads of your restraint, and your touches toward Bob grew bolder.

They were no longer the innocent, fleeting grazes disguised as accidents or excuses to laugh. This time, when your hand came to rest upon his thigh, it wasn’t just because he had said something amusing. It was intentional, heavy with meaning, deliberate in a way that made the air between you spark. Every time you allowed your hand to linger there, you felt his muscles tighten beneath your touch, saw the way his leg twitched involuntarily, and yet he never moved away, never pulled back. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stop you, even though the torment you were clearly causing him must have been unbearable. If anything, you could sense how much he savored it, how much he wanted you to continue.

The sexual tension between you was undeniable, woven into every glance, every brush of skin, every breath you exchanged. It was there, thick in the air, and nothing could erase it.

You were just finishing what you told yourself would be your last glass, sipping slowly as you listened to Bob recount a story from his time in the Navy, when suddenly someone shoved into you with such force that you nearly spilled your drink all over yourself.

By sheer luck you didn’t—though the heat between your thighs, which had everything to do with Bob, made you feel anything but dry—and you sat there in a daze, shocked by the abrupt interruption. You had half a mind to let it go, to dismiss it, because the man who had bumped into you was enormous, broad-shouldered and hulking, the kind of figure you instinctively avoided. You didn’t want drama. But Bob, clearly, wasn’t willing to let it slide.

His words faltered mid-sentence, and before you could process it, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, the determination in his movements striking you like a jolt of electricity. Fear instantly welled up inside you, your heart hammering in your chest as your eyes widened.

“Wait, Bob, you don’t have to—” you started, but he was already crossing the space toward the man who had collided with you.

He tapped him firmly on the shoulder, and when the stranger turned around, you nearly gasped.

He looked exactly like the kind of man you prayed you’d never cross paths with: a stereotypical biker, muscles carved from hours at the gym, veins bulging with what you suspected was more than just hard work—the kind of man who radiated aggression with every movement, the kind of man you knew could flatten someone in a single punch. Terror prickled over your skin, but Bob seemed utterly unfazed.

“Apologize,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm, carrying an edge of authority you hadn’t heard from him before. The sound of it made your pulse race faster, a wild blend of fear and disbelief rattling through you.

The bar went silent. Every eye was on Bob and the towering man now, the tension in the room sharp enough to slice through. The biker’s scowl deepened, his voice rumbling low, menacing, enough to send a shiver through you and anyone within earshot.

“Apologize to who, exactly?” he growled, his words dripping with threat. The audience that had gathered instinctively knew what was coming; they were waiting for the inevitable clash.

But Bob didn’t back down. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through his veins, more than he had ever dared to drink before, but courage blazed in his eyes in a way you hadn’t expected to see.

“To the lady you just shoved into,” he declared, pointing directly at you.

Your breath caught in your throat. You instinctively hurried to his side, slipping your hand onto his shoulder as if you could anchor him, keep him safe.

“Bob, you don’t have to—” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I don’t owe anyone an apology, you little shit!” the man growled, leaning closer to Bob until their faces were separated by mere inches, each word punctuated with venom.

The stench of alcohol poured off him, his breath soured by more than a few shots, and you instantly realized that dealing with a drunk biker like him was the very definition of a terrible idea.

“Bob, let it go, please,” you begged, tugging at his arm in a desperate attempt to draw him away, but Bob remained rooted to the spot, immovable, as if the very floor itself held him in place.

He stared into the man’s eyes for a long moment, silent, before calmly reaching up to remove his glasses. With a surprising gentleness, he folded them carefully, turned to you, and handed them over.

“Hold these for me, please,” he said in a tone so soft it felt almost out of place in that charged moment. The kindness of it clashed with the fury in the biker’s expression, which only darkened further the instant Bob faced him again.

“Apologize. Now.” Bob’s voice rose, louder this time, carrying a weight and sharpness that cut through the bar’s tense silence. But his demand had the opposite effect—the man’s fury boiled over, and before anyone could react, his fist flew.

The sound of the impact echoed like a gunshot, his knuckles colliding hard against Bob’s face, sending him crashing to the floor. Gasps filled the room, several people recoiling, others covering their eyes as if unable to bear watching. Your body jolted forward instinctively, and you dropped to your knees beside Bob, panic coursing through you as you reached for him with trembling hands.

“Bob, oh my God—” your voice shook as your fingers brushed over his face. His cheek was already turning an angry red, the skin swelling in a way that made it clear a deep bruise would bloom by morning. Despite the obvious pain etched into his clenched expression, he stayed conscious, breathing heavily, determined to appear stronger than he truly felt.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing,” he muttered in a low, stubborn growl, though you knew that was far from the truth. You slipped his glasses carefully into your bag, slinging it back over your shoulder as you used your free arm to steady him.

Before you could say more, a familiar voice cut through the tension. “Hey, you okay, man?” Both you and Bob turned, and to your surprise, it was Hangman. His usual smirk was gone, replaced with genuine concern, his eyes narrowing as he studied Bob’s battered face. Bob only mumbled something incoherent and gave a small nod, but it was clear as day he wasn’t okay.

“He needs ice,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than you expected, as if the urgency inside you had no patience left. Hangman nodded without hesitation, signaling the bartender, and within moments you had a cold bag of ice pressed into your hands.

You guided Bob back into his chair, steadying him until he sat, and carefully placed the ice against his cheek. He hissed, teeth clenched tightly, the sound breaking your heart.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, guilt heavy in your voice, but Bob’s lips curved into a faint smile despite the pain.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he murmured with his eyes closed, and though his words were meant to comfort you, the weight of responsibility still pressed hard against your chest. If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t be sitting here bruised and hurting.

“Do you need anything else?” Hangman asked, hovering nearby. A couple of other Navy guys approached, clapping Bob on the back, laughing a little despite the tension, proud of his stand as if he had just earned their silent respect.

“I think we’re good. I just want to take him home,” you admitted softly, glancing at Bob, whose shy smile peeked through even as his friends teased him.

“Actually, we’re all staying in dorm-style housing nearby for this season. It’s not far from here,” Hangman explained, and you nodded, grateful for the information.

You look at Bob again, still leaning into the ice pack, his embarrassment hidden beneath a bashful grin while the guys jostled him like a brother.

“Thank you,” you said sincerely, looking at Hangman, who for once gave you a smile free of arrogance. Maybe he wasn’t as shallow as you had assumed. Maybe, as the saying goes, you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

Once the others finally drifted away, you stood, gently helping Bob slide off his chair. “I’m walking you home,” you announced firmly, not giving him any room to argue.

“Shouldn’t I be the one walking you home?” he murmured with a faint chuckle, still clinging to his sense of gentlemanly pride even with one side of his face battered.

“In this condition? Don’t be ridiculous,” you teased, slipping his arm over your shoulders while wrapping your hand securely around his waist.

Bob grunted in reluctant agreement, but his head dipped in a small nod, and soon enough both of you were laughing softly as you left the bar together, the noise fading behind you as the night swallowed you in its quiet.

Hangman was right, the dorms weren’t far from the bar, which turned out to be an enormous relief given Bob’s condition.

“So… where to now?” you asked as the two of you stepped into the small reception area, your voice light but edged with fatigue.

“Third floor,” Bob murmured.

“Third?!” you repeated in mock despair, staring at him wide-eyed. He only gave a small, quiet nod.

“Oh my God, you owe me three margaritas for this,” you exhaled dramatically, and the faint laugh that slipped from his lips told you he was more than willing to agree.

By the time you finally reached his floor after what felt like an exhausting climb, he gave you his room number, and together you made it to the door.

He fished around in the pocket of his pants, pulling out a set of keys, and though his hands trembled slightly, he managed to fit the key into the lock on his first try. That small victory alone made you breathe easier, he was clearly feeling a little steadier than before.

Once inside, you closed the door softly behind you and helped him toward the bed. “Hold this, alright? I’m calling an ambulance,” you said, pressing the ice more firmly against his bruised cheek.

Before you could pull away, his hand suddenly came up to catch yours, holding it in place, and with his other hand he wrapped around your wrist, keeping you from moving.

“You don’t have to. I’m fine,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, and devastatingly seductive in a way that almost made you forget the bruise marring his face.

“But what if you’ve got a concussion? Or something worse—” you began, worry sharpening your tone, but Bob’s grip tightened just enough to silence you, his head shaking faintly as he continued holding the ice himself.

“I don’t. Trust me. I’m fine,” he insisted, and though you weren’t entirely convinced, you could see that arguing would get you nowhere. You let out a breath, shoulders slumping, and sank down onto the edge of the bed beside him.

“Then promise me you’ll get checked out soon,” you said firmly, unwilling to let it go entirely.

“Yes, mom,” he teased with a crooked grin, and you gave him a light shove in response, rolling your eyes at his sarcasm, though the tension in the room finally softened.

For a moment you just sat there, looking at each other. Bob’s vision was still blurred—without his glasses, he could only make out the soft shape of you beside him—but his one uninjured eye lingered on you with a sweetness that made your chest ache. Even unable to see you clearly, he looked at you as though you were the only thing in focus. You returned his gaze, your heart racing under the weight of it.

“You should lie down,” you told him softly, gesturing toward the mattress. Without a word, Bob adjusted himself, leaning back against the headboard instead of lying flat.

“That’s not exactly lying down,” you teased gently.

“I don’t want to lie down,” he replied, and you simply shrugged, accepting his stubbornness. You reached into your bag and pulled out his glasses, holding them out toward him without saying a word.

His entire face lit up as if you had handed him the world. For a moment, he looked like he had been convinced he’d never see clearly again tonight. With a grateful smile, he placed the ice on the bed beside him and slid the glasses back onto his face, the world snapping into focus.

And when his eyes finally landed on you, truly seeing you for the first time since the fight, something inside him seemed to melt. His expression softened so completely it made your breath catch.

“What?” you asked with a playful smile, tilting your head.

Bob shook his head slightly, a laugh escaping with his words. “I just… I can’t believe you’re real,” he breathed, as if the very thought overwhelmed him.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, and you couldn’t help the soft hum that slipped from your throat. “Well, if I weren’t real, I wouldn’t be able to do this…”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his in the lightest of touches, so fleeting it could have been mistaken for an accident. But the spark that erupted between you was undeniable, a current that surged through your veins as though your hearts had both ignited at once.

The kiss was brief, barely more than a whisper, yet it carried the weight of something infinitely bigger, a fire waiting to spread. For those few seconds, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the heat of his mouth against yours.

For a moment, you pulled back just slightly, your lips hovering over his as though suspended in time, teasing him with the unbearable anticipation of what might come next.

You let yourself linger there, savoring the intoxicating sight of Bob’s parted lips and the way his hot, uneven breaths fanned across your skin, each exhale trembling with both desire and restraint.

You wanted him to feel the ache of waiting, to drown in the tension, and from the look on his face, he was already there—lost, undone, unable to function under the weight of it.

Finally, you retreated fully, the space between you only a few inches now, and you deliberately dragged your tongue over your lower lip, catching it between your teeth before releasing it slowly.

Your gaze locked onto him with a dangerous sweetness, a silent challenge. Bob, however, had stopped entirely. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t speaking, he was simply staring, frozen like a man who had just forgotten how to breathe. His cheeks burned crimson, and it was painfully obvious that the color had nothing to do with the bruise spreading across his face.

In the corner of your eye, you caught the faint outline of his arousal straining against the denim of his jeans, but you didn’t need to look down to know it was there, you could see it in the way his thighs shifted uncomfortably, in the nervous little adjustment he made to his seat, in the way he cleared his throat but failed to find any words.

His breathing came in shallow waves, shaky yet heavy, each one betraying just how badly he wanted more. His pulse was practically echoing in the air between you, rising faster with every second you held him in your gaze.

And in that suspended silence, you didn’t move, didn’t speak. You simply watched him, soaking in the way he unraveled, waiting to see what he would do.

At last, Bob broke. His voice cracked when he tried to speak, the sound more of a low, bashful growl than words. “M-maybe I need to… confirm it again,” he mumbled, his stutter betraying both his nerves and his desire.

The sound alone sent a shiver racing down your spine. You purred softly in reply, a low, approving sound that only seemed to drive him further to the edge. Tentatively, almost reverently, his hand came up to brush against your throat, his fingers trembling as they curved gently around your neck, guiding you closer, as though he needed permission with every movement. You allowed it, leaning into his touch as he finally pulled you into him again.

This time there was no hesitation, no softness, no fleeting whisper of a kiss. His lips crashed into yours with a hunger that stole the breath from both of you, deep and consuming, carrying with it every ounce of heat he had been holding back.

The kiss was messy, desperate, unrestrained, his mouth moving against yours with a need that was almost painful in its intensity. The sound of it filled the quiet room, a wet, needy pull of lips parting and pressing together again, leaving behind a shameless, audible smack that only made you crave more.

Your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at it as though to anchor yourself against the dizzying pull of the kiss. Bob’s free hand slid tentatively up your arm, his knuckles brushing your skin as though he was memorizing every inch, until it finally rested against the curve of your waist. He squeezed lightly, testing, and when you didn’t pull away, he pulled you closer until you were nearly straddling his lap.

The air around you was thick, humming with heat, with the unspoken realization that neither of you wanted to stop. Bob let out a shaky groan against your mouth.

He pulled back for just a breath, his forehead resting against yours, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide, and his voice was almost pleading. “I guess I need more reassurance.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before you nodded fervently, your whole body already leaning forward as though pulled by a magnetic force you couldn’t resist.

This time there was no teasing, no carefully measured pause, you threw yourself at him with raw hunger, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that was hard, wild, and desperate.

Your body moved on instinct, climbing into his lap without waiting for permission, but Bob was already there to meet you halfway. His hand slipped up, curling warmly and firmly around your neck, not squeezing, just holding, grounding you with the sheer intimacy of it.

His other hand gripped your hip, guiding you, pulling you down onto him as though he had been waiting for this moment for years.

The second you settled onto him, you felt his erection, pressing hard against you through the frustrating barrier of clothing, pressing exactly where you needed it most. The contact was electric, a shockwave that made your breath catch in your throat.

You both groaned at the same time, the sound low, raw, and shameless, vibrating through the kiss.

The friction was barely there and already it was driving you mad. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clutching at him as though he were the only thing keeping you grounded, and he let out a muffled, needy sound against your lips, as though the weight of having you on top of him was almost too much to bear.

You rocked against him once, an instinctive roll of your hips, and the reaction was instant.

Bob’s grip on your waist tightened, his groan breaking into a sharp gasp, and his head fell back against the wall with a thud, exposing his throat to you. The sight of him, flushed and panting beneath you, only pushed you further.

You ground against him again, slower this time, dragging yourself deliberately over the length of his arousal, and the friction sent a rush of pleasure sparking through your core.

The fabric-to-fabric contact was maddening, just enough to feel everything, yet not nearly enough to satisfy.

Bob’s breathing grew uneven, each inhale shaky, each exhale almost a whimper. “God—” he hissed, his voice strangled as though he couldn’t quite handle what you were doing to him.

His hand slid up your back, clutching the fabric of your dress, while the other remained tight on your throat, his thumb brushing up against your jaw as though to remind himself you were real.

You pressed harder, circling your hips against him, and this time his entire body tensed beneath you.

His thighs shifted, pressing up to meet your movements, grinding back against you with a rhythm that matched yours. The friction built between you, every movement hotter, needier, until there was no way to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach.

Your moans tangled with his, filling the quiet room with the sound of ragged breathing, soft whimpers, and the occasional sharp, breathless curse.

The world outside didn’t exist anymore. There was only the two of you, lost in the rhythm of desperate friction, clothing damp with sweat, and the unbearable hunger that burned hotter with every passing second.

Your forehead finally dropped against his, as though the weight of desire and exhaustion had become too much to hold upright.

The small, trembling contact between your skin and his felt almost as intimate as the frantic grind of your bodies, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, quieter, as though the world had narrowed down to nothing but the ragged breaths that mingled between you.

You breathed him in with every exhale, your lips brushing against his mouth but not quite kissing, teasing the space where his warmth ended and yours began.

His eyes fluttered closed, opening only for fleeting moments, like he was trying desperately to stay present but failing, consumed by the overwhelming heat of it all.

Each time his lashes lowered and his head tilted just slightly, it was as though he surrendered another piece of himself to you, and the sight of him unraveling beneath you sent another rush of need spiraling through your chest.

Bob’s hand tightened suddenly on your hip, his fingers digging into you with almost bruising force as he pressed you down harder against him. For a second he held you like that, desperate, needy, but then, just as quickly, he let go, loosening his grip as though ashamed of losing control, his touch softening until it was barely there. You could feel the hesitation in his fingertips, the way he almost pulled back, almost denied himself the right to want you this much.

But you weren’t about to let him retreat. You moved against him harder, rolling your hips with deliberate pressure, forcing him to feel just how badly you wanted this, and his breath stuttered out of him in a broken moan that made your own pulse quicken.

His forehead pressed harder against yours, his lips brushing yours with every panting inhale, and when you opened your eyes you saw him—completely undone, flushed, trembling, his chest heaving as if even breathing had become a struggle.

“Jesus…” he whispered hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut again, his voice so rough it vibrated against your mouth.

You only hummed in response, low and needy, your own body aching with every grind. The heat between you was unbearable now, your clothes damp where they rubbed together, the friction sending sparks racing through your nerves with every movement.

One of your hands slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt as you clung to him, but the other drifted downward, brushing the edge of his shirt before finally resting at his waist.

You hesitated only for a heartbeat, feeling the tremble of his body beneath your touch, before slipping lower, tracing the line of his pants as though testing the boundaries of how much you were allowed to take.

Bob shuddered beneath you, his breath catching audibly, and his eyes opened just long enough to meet yours. The look he gave you was helpless, almost pleading, a mixture of hunger and disbelief, like he couldn’t quite fathom that this was really happening. His hand on your hip twitched, tightening again, and this time he didn’t let go.

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing his as you murmured softly, “It’s okay…” and with that reassurance you began to tug at the edge of his clothing, your fingers sliding with agonizing slowness toward the belt of his pants.

The cool metal of the buckle pressing lightly against your skin as you hovered there for just a moment, savoring the way Bob’s entire body tensed beneath you. His breath grew shallow, broken in quick bursts, his chest rising and falling as if each second of hesitation was its own form of exquisite torture.

You looked at him deliberately, letting your gaze lock with his while your fingers toyed with the leather, and you saw how his lips parted slightly, his throat working as he swallowed hard.

His eyes flickered down to your hands, then back up to you, and he looked almost dizzy from anticipation, as though the simple sound of the belt loosening might undo him entirely.

Slowly you tugged at the strap, pulling it free from the loop with a soft hiss of leather. Bob shivered violently at the sound, goosebumps rippling across his arms, his thighs tensing beneath you as if his body couldn’t contain the raw anticipation coursing through him.

His hands twitched where they rested, one still gripping your hip, the other clutching at the sheets, as though he wanted to help, to rush you, but couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the beautiful torture you were putting him through.

You unfastened the buckle with agonizing care, your fingers brushing against the heat of him through the fabric, and Bob let out a strangled groan, biting his lip hard as if trying to keep himself together.

You could see his knuckles whiten where he clutched at the bedsheet, his whole body trembling like a live wire, and when you finally moved to undo the button of his pants, he exhaled so shakily it was almost a whimper.

The zipper came next, and the faint rasp of metal sliding down was the loudest sound in the room.

Bob’s eyes never left your hands; he was transfixed, his gaze following every movement of your fingers like they were the only thing in the world that mattered. His breathing had turned ragged, uneven, and you could practically feel his heart hammering against your chest through the fragile space between you.

When you finally slipped your hand beneath the waistband and brushed against him, even through the thin fabric of his boxers, Bob’s head fell back against the wall with a low, guttural moan, his eyes squeezed shut as if the sensation was almost too much to endure.

His hips shifted upward instinctively, seeking more, but you slowed him down, your palm pressing lightly against him, controlling the pace.

You slid him free from the confines of his pants and boxers with deliberate tenderness, your touch careful and he instinctively lifted his hips to help you, his trembling hands hovering uselessly.

Once he was freed, hard and aching in your hand, Bob let out a shuddering breath that sounded almost like relief, his whole body sagging with the release of tension he’d been holding.

Your fingers curled lightly around him, not tight, not fast, just enough to tease, to make him writhe.

His entire body reacted—his shoulders arched back, his grip on your hip tightened desperately, and his thighs flexed beneath you as though he couldn’t decide whether to push into your hand or try to hold himself still.

The faintest whimper escaped his throat, broken and needy, and when you moved your hand just slightly, stroking him with a slow, deliberate glide, his lips parted around a gasp so raw it sent heat surging straight through your chest.

“F-fuck…” Bob breathed, his voice cracking, and his eyes fluttered open for only a moment, glassy and overwhelmed, before sliding shut again as though surrendering to the sheer bliss of your touch.

Every nerve in his body seemed alive beneath your fingers, goosebumps racing down his arms and chest, his whole frame trembling as though you had stripped him bare in every possible way.

Your hand began to move with more purpose now, fingers curling tightly around his hard length, stroking him in a rhythm that was slow but firm, dragging every nerve-ending to life.

You bit your lip instinctively, trying to hold back the sound that rose in your throat at the sheer feeling of him pulsing in your hand, hot and heavy and so achingly alive beneath your touch.

The sight of him—his flushed cheeks, his lips parted around desperate little breaths, the way his lashes fluttered as he tried to keep his eyes open just to watch you—made your whole body throb with answering desire.

Your panties were already soaked, clinging to you with every tiny shift of your hips on his lap, and the friction only made you shiver harder, heat pooling deep in your core as if his pleasure alone was fueling your own.

Bob’s reactions were uncontrollable. Every time your wrist twisted just slightly, his hips jolted upward helplessly, chasing more, and a strangled groan would tear from his throat, deep and shaky.

His hand gripped your hip like an anchor, his thumb pressing hard into your skin as though he needed to remind himself that you were real, that this was happening. And then, just as quickly, he would loosen his hold, almost shy, almost guilty, as if afraid of overstepping even while his body betrayed him, trembling and arching into every movement you gave him.

His breathing was ragged, broken, and each exhale hit your cheek in short, hot bursts as you leaned closer, your forehead pressing gently against his. That closeness made it impossible to ignore how hard your own body was reacting, the subtle rocking of your hips against him, the way you instinctively pressed down, seeking friction, grinding just faintly with each stroke of your hand.

The more you moved your hand, the more undone he became. His thighs tensed under you, muscles flexing, his toes curling against the bed as if he was trying to ground himself, but then your thumb brushed lightly over his tip and his whole body shuddered violently, a deep, guttural moan escaping before he could bite it back.

The sound made you whimper softly in return, your own arousal spiking so fiercely that your walls clenched around nothing.

You could see the conflict in his face, his brows drawn tight as though he was fighting to keep control, his lips trembling with every breath, but his body… his body was already yours, surrendering to every glide of your fingers.

He opened his eyes just long enough to look at you, his gaze dark and glassy, and the way his pupils blew wide made your stomach twist in heat.

His whispered voice finally broke through, cracked and needy: “D-don’t stop… please don’t stop…”

Each drag of your fingers making him jolt harder beneath you. His chest rose and fell in frantic waves, his shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, every muscle in his body drawn tight as though he was holding onto a thread.

“God… I—I’m so close…” he stammered, his voice a ragged growl mixed with a plea, his hips bucking up into your hand. You could feel the tremors racing through him, the way his cock twitched violently in your grip, the way his thighs quivered under the weight of the pleasure about to consume him.

His head tipped back, his mouth open in a silent cry, his face flushed a deep crimson.

And just when you felt him reaching that edge, ready to spill, you stopped.

You loosened your hand and pulled away, biting your lip as you whispered against his ear, your voice dripping with wicked intent:

“No, Bob… I don’t want you to finish like this. I want you to come inside me.”

The words broke him. His entire body froze, as if time itself had stopped.

Then his head dropped forward, his forehead pressing hard against your shoulder, a strangled sound escaping his throat that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

He was trembling, every inch of him slick with sweat, his chest heaving as though he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

He looked at you with wide, dark eyes, glassy with need, his lips parted but no words coming out.

You were wet beyond reason, your panties clinging to you, the ache between your thighs screaming for release.

And before you could say another word, Bob snapped.

He surged forward, his lips crushing against yours in a kiss that was frantic, almost desperate, his hands fumbling clumsily at your waist as if he needed more of you, all of you, right now. The sudden intensity made you gasp into his mouth, surprised, but your body melted instantly against him, every nerve crying out in agreement.

One of his hands slid up along your side, trembling as he reached your shoulder strap, his fingers hesitating there, holding, waiting. His eyes darted up to yours, searching, silently asking a question he couldn’t voice. You knew exactly what he was asking—may I?

Your lips parted, your breathing uneven, and you gave him the smallest, trembling nod. That was all he needed.

His hands began to peel your dress down carefully, as if unwrapping something sacred. His knuckles brushed over your skin, sending sparks racing across your body, goosebumps rising in waves even as your own heat flared hotter.

Every inch he revealed, every sigh that slipped from your lips, made his chest shudder, made his eyes grow darker with hunger.

You could feel his cock still hard and throbbing beneath you, pressed tight against your soaked panties, reminding you both exactly what you had just promised him.

You shivered as cool air caressed your newly exposed skin. He moved slowly, his eyes locked onto yours as though he needed your permission with every inch he revealed. When the fabric finally slid down your body and pooled at your waist before you pushed it fully away, his lips parted and for a moment Bob simply stared at you like he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“God… you’re beautiful,” he murmured, like gravel dragged over velvet.

His mouth descended again, this time not for your lips but for the delicate skin of your collarbone. He kissed there slowly, reverently, trailing further down to the swell of your chest, each touch soft but so passionate you felt your knees weaken even while seated.

Goosebumps rippled across your skin with every press of his lips, every drag of his breath, until you were trembling in his arms, whispering his name like a prayer.

Your fingers moved then, tugging at the edges of his uniform shirt. You pushed it off his shoulders, and Bob immediately helped, yanking it down his arms and tossing it aside with surprising urgency.

Next came his undershirt, thin and damp with sweat. When you pulled it over his head, your breath hitched, your eyes widening as his body was laid bare before you.

His chest was strong and broad, his muscles tense but perfectly defined, a canvas of strength that left you momentarily speechless. You let your hands trail across his chest, your fingertips grazing over every contour, every dip, feeling the heat radiating from him. Bob flushed red, his eyes darting away for a brief second before returning to you with a hunger that swallowed his shyness whole.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, with a fire that melted every trace of hesitation.

His hands slid along your waist, pulling you tighter against him, and you felt his erection pressing hard against you. The kiss turned messy, tongues tangling as you let instinct take over. And then, without a second thought, you shifted, straddling him completely.

The second your weight settled on him, you both gasped in unison, the contact electric. His hardness pressed directly against your soaked panties, grinding against the place where you ached the most. The friction made you moan into his mouth, your body already betraying you with how desperately it wanted more.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, your lips brushing against his as you whispered, “I can’t wait anymore, Bob.”

Bob, with a strangled groan, moved—urgent, desperate, but still gentle in the way only Bob could be.

His trembling hands slid down your body, gripping at the edge of your panties. You barely had time to register the motion before, with a swift tug, he pulled them down your thighs and tossed them aside carelessly, as if they were the last obstacle between him and salvation.

The sudden exposure made you gasp, the cool air kissing your soaked skin, Bob's gaze dropping down, his lips parting in awe. You could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

You reached down with shaking hands, wrapping your fingers around his aching length again, guiding him as you shifted your hips forward. Bob let out a broken moan, his eyes fluttered shut, his lips forming your name in a breathless whisper.

Slowly you lowered yourself onto him. The stretch was intense, almost too much at first, but it was exactly what you had been craving—what both of you had been craving all night.

Every inch filled you more completely, more perfectly than you could have imagined, until you were seated fully in his lap, your bodies locked together in a way that left no space, no distance.

You gasped at the fullness, your nails digging into his shoulders, while Bob groaned so deeply it vibrated through his chest into yours.

“Jesus… you feel… so good,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken, his hands clutching desperately at your hips.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of finally being joined.

But then, instinctively, your hips rolled, a slow grind that made both of you shudder violently. His grip tightened, but then he gave in completely, guiding you, urging you, letting you set the pace.

And the rodeo began—your bodies moving in a raw, hungry rhythm, your moans mingling with his, the bed creaking beneath you as passion overtook everything else. Each thrust, each grind, each cry pulled you both higher, until nothing else in the world existed except this perfect connection between you and Bob.

Your hips swayed in tentative circles, the pressure and stretch sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. Bob’s head leaned forward until his forehead pressed against your collarbone, his lips brushing along your skin, whispering fragments of your name between ragged breaths. His hands gripped your waist as if afraid you might slip away.

But the longer you stayed joined, the more the restraint crumbled.

Your rhythm grew bolder, the grind of your hips deeper, and soon Bob was meeting you halfway, thrusting up into you with a desperation that pulled broken cries from both your throats.

Each snap of his hips forced you to clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging crescents into his skin while his groans grew louder.

“God—please—” Bob gasped, his voice so hoarse it nearly cracked. His chest was damp with sweat, every muscle in his body straining, his entire being consumed by the feeling of you wrapped around him so perfectly.

Your own body betrayed you just as much, your moans growing higher, your thighs shaking from the intensity, your wetness coating him with every wild grind. You could feel your climax building, coiling tighter with every thrust, every desperate movement, until it was almost unbearable.

Bob noticed; you could see it in the way his ocean eyes, now half-lidded and wild, locked on you as though he could feel every twitch of your body from the inside.

He groaned, his voice breaking as he buried his face against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “I’m so close… but I don’t want this to end,” he murmured, his words muffled but soaked in desperation, in need, in love and lust all tangled together. That single confession pushed you over the edge.

With a strangled cry, you clutched his hair and ground down hard, the wave crashing through you with blinding intensity. Your walls clenched around him in pulsing spasms, dragging him with you.

Bob’s eyes slammed shut, his entire body jerking violently as he lost control, groaning your name like a prayer as he spilled deep inside you. His hands clawed at your hips, holding you in place as if he needed to be as far inside you as humanly possible, riding the wave of his release with a desperation that left him shaking.

The two of you clung to each other through it, trembling, sweaty, your breaths mingling in uneven gasps and moans until finally the storm passed.

You collapsed against his chest, your body still shivering with aftershocks, while Bob wrapped his arms around you, holding you so tightly it almost hurt, as though you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your heartbeats thundering together, the heat of your bodies pressed so close.

Bob kissed your temple softly, still breathless, still trembling, and whispered against your skin, “Guess you are real.”

A sleepy smile tugged at your lips as you remained curled against his chest, listening to the rapid yet slowly calming rhythm of his heartbeat.

All that existed in this moment was the cocoon of warmth, the way his arms held you so tightly, and the comforting peace that slowly pulled you under.

At some point, with heavy eyelids and clumsy movements, Bob reached up to remove his glasses. He set them carefully on the nightstand, right beside the glass of water, as though even in his half-asleep haze he refused to risk them falling or breaking. Then he pulled you even closer, burying his face in your hair before letting himself drift off.

The night slipped away quickly, and morning crept in almost unnoticed.

Bob stirred first—not because he wanted to, but because his body was conditioned to wake early from years of morning flights.

He blinked groggily, rubbing his eyes, and then instinctively reached for his glasses. Only when the familiar weight settled on his nose and the world sharpened into focus did he allow himself a small, contented sigh.

He turned his head to look at you. You were still curled against him, your cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing deep and even. A quiet smile softened his tired features.

For a moment, he just stayed like that, drinking in the sight of you, his chest tightening at how peaceful and achingly beautiful you looked.

Then, carefully, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss against your forehead.

You responded only with a sleepy little murmur, your lips parting slightly as you instinctively pulled the blanket higher to your chin, tucking yourself deeper into the warmth.

Bob chuckled softly under his breath, the sound low and affectionate, and let you stay lost in your dreams a little longer.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, stretching his shoulders until they popped, then reached again for the bottle of water.

But just as the quiet wrapped itself around the room, soft and still, your purse on the chair gave a sudden, sharp buzz.

Bob glanced at your purse, then back at you. You were still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow, lips parted slightly, the blanket curled up around you like a shield.

He smiled, deciding it wasn’t worth disturbing such a peaceful sight.

He slipped out of bed as carefully as he could, moving slowly, inch by inch, so the mattress wouldn’t shift and wake you. His glasses slid a little down the bridge of his nose as he bent to grab his shirt from the floor, and he pushed them back up absently while padding barefoot toward the small kitchen.

He had already made up his mind—he’d surprise you with coffee, maybe even breakfast, the kind of simple gesture that felt strangely monumental after last night.

But then the buzzing came again.

And again.

And again.

The sound rattled against the silence, insistent, like it demanded attention. Bob stopped in the doorway, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t the type to intrude, wasn’t the type to pry. Respecting boundaries was second nature to him.

Yet as the notifications kept vibrating in quick succession, he frowned, his chest tightening with unease. Whoever it was, they clearly weren’t going to stop.

Finally, almost against his own principles, he sighed and stepped back to the chair. He hesitated, his hand hovering over of your purse for a long moment, before pulling it open carefully and retrieving the phone. The screen lit up instantly, the flood of messages impossible to ignore.

He saw the name Beck. He figured out she was just your friend, but then his eyes moved lower, scanning line after line, each one striking harder than the last.

Beck🐷: good morning, babe

Beck🐷: I’m guessing you had fun last night

Beck🐷: you’re welcome ;)

Beck🐷: anyway, you won the bet, the video’s deleted

Beck🐷: hope the sex was worth it

For a moment, Bob just stood there frozen, the phone heavy in his hand. His heart plummeted straight through his chest, a sharp ache ripping into his ribs as if the air itself had turned hostile.

His vision blurred slightly, but because everything inside him recoiled at once.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his pulse hammering against his temples.

The warmth from earlier—the quiet intimacy, the soft kiss on your forehead, the sense that maybe, just maybe, he could let himself fall—shattered in a second.

Bob carried your phone with him when he left the bedroom, setting it down carefully on the small dining table, as though the device itself had turned into something poisonous.

He moved into the kitchenette, his hands trembling so violently that when he reached for a mug from the cupboard, porcelain clinked against porcelain. His breath was uneven, chest rising and falling too fast for something as simple as making coffee.

Was it all fake? Every laugh, every kiss, every word? His mind spun in circles, the echo of last night now tainted, painted over with doubt and dread.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, glasses sliding slightly down his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the nausea that came not only from his thoughts but from his body itself. His stomach churned. His legs felt weak.

Then he heard a faint creak of the floorboards. Bob’s head snapped up immediately, his whole body tightening at the sound, and there you were.

Still drowsy, hair a little messy, eyes half-closed as you stretched and yawned your way into the room. You

wore one of his t-shirts, loose on you, hanging past your thighs, and the sight, under any other circumstances, would have melted him. But now it only twisted the knife deeper.

“Good morning,” you murmured with a sleepy smile, padding toward him, rubbing your eyes. “You’re up early.”

He didn’t answer. His expression stopped you in your tracks before you could reach for him. His eyes were shadowed, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Bob?” your voice was softer now, cautious. “What’s going on?”

He hesitated. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, staring down at the counter as though the words might arrange themselves for him. His knuckles whitened around the edge of the mug he still held.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he set it down, his movements slow, deliberate, and lifted his gaze to yours.

“Tell me,” he began, his voice low, strained, almost breaking. “Last night… was it real?”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face. “What do you mean?”

Bob’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking as he forced the words out. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” He gestured stiffly toward the table, where your phone lay.

Heart pounding, you walked over, the unease growing heavier with each step. The screen lit up with the unread notifications as soon as you touched it. And then you saw Beck's messages.

Your eyes widened, breath caught in your throat. For a long second, you just stared at the words, your pulse crashing in your ears. Then slowly, you lifted your gaze back to Bob. His face was pale, lips tight, eyes red around the edges like he’d been holding back too much all at once.

“Bob, no— it’s not what you think,” you blurted out immediately.

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his voice breaking. “Not what I think? Really? Because what I think is that I was just a bet. That everything you said, everything you did last night—” his voice cracked, his anger splintering into something rawer, something that cut even deeper. “—was just a game to you.”

“Bob, please—”

“No.” He shook his head, cutting you off, his hand coming up like a wall between you. “Don’t. Don’t try to spin it. You don’t know what that did to me—what you did to me. I—” He broke off, dragging both hands through his hair, glasses sliding crooked down his nose. His breath came fast, shoulders tense, his whole body taut with hurt.

“I thought you were different.”

Your chest tightened, tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes. You stepped closer, your voice trembling but insistent. “Listen, yeah, at first, it was a stupid bet. I’m not going to lie about that. But the second I started talking to you, I completely forgot about I didn’t sleep with you because of some dare, Bob—I slept with you because I wanted you.”

He turned his head sharply, jaw tight, but he didn’t interrupt this time. His silence felt like a test.

“I’m not that kind of girl,” you went on, voice shaking, but steadier with each word. “I don’t sleep with men on the first night just for fun. Do you think I would have stayed? Do you think I would have looked at you the way I did if it was just some joke? Everything I felt with you last night was real, Bob. All of it.”

For a long, heavy moment, Bob just stared at you, his chest rising and falling as if he’d been holding his breath this entire time. His eyes glistened behind his glasses, torn between disbelief and the desperate hope that you might actually be telling the truth.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, low. “You… you mean that?”

You nodded quickly, stepping closer until your fingers brushed against his trembling hand. “Every word. You have no idea how much.”

Bob exhaled shakily, as though the air itself had been stolen from his lungs.

He let his hand slip into yours, still hesitant, but when he felt the way you held on, how tightly you clung to him, something in his chest broke open.

Slowly, he pulled you against him, burying his face into your hair, inhaling deeply as though grounding himself in your scent.

“I want to believe it,” he whispered, voice cracked and unsteady. “I want to believe you so badly.”

“You can,” you whispered back, your arms sliding around his waist, pressing yourself against him as though you could anchor him there, away from the storm in his mind. “You can.”

Bob leaned back just enough to look at you, searching your eyes for any sign of deceit. Finding none, he let out a small, broken laugh, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he murmured, half exasperated, half overcome.

“Just…” you whispered, leaning into his touch, “…believe me.”

And finally, Bob did. He kissed you then, not desperate like last night, but soft and slow, like a man who had been lost and suddenly found his way back.

His hands framed your face tenderly, almost reverently, and though his heart was still aching, it began to steady, the pieces stitching back together one by one as he held you.

Still holding you close, Bob let out a long breath, his forehead resting against yours. His heartbeat was finally slowing, syncing with the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Then, in a voice quieter, softer, almost shy, he murmured against your temple, “You look… really good in my shirt.”

You laughed softly, the tension in your chest finally loosening, and leaned back just enough to look at him.

“Oh yeah? Well, you don’t look too bad yourself,” you teased, brushing your hand across his jaw where the stubble had begun to grow in. “Think I might keep this shirt.”

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “You can keep it,” he said, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your waist, “but on one condition.”

You raised a brow suspiciously. “Condition?”

“Mm-hm.” He tilted his head, studying you with that mixture of earnestness and mischief that only Bob could pull off. “I want to see that video.”

Your whole body stiffened, and you pulled back instantly, eyes wide. “What? No. Absolutely not!”

Bob chuckled at your sudden panic, holding you in place when you tried to wriggle out of his arms. “C’mon, what’s the big deal? Just let me see it.”

You shook your head furiously, hiding your face against his chest. “No way. Not happening.”

“Mm,” he leaned down to pepper a quick kiss on your cheek, then another on your jaw. “You’re hiding something. That makes me want to see it even more.”

“Bob!” you groaned, swatting at his chest, though your lips were already twitching with a reluctant smile.

He only laughed, pulling you closer, his voice warm and playful now. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. For now. But don’t think I’m letting this go forever.”

You finally looked up at him, rolling your eyes but unable to fight the smile that spread across your face. “You’re annoying.”

“But you like it,” he replied without hesitation, kissing the tip of your nose before wrapping you in his arms again.

This time, when you melted into him, it was with a sense of ease, of trust, of something fragile but real. And as you stood there in his shirt, tangled in his embrace, you knew that whatever had started as a game had turned into something neither of you could ever walk away from.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!

BYEEE!!!👾🦁🌂

[hehe-69]

GOOFY LEWI PART 7

Part 6

[ihartcrunchygrapes]

@lew.pull on tiktok!! this edit flopped so bad on that platform, that i had to delete it completely!! hopefully this time it reaches the right audience lmao😭

[lewis-bob-rhett]

I AM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH SOKCUHDKWBDIEHFNDKDBD

Source: @/comicbook on TT

[hehe-69]

Goofy Lewi part 4

Plus friends🤗

Part 3, Part 2, Part 1

[hehe-69]

GOOFY LEWI PART 8

He’s so focused👆

Tag list: @coldonez @fandomxo

Part 7

[hehe-69]

Goofy pics of Lewis…that’s it…that’s the post

[hehe-69]

GOOFY LEWI PART 12

Tag list: @coldonez @fandomxo

Part 11