tags: mdni!! smut, age gap (30s/50s), first time anal, tinsy bit of pain but pedro is soo sweet, fluffy pedro, bf pedro, rimming, pussy eating, anal fingering, unprotected p in a sex (don’t do that cos we don’t want any stds this halloween), clitoral orgasm and anal creampie.
summary: you ask pedro if he’d like to try something different in the bedroom.
it was the kind of morning that just made everything feel easy.
no schedule, no shoots or filming, just the white sheets wrapped around the both of you and pedro to yourself.
it was rare really — having days like this. pedro — your boyfriend — worked too damn hard for his own good, always having a shoot to attend, a set to be at or an interview to go to. a man like him with a public image like that rarely had time to spend with his girl, but this morning things were different, and you had something on your mind.
pedro was still asleep, sprawled out on his stomach, bare biceps on display and an arm thrown lazily across your waist as he snored softly into the pillow, a habit you’d grown to love about him despite your misophonia.
you gently removed his arm from your waist, rolling him over onto his back and smiling softly when he grunted at the movement in his sleep.
you took a second to just admire him. relaxed, sleeping, yours. his hair was mussed from bed, his tanned face screwed up a little from whatever dream he must’ve been having. you reached over and ran a hand through his messy curls, scratching gently at his scalp and watching the way he leaned into your touch like a purring cat.
you swung a leg over his hip, straddling him without putting your full weight on him. you leaned down and kissed around his chest, kissing a circle around one of his nipples. “wake up,” you whispered, smiling when he groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open.
“mmm,” he hummed softly, shaking his head no.
“mhm,” you nodded, kissing your way back up to his mouth. you pressed your mouth to his own, being met with a soft groan. “wakey wakey.” you mumbled against his lips.
“mm,” he pulled back and squeezed his eyes shut. “i’ll wake up if it’s you telling me that we’re staying in bed all day.” he offered stubbornly, a slow smile creeping onto his lips.
“well, it’s something along those lines, actually. just a little.. less lazy.”
that made him crack an eye open.
a cheeky looking smile crossed his face as he rolled you both over, climbing on top of you with a grunt. “really?” he chuckled, looking like a damn kid in a candy store. “what kinda something were you thinking?” he asked, resting his chin on one of your covered breasts.
you flushed, swallowing thickly as you suddenly felt extremely nervous about what you were going to ask him. he was your boyfriend and you’d been together for almost two years now yet you still hadn’t the balls to ask him to fuck your ass straight up.
it was different, taboo even, doing something as out of the ordinary as this. you giggled and brought both hands up to cover your face, shaking your head in embarrassment.
pedro barked out a laugh, peppering kisses around your clothed chest and smushing his nose into your t-shirt. “please tell me — pretty please?”
“it’s embarrassing.” you whined.
pedro sighed through his nose and reached up to peel your palms away from your face, being met with your red cheeks.
god, you were adorable.
“c’mon, tell me. it doesn’t matter what it is, I promise i won’t laugh.” he said gently, his wide, playful smile drifting into a much softer, coaxing one. he brought one of your hands to his face and pressed a kiss to one of your knuckles.
you huffed, taking a breath to stabilise yourself a little. “okay. but before I say it, i promise it’s okay if you aren’t into it, it’s just.. i’ve never done it before and i thought it’d be fun.” you breathed.
“okay..” he replied, coaxing you to continue.
you brought a hand down to run through his hair, almost as if you just needed something to keep your hand busy to stop the overwhelming embarrassment you were feeling about asking this fucking question. “i was just wondering if you’d wanna try like.. anal? like I’ve heard it can feel really good if you prep properly and.. have good technique or whatever.”
pedro blinked, not put off just clearly not expecting.. that.
he wasn’t opposed to it, god there was nothing he’d love more than to try it. but there was always that worry about not doing it right and hurting you somehow. that would be last goddamn thing he’d wanna do. but then again, it wasn’t his first rodeo. he had done it before with some other people before you and.. no complaints.
you both weren’t complete strangers to butt stuff after all. matter of fact, sometimes if pedro had you on your belly while he was eating your pussy, sometimes he’d slide up and give your asshole a teasing lick or gentle kiss. or if he was fucking you in doggy style, sometimes he’d slick his finger up and thumb at your ass a little. and you seemed to enjoy it, clearly a lot considering you wanted him to go all the way with you.
“well?” you asked a little impatiently, clearly stressed about his silence.
“shit, yeah, sorry baby. i was just thinking.” he apologised, pressing a kiss just over your heart. “i mean, if this is something you seriously want to do, i’m totally behind it. but I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
your throat tightened a little at how sickeningly tender he always was with things like this. always putting your comfort first.
“i promise it’s what i want.” you whispered.
pedro smirked, stroking the apple of your cheek with his thumb. “well, you know i’ll give you anything you want.”
“you’re sure?” pedro asked for the thousandth time as he kissed his way down your lower back. you were now sprawled on your hands and knees, t-shirt off and in just your cotton panties from last night as pedro pressed some extra kisses around your hips, still in his attire from last night which included just a pair of boxers.
“absolutely positive, pedro.” you replied with a giggle, appreciating his checking up all the same. it was nice to know that there wasn’t any rush. that you could both take as much time as you needed and that you didn’t have to hesitate to stop him if you felt you needed to.
“okay,” he whispered, settling on his knees behind you and gently tugging on the waistband of your underwear. “can we take these off?”
you let out a dreamy sigh and arched back into his hand. “uh huh. yes please, baby.” you muttered, knowing he needed to hear your words.
“good girl.” he praised before trailing your underwear down your backside and thighs until you were completely bare for him — pussy and asshole uncovered, your pretty opening glistening with arousal that must have been building all morning, your other hole practically winking at him.
“you’re so beautiful back here, baby,” he murmured, spreading open your cheeks and leaning in to press a kiss to your already-slick clit. “wanna eat your pussy and pretty little ass before i get started with my cock. does that sound good?”
“yeah.. sounds so good.” you heard the click of a plastic bottle open — the lube that pedro had picked up a while back that you’d both barely used. it was cherry flavoured, which you found kinda cute. at least then he could taste you while slicking you up. you also found it adorable that he’d picked your favourite flavour in candy for the lubricant.
pedro shook the bottle a little before pouring out some of the oily liquid over your asshole and pussy — not that your cunt really needed it, you always succeeded in making a mess for him. you moaned at the feeling of the hot oil spilling over your most intimate areas, the tingling sensation of your asshole when the oil settled into it.
pedro leaned in, taking his time in licking a stripe all the way from your clit to your tight, relatively untouched ring of muscle. he lingered there a little — flattening his tongue and moving his head around in circles. you clenched a little at the still pretty foreign feeling but when you felt Pedro’s hand travel up to the back of your thigh, stroking the skin there every so gently, you released that tension, letting out a breathy moan as you allowed yourself to feel that tingling sensation as his tongue licked around your hole.
his hand came up to your clit, gently rolling ir between two of his fingers as his tongue lapped up your asshole. the double stimulation was enough to make you drop your head into your folded arms, back arching into his face while he ate you like a man starved.
“oh, pedro,” you cried softly, feeling him trail his lips back down to your aching core and latching his lips around your clit, suckling gently while circling your asshole with his thumb. “feel’s so good.”
“i’m so glad, baby,” he murmured against your cunt, pressing his thumb a little harder to the taut ring of muscles. his thumb managed to slide past that ring with the lubrication from before. it was no more than inch if even but still felt a little sharp. more of an achy sting as he held his thumb there, giving you some time to adjust and focusing on that bundle of nerves. suckling and flicking it with his tongue. “just wanna work you open a little, okay? I don’t want you to be in pain.”
you let out a sharp breath but quickly relaxed into the feeling, distracted from the stimulation on your sensitive clit. pedro took the opportunity to slide the rest of his thumb in, being met with barely any resistance from your now relaxed muscles. “jesus, baby. been waiting so long to play with this ass.” he moaned, pulling back and letting a drop of saliva fall onto your clit. his hand came down on your ass in a playful, gentle smack and he watched as your cheeks jiggled from the impact.
you giggled into your arms but your laughing was cut short when you felt pedro wiggle his thumb a little in your asshole. the sensation was so much different than vaginal penetration. it felt.. full and sensitive. like every twitch of his finger could make you collapse in the best way possible. surprisingly, there wasn’t any pain but you were almost sure there would be when pedro used his cock to stretch you.
he wasn’t huge, relatively average — probably around six inches when he was hard, but he had some girth to him. he was thick and sometimes if you both spontaneously decided to fuck, you would struggle with the stretch of his cock head.
but you knew pedro, and you trusted him with this. he was always patient when it came to sex — never rushing.
“want you t’take my ass.” you gasped suddenly, turning your head just enough for him to see your flushed face. he seemed to pause — clearly hesitant to do so just yet.
“please, pedro i know you wanna prepare me a little more but i need your cock so bad and i — ” pedro cut your babbling off, removing his thumb from your ass and peppering gentle kisses around the slightly gaping hole to soothe you.
“shh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” he hushed. “i’ll give it you, but i need you to relax, for me, baby. can you do that for me?” he asked, rolling you off of your stomach and onto your back so he could face you.
you looked up at him as he crawled on top of you, taking a second to just take it all in. you looked down at the bulge in his boxers and, god you just couldn’t help yourself. your hand slid down his belly until it cupped his length through the thin fabric of his black underwear. you heard him stifle a groan under his breath. you felt him throb through the layer of clothing, clearly painfully hard from eating your pussy and ass.
the thing about pedro was that he was a pleaser — something he so gracefully decided to tell the whole world in a fucking interview with dakota and chris. he got off on making you feel good. it was just in his nature.
a lazy smile crossed your lips when you felt him twitch in your hand. you pulled down the waistband of his boxers just enough to free his cock and aching balls. the sight could’ve made you drool. you didn’t think you’d ever get used to seeing his cock leak all over itself. “you’re so hard, baby. is this all for my ass?” you asked in that sultry tone that you knew drove him wild.
he choked on a laugh when he felt your hand wrap around his base, giving him an experimental stroke. “shit, sweetheart — it’s all for you.” his lips pressed against your own in a messy, slightly sloppy kiss — his tongue licking into your eager mouth. when he finally pulled back, he was breathless, mouth swollen and eyes wild.
“need to push your legs up for me, baby.” he explained, settling himself between your legs and folding your knees up to your chest, leaning down and and hooking your feet on either side of his neck.
he was lucky you did yoga — folding you up like a goddamn pretzel.
he took his cock between two fingers, notching his tip at your entrance but not quite pushing in, just getting you used to the feeling of that heaviness against your opening. he used his dick’s head to circle around your ring of nerves sending a tingly sensation up your spine.
you dropped your head back into the pillows, a breathy moan escaping your now parted, pink lips. “feel’s tingly,” you hummed, wrapping both your arms underneath your knees.
pedro smiled down at you, reaching over to grab the bottle of lube to slick you up even more. he squeezed the bottle, the cherry oil spilling down onto both your holes. he used his cock to massage the lube into your tight opening and rubbed the excess over his length. “good tingly?” he asked, pushing his hips forward while asking the question, almost as if he was using his words to distract you from that initial stretch.
a sharp gasp was punched out of your lungs at the painful sensation of your opening being stretched around his tip. it was kind of like having freezing cold hands and running them under hot water — that initial shock and burn on your skin that would eventually fade into relief, your body eventually allowing that heat to envelop your skin.
“hey — hey, look at me.” he coaxed, using one of his hands to tilt your chin up to meet his face. he looked and sounded worried. “you okay? we can stop if you need to there’s no pr — ”
“nonono want you to keep going.” you gasped, tears welling up in your waterline. as much as the stretch was uncomfortable, there was a part of you that sort of enjoyed that twinge of pain and sensitivity.
“you’re sure?” he asked, reaching down to press a thumb on your clit.
“m’sure.. please pedro..” you cried.
pedro didn’t waste any more time.
as soon as he felt your muscles relax around his aching dick, he thrusted his hips forward in one, slightly harsh thrust, completely knocking the wind out of you.
you shut your eyes and focused on the building pressure in your lower stomach, feeling the way his cock twitched inside of your sensitive ass. you felt incredibly full, his member pressing against the untouched walls of your butt, stimulating your g-spot — something you weren’t even aware was possible.
one of your hands flew down to the mattress to fist the sheets, needing something to hold onto. “yes, baby..” you whispered, feeling extremely aroused from how intimate yet perverse the whole situation was. it felt so addictive that you wished he could fuck both your holes at the same time. you just wanted to feel him everywhere.
pedro’s voice cracked at the new feeling. “tan jodidamente apretado, nena,” he groaned. you moaned as if you had any idea what he’d just said. he always sounded so sexy when he spoke spanish that he could literally be telling you to hang yourself and you’d still squeeze his cock.
the lube made things much smoother and for a second your mind dipped to how awful it must feel for people using spit. pedro pulled back a couple inches and rocked his way back in — an experimental thrust.
you couldn’t stop yourself.
a loud sob escaped right from your chest. “oh my god,”
a cocky smile looked back at you. “yeah? you starting to feel good now, baby?”
you nodded eagerly. “yeah, yeah don’t stop.” you said in more of a whine than anything. the feeling was still so intense, so foreign that it had your legs trembling, your feet digging into his shoulders.
pedro seemed surprised at how quickly you were relaxing into the feeling. he started to draw those circles that you enjoyed ever so much on your clit, his sole goal being to get you to cum from his dick in your ass.
one of his thick arms wrapped around both your legs as he fucked in and out of your asshole, feeling the way you started to twitch and clench around him. his thumb worked over time on your clit — circling, pressing, rubbing, whatever he thought would feel best in that moment.
“are you going to cum for me?” he asked breathlessly, starting to fuck you brutally that you were sure you’d be a ruin of a woman by the time he was done with you. “gonna cum with my cock in this ass?”
the sounds you were making now were anything but dainty and cute. borderline porn star sounding moans being ripped from your throat. your whole body was buzzing, the headboard slamming against the wall in such a way that made you ever so grateful that you didn’t have neighbours.
“gonna cum, gonna cum on your-your cock,” you hiccuped, tears messily streaming down your face as you felt that familiar feeling in your core.
something you could only describe as a scream left your lungs as the brutal orgasm washed over you. your whole body shook with the impact and intensity of it all, your eyes rolling back in your head as you went silent.
you weren’t even sure what kind of orgasm it was. whether it was clitoral or vaginal, you didn’t know. what you did know though, was that it was the signal most overwhelming climax you’d ever felt.
and pedro was there to catch you.
fucking your quivering hole through it as he now started to focus on reaching the big o himself. “oh my god, honey. just squeezing me so tight. gonna fucking cream this ass, baby. gonna fill you — ”
the next thing you knew, he was flooding your butt with his hot, creamy cum, filling you with every last drop.
it made a tear fall down your cheek. a helpless sob leave your mouth.
you weren’t sure how long you both lay there — it could’ve been hours for all you knew.
pedro had since collapsed on top of you, his cock nestled inside you between those pretty cheeks. he’d let you drop you legs down though so you were comfortable. the gentleman as always.
both his arms were wrapped around your middle, face pressed between your breasts occasionally moving to press a kiss or suck to one of your nipples.
“that was..” your voice trailed off, not quite sure of what to make of the whole ordeal. you were sure you’d both be spending the day in bed eating uber eats considering your.. situation. you were sure that if you even attempted to walk down the stairs you would collapse in a matter of seconds.
pedro chuckled, nosing the soft skin between your boobs. “peachy?”
you burst out in a fit of unexpected giggles. “yeah, something like that.”
okay.. wow. this took fucking years off me. I don’t why I got such huge writers block for such an easy storyline?! anyways, hope you enjoyed! likes, comments and reblogs are all greatly appreciated! happy kinktober everyone👻🎃
There were no alarms, no obligations just the smell of bacon popping in the skillet, the warm sun slanting through the blinds, and the sound of Joel’s heavy boots trudging into the kitchen like a grumpy bear.
You didn’t even look up from the pancake batter as he came in.
“Coffee’s fresh.”
Joel grunted, pouring himself a cup and leaning against the counter, watching you. “You make breakfast just to fatten me up?”
You turned with the whisk still in hand, raising a brow. “You’re the one who asked me yesterday if I’d make pancakes. You begged, if I recall.”
“Didn’t beg. I said I wouldn’t mind some pancakes.”
You smiled, flipping a piece of bacon. “You said, and I quote, ‘Baby, you know I can’t live without your pancakes, please make them, I’ll die otherwise.’”
Joel grumbled something under his breath and took a long sip of coffee, watching you move around the kitchen in one of his old T-shirts and sleep shorts. His eyes softened.
“Still grumpy?” you teased, brushing past him and patting his stomach playfully.
“Not grumpy. Just hungry,” he mumbled, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.
“You’re always hungry lately.”
“Only for you,” he said, voice low in your ear.
You were about to respond maybe something flirty, maybe something sarcastic but your phone vibrated on the counter.
Sarah: “Important family meeting. 6pm at Mom and Dad’s. No excuses. I’ll bring dessert.”
Joel read over your shoulder. “That sounds suspicious.”
“Very.”
By 6:00, the house was full of noise again your favorite kind of chaos.
Joel Jr. came in first, tall and broad like his dad, kicking off his boots at the door. “You guys dying or something? Sarah was being dramatic in the group chat.”
“Watch it,” you warned, giving him a playful swat with the dishtowel. “We could be dying. You don’t know.”
“Guess I better stay for dinner just in case.”
Monica entered next, already scrolling through her phone. “If this is another intervention because Ellie says I talk too loud on speakerphone, I swear”
“I never said that,” Ellie snapped, walking in behind her. “I said you sound like a drunk squirrel when you laugh.”
“I do not!”
You were about to tell them all to quiet down when Sarah finally walked in, holding a bakery box and looking well, glowing.
“Hey, everyone.” She was smiling nervously.
Joel perked up, sensing something.
You watched as she placed the box on the coffee table and said, “Before we eat, I need to tell you something.”
Everyone went still. Even Ellie stopped chewing her gum.
Sarah opened the box, revealing a neat row of cupcakes half pink, half blue with tiny plastic booties on top.
Joel Jr. blinked. “Wait. Are those baby cupcakes?”
“Yeah,” Monica whispered. “Those are baby cupcakes.”
Sarah looked up at her siblings, then at you and Joel.
“I’m pregnant.”
It was like the air left the room.
Joel sat down hard on the couch, eyes wide. You stood frozen, hand over your mouth.
Then came the chaos.
Monica screamed, Ellie dropped her phone, Joel Jr. muttered something like “I thought this was about Dad’s cholesterol”, and you walked over to Sarah and pulled her into a hug, tears springing to your eyes.
“Oh, honey. Oh my God. Really?”
Sarah nodded, laughing through her own tears. “Yeah. I found out last week. I wanted you all to be the first to know.”
Joel was still silent, holding a tiny cupcake in his calloused hand like it might bite him.
“Joel?” you asked gently, eyes searching his.
He looked up, jaw tight. His voice cracked.
“You’re… you’re havin’ a baby?”
Sarah smiled. “I am, Daddy.”
He stood slowly, crossing the room and wrapping his arms around her. He didn’t say anything else. Just held her, tight and quiet, like the weight of the years was finally settling in.
After the kids had left still shouting across the driveway, Monica already planning the nursery you and Joel stood in the kitchen, the leftovers cooling on the stove, the house quiet again.
You turned to him, resting your arms around his neck. “You okay, old man?”
He looked down at you, his eyes warm, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
“I watched her take her first steps in this damn kitchen,” he said softly. “Now she’s havin’ a baby of her own.”
You kissed his chest. “I know.”
Joel leaned in, touching his forehead to yours. “She’s gonna be a hell of a mom. Just like you were. Just like you are.”
Your fingers slid under the hem of his flannel. “You know what I was thinking?”
“What?”
“That we’re alone now. The kids are gone. House is quiet…”
He raised an eyebrow. “You makin’ a move on me, darlin’?”
“Joel, I just watched you cry over baby cupcakes. I’ve never been more in love with you in my life.”
That was all it took.
He hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, kissing you like it was the first time, his hands rough but reverent as they skimmed up your sides. The cool tile beneath you only made his body feel hotter, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, your breath catching when he murmured against your skin.
“You gave me her, y’know,” he whispered. “And now she’s givin’ us another piece of her.”
Your hands found the edge of his shirt, lifting it as you whispered, “I gave you four pieces, Joel Miller. Don’t forget the twins and Ellie.”
He laughed really laughed and kissed you hard.
The moment your hands slipped under Joel’s flannel, his breath hitched.
The kitchen was warm from the oven, the scent of bacon still lingering in the air, but nothing compared to the heat building between your bodies.
Joel leaned in, his nose brushing your cheek, his voice rough and low.
“You got any idea what you do to me, sweetheart? Hm?” he murmured, his lips grazing your jaw as he slid your oversized T-shirt up, revealing soft skin and a pair of cotton panties that made his groan audible.
“You’ve been walking around in my shirt all damn day, legs bare, ass peeking out just enough to drive me crazy.”
You bit your lip, watching his pupils darken as he settled between your legs on the kitchen counter. His hands gripped your thighs possessively.
“Joel…”
“You think I don’t notice the way you sway your hips when I walk in? That you ain’t doin’ it on purpose?”
“I wasn’t”
“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, biting your earlobe. “You wanted me like this. Wanted me desperate.”
Your breath hitched as he ground his hips into you, the hard outline of his arousal unmistakable beneath his jeans. His lips crashed into yours hungry, claiming while his hands pulled your panties aside with practiced ease.
“You know what I was thinkin’ all through dinner?” he rasped between kisses. “While the kids were talkin’ ‘bout baby names and nursery colors? I was thinkin’ about how wet you were gettin’ just from watchin’ me be a good dad.”
You whined, arching into his touch as his fingers found you. He swiped once through your folds, groaning when he felt just how ready you were.
“Goddamn, baby. Already soaked for me.”
“I love you like this,” you gasped. “All rough and sweet.”
He smiled against your neck. “Yeah? Love when I talk to you like this, don’t you? When I remind you you’re mine?”
You nodded desperately as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his thumb worked your clit with slow, deliberate circles.
“You gave me a whole family,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “You gave me a home. You made me a father. And now you’re makin’ me a fuckin’ grandfather.”
Your walls clenched around his fingers, making him curse.
“You still tight for me after all these years. Still my favorite thing in this whole damn world.”
“Joel, I..I need you”
“I got you, baby,” he promised, pulling away just long enough to shove his jeans down and line himself up. “I always got you.”
He entered you in one smooth, deep thrust, both of you gasping at the contact. The stretch, the fullness, the way his hips snapped into yours with aching precision it felt like the first time all over again.
“Fuck, you take me so good,” Joel groaned, gripping your hips as he thrust slow and deep. “This pussy’s mine. Always has been. Always will be.”
You moaned loudly, nails digging into his back, your body trembling with each stroke.
“You look so goddamn beautiful like this writhin’ for me, beggin’ for it. My wife. My girl. Mother of my kids. And now…”
He leaned close, kissing you softly this time, voice cracking.
“…soon to be Grandma.”
You laughed breathlessly against his lips, clutching him tighter.
“I’ll be a hot grandma.”
He grinned. “You’ll be the hottest fuckin’ grandma Texas has ever seen.”
And he kept moving worshiping you, unraveling you until you came apart around him with a strangled cry, dragging him over the edge with you. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, and he emptied himself inside you with a low, possessive growl.
He held you there for a long while, panting, pressed forehead to forehead.
“Still got it,” you whispered, dazed.
Joel kissed your shoulder. “Damn right we do.”
That night, you didn’t just celebrate Sarah’s announcement. You celebrated every moment that led to it. Every diaper, every sleepless night, every scraped knee and school play and long road trip in a beat-up car full of kids and Goldfish crackers.
You celebrated the life you built.
Together.
And just before drifting off to sleep, Joel rolled over and mumbled, “We need to baby-proof the house again.”
You groaned. “Not again.”
He chuckled. “Worth it.”
9 months later, Joel was walking around the living room holding a fussy baby girl in his arms like she was made of glass.
“Why’s she makin’ that face?” he asked, peering down at her. “Is that her poopin’ face? Jesus, she looks like Ellie when she’s constipated.”
You laughed from the couch, bottle in hand. “You’re so dramatic. She’s just hungry.”
Joel huffed, gently handing over your granddaughter. “She’s so small. Smaller than Sarah was.”
“She’s healthy. She’s perfect.”
He watched you feed her, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking circles through your leggings.
After she finished and was snuggled up on your chest, asleep, Joel whispered, “Never thought I’d see the day. You, rockin’ a baby to sleep again. Me, worried I’d break her just by holdin’ her.”
You looked up at him, heart full.
“I think we did alright, huh?”
He nodded, eyes damp.
“Yeah, darlin’. We sure as hell did.”
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, Joel leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice soft as ever.
“Still want you. Still love you. Always will.”
The living room was a battlefield of soft pastel blankets.
Joel stood dead center, brows furrowed, lips pressed in concentration as he stared down at his wriggling granddaughter on the couch. The baby blinked up at him with innocent confusion, one chubby arm escaping the sad excuse for a swaddle he’d attempted three times.
“Alright, you little Houdini,” Joel muttered, grabbing the blanket again and trying to fold it like that video Sarah made him watch on YouTube.
From the recliner, you were dying of silent laughter, watching your husband argue with a seven-pound infant like she was an Army recruit who wouldn’t take orders.
Joel gently rolled her tiny body to the side. “Stay still now, sunshine. We ain’t got all day.”
The baby cooed, kicked her legs, and proceeded to stick her entire fist in her mouth.
Joel, visibly sweating, made another attempt tucking one corner under her bottom, folding another across her chest but somehow she ended up looking like a lumpy Chipotle burrito with one arm sticking out and one sock missing.
“I swear to God,” Joel whispered like he was defusing a bomb. “If Ellie saw this, she’d never let me live it down.”
“I’m right here, and I’m not letting you live it down,” came Sarah’s voice from the front door.
Joel jumped like he’d been caught with a Playboy.
Sarah strode into the room, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and a smirk in the other.
“Jesus, Dad,” she laughed. “She’s not a camping tent. You don’t need to roll her up like a sleeping bag.”
“She moved,” Joel defended, stepping aside like he was trying to preserve his dignity. “I almost had it.”
You cleared your throat behind your mug of tea. “You also said that last night with the IKEA shelf.”
Joel turned to you with an offended grunt. “That was different. The instructions were in Swedish.”
Sarah sat beside you, gently picking up her daughter and expertly re-swaddling her in less than twenty seconds.
Joel blinked.
“See?” she said, winking at him. “You just gotta make her feel like a little sushi roll. Tight, but not too tight.”
“She’s my granddaughter,” Joel muttered. “Not a damn California roll.”
Sarah laughed, kissing his cheek. “You’re lucky she already loves you. Even if you do swaddle like Frankenstein.”
Joel rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. “I raised you, didn’t I? You turned out fine.”
“Yeah, despite the burrito trauma,” she teased.
The baby gave a little yawn, content in her now-perfect swaddle. Joel stared down at her, one hand resting protectively on her back.
“…She looks like you when you were a baby,” he said quietly. “Same sleepy little mouth.”
Sarah softened. “She’s got your grumpy brow.”
He chuckled, eyes a little misty now. “Poor kid.”
You stood, wrapping your arms around his waist. “She’s got the best parts of all of us.”
And for once, Joel didn’t argue. He just nodded, kissing the crown of Sarah’s head, then yours.
The front door slammed open with the sound of sneakers and sarcasm.
“Alright, what did Dad break this time?” Ellie’s voice called from the hallway. “Was it the baby? Please tell me it wasn’t the baby.”
“In here!” you called, cradling the now-swaddled baby while Sarah handed Joel a burp cloth like he was a new recruit on the first day of bootcamp.
Monica and Joel Jr. barreled in behind Ellie, the twins already arguing over who got to hold their new niece next.
“Okay, but I brought the diapers and that organic baby butt cream,” Monica said, hands on her hips.
Joel Jr. rolled his eyes. “She poops. She doesn’t need luxury.”
“She’s a lady, you absolute troll”
“Kids,” Joel barked gently. “Calm down. You’re gonna stress her out.”
Ellie flopped onto the couch, cracking open a soda.
“Stress her out?” she snorted. “You almost wrapped her like a Quesarito thirty minutes ago.”
Joel stood tall, adjusting his flannel like he was at the podium for a presidential address.
“Y’all better show some respect,” he said, voice full Texas. “Because Big Poppa is in the building.”
Joel smirked smugly, arms crossed over his chest. “What? It’s got a ring to it. Better than ‘Grandpa Joel.’ I ain’t ready to sound like I wear orthopedic shoes and play bridge.”
You choked on your laugh from across the room, rocking the baby gently.
Sarah blinked. “You literally wore compression socks on the plane to Colorado.”
“That was for circulation,” he snapped defensively.
“Sure, Big Poppa,” Ellie teased, kicking her feet onto the coffee table. “Next thing we know, you’ll be dropping a mixtape called Burps & Bottles.”
Joel gave her the flattest look he could manage. “You done?”
“Not even close,” Ellie grinned. “I’m putting you in my phone as Big Poppa starting now.”
Joel Jr. was already typing furiously. “Group chat rename incoming.”
Monica added, “Oooooh! Can I be Lil G-Ma? Mom, say yes.”
You just groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “I regret all of you.”
Joel walked over to you and leaned down to kiss your temple, grinning as he whispered, “Still got it.”
You murmured back, “God help me, you really do.”
And as the living room filled with laughter, bickering, and the soft, sleepy sounds of your first grandchild sighing in her swaddle, Joel Big Poppa himself wrapped his arms around you from behind and whispered in your ear:
“House might be full again, baby. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The front door shut with a soft click, with a heavy sigh and a soft kiss behind your ear.
“Well, sweetheart,” he murmured, “we survived.”
You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up the worn cotton of his flannel. “Barely. You almost got jumped for that ‘Big Poppa’ nonsense.”
Joel smirked, chin dipped down so your noses brushed. “You liked it.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You bit your lip.”
“I was trying not to laugh.”
Joel leaned in, his voice husky, low. “Could’ve sworn you were lookin’ at me like you used to… back when the house got real quiet at night. After the girls went to sleep.”
You raised a brow. “Is that right?”
“Mmhmm.” He backed you slowly toward the kitchen island, his hands already roaming, finding every familiar dip and curve. “Back when you’d pull me by my belt loops and whisper that I was handsome when I was grumpy.”
“I still do.”
“Yeah,” he rasped, pinning you gently against the counter. “But now you’re a grandma when you do it. Real filthy of you.”
You gasped, pretending to swat him. “Joel Miller!”
“Don’t act shocked, darlin’. You know I like it when you get a little bad.”
His lips met your neck, slow and warm, trailing down just behind your ear where he knew it drove you wild. You tilted your head back with a soft gasp as his fingers teased beneath your blouse.
“You cooked me breakfast this mornin’,” Joel murmured. “Fed our whole family. Rocked our granddaughter to sleep. And now…” He pressed against you, unmistakably hard. “Now I wanna ruin you a little.”
Your breath caught.
He lifted you with ease onto the counter, stepping between your thighs, crowding you in. “Let me have this,” he said. “Let me remind you you’re still mine. Every perfect inch of you.”
You curled your fingers in his hair. “Door’s locked?”
Joel grinned. “Sweetheart, I deadbolted it the second they backed outta the driveway.”
He was unhurried with you tugging your shirt over your head, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin like you were something precious. He whispered filthy things against your collarbone how good you smelled, how soft you felt, how no one had ever made him lose his mind the way you still could with just one look.
You wrapped your legs around his waist as his hand slid down your thigh, callused thumb teasing where you ached for him most.
“You’re soaked already?” he murmured, voice gone low and gritty. “Fuck, baby. That for me?”
Your nails dug into his back, breathless.
“Been wantin’ to touch you like this all day,” Joel growled. “All through dinner, all through dessert… watchin’ you with her. You’re so damn beautiful. Gonna have to take my time with you.”
And he did. Right there on the cool granite of the kitchen counter, with your hands clutching his shoulders and his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He worshipped you like the woman who gave him everything a home, a family, a forever.
When it was over, he held you close, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.
“Still think I’m grumpy?” he murmured, teasing.
You smiled, lazily running your fingers through his silvered curls. “Mmhmm. But you’re my grump.”
He chuckled, lifting you off the counter and carrying you toward the bedroom like it was second nature.
Summary: The reader wants to show Pedro that he is the only one begging to cum.
warnings: same as the others, Fucking LIKE RABBITS. Get out of here if you don't like smut.
requests are open, I write anything!!!
Pedro had been cocky again.
All day.
Making those smug little comments.
Walking around shirtless like he didn’t know exactly what that did to you.
Touching you all the time. And worse? Acting like he was the one in charge.
So now?
Now you were going to show him what real control looked like.
He was lying on the bed — wrists tied loosely to the headboard with silk. Not tight enough to hurt.
Just tight enough to remind him: you own him tonight.And the worst part?
You hadn’t even touched his cock yet.
Just your fingers grazing his thighs.
Your mouth at his ear.
Your hips grinding just out of reach.
He was already hard. Red. Leaking.
You looked down at him with a wicked grin, one brow raised.
— Hmm… you’re not listening very well, papí. —
He groaned, shifting beneath you, hips twitching up for any friction.
You rolled your eyes like he was pathetic.
— What did I say about being good?—
— Fuck, baby, I’m trying, please—
— I just wanna touch you—
You let out a sharp, cruel laugh and slapped his thigh — not hard, but firm enough to make him gasp.
Then you leaned in, your lips brushing his ear, voice like satin-wrapped steel:
— Seems like you’re not old enough to missbehave…—
Your hand cupped his cock briefly.Just enough to make him buck.— …your dick keeps getting up like it has no manners. —
He whined. Actually whined.
Tried to reach for your hips, but the second he tugged on the restraints, you pulled back and sat up straight, crossing your arms.
— Ah-ah-ah.—
Your voice went ice cold.
— You don’t get to touch me.—
Pedro growled under his breath, eyes dark and furious — but the way his cock twitched said something else entirely.
— This is what you get for thinking you could fuck me three times and walk around like I wouldn’t take that personally. Silly —
You reached between your legs and slowly lowered yourself onto him — just the tip — then stopped.
His body arched.
He was throbbing. Desperate. Cursing in Spanish.
You moaned softly, pretending to enjoy it all for yourself.
— Mmm… I missed this.—
— You fucked me the day before yesterday old man. —
— I never get tired of you —
— Too bad, because you’re not allowed to come.—
Pedro’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.
— Baby, no no no no, please, let me come, I swear I’ll behave, I’ll be so fucking good, just let me—
— Shhh.—
You started riding him slow, hips moving in long, torturous rolls, hands in your own hair, not even looking at him.
Like he was just… a toy.
A cock.
A punishment.
He was panting now.
Trembling.
His arms strained against the restraints, but he didn’t dare disobey again.You came first — of course.
Loud.
Proud.
Fucking magnificent.
You dragged it out. Rubbed your clit right there on him, moaning shamelessly.
Soaking him.
And then? You stopped. Just like that.
Pulled off him.
Untied his wrists.
Grabbed your robe.
And walked out.
— Where are you going?! —
he shouted behind you, voice ragged.You looked over your shoulder and smirked:
— If your dick can’t behave, papí… it doesn’t get to finish.
Later That Night…You came back hours later — quiet, casual, wearing nothing but a silk slip.
Pedro was still lying there, hard, wrecked, frustrated.
He tried using his own hand, but nothing compared after you had already squeezed him with your sweet, hot pussy.
You climbed into bed, pulled back the covers, and laid next to him like nothing happened.
Then you rolled over, pressed your lips to his ear, and whispered:
— Now you can come.—
He nearly cried. He grabbed your waist and shoved his hard, weeping cock into your hole, he fucked you hard from the side like a needy rabbit, right next to your ear he moaned loudly,
— I'm going to shove fucking babies in you, darling—
grunting you moaned, grabbed the hair on the back of his neck and felt him lick the skin of your neck. — Cum inside of me, Pedro. Fuck. I'm obsessed with your dick —
— Oh baby, that's it. Fuck. Take all my cum. —
He groaned as he buried himself deep into your womb and made you shake with another orgasm.
— I love you.—
He murmured and kissed you softly before you both passed out.
♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character
♫⋆｡♪ WC: 9.4k
♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, P in V Sex, 2 Rounds, Size kink, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum as Lube, Creampie 2x, Doggystyle, Missionary, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Age Difference, Catherine being submissive, Harry losing control, first fight, hospital visit, FLUFF, Slow Burn, Yearning, Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Romcom Vibes, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability
♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Dating life of Harry the billionaire and Catherine the composer.
Months passed the way good months sometimes do—quietly, quickly, tucked beneath the folds of routine. Not without its challenges, but gentler, more bearable when the days were stitched with shared meals and familiar faces. Harry worked. Catherine spends her days helping the studio. Sometimes, they occupied different orbits entirely, but they found their way back to each other more often than not. His reason was mostly because she needed to help him eat the groceries she bought before it went bad.
He had started sending for her. Not every day, but enough to call it a pattern. His driver would pull up outside her building like clockwork, and she’d emerge—always with something in hand, a coffee or a tote bag or a violin, talking on the phone, laughing. She never asked for the car, and when he offered to get her her own driver, she declined immediately.
“Mr. Williams is fine,” she had said, slipping into the seat and adjusting her coat. “He’s kind. And besides, he’s saving up for something. He could use the extra hour. I think his wife’s expecting again.”
Harry had blinked. “How do you know that?”
“I ask.”
And she did. She asked people things. How their day was. How they slept. If their mother was still in the hospital. She remembered names and faces and allergies. Mr. Williams—a scary looking man with a small scar on his lips—once told Harry that driving her around was therapeutic. “Talks my ears off,” he’d said fondly. “She reminds me of my youngest niece. One that thinks too hard about the world.”
Harry had laughed at that. “You’ll get a bonus.”
He said he would have done it without the bonus anyway.
It was astonishing, how quickly people opened up if you just knew where to look. Williams needed the extra cash, yes—three kids and another on the way. But more than that, he needed someone like Catherine in the car with him, asking questions that made the day pass easier. Something that Harry knew nothing about.
Catherine had that effect. A kind of soft interference in people’s patterns. She didn’t always mean to fix things, but sometimes she did. Harry saw it on a random Thursday near Times Square, when she stopped walking to listen to a busker with a bent trumpet and a torn glove. Some teenagers were heckling, loud and careless. She gave the musician a fifty and an address—her studio—and told him to come record something, no charge.
“You can’t run a studio giving free services to everyone,” Harry had said later, not unkindly.
“I know,” she said, tying her hair back. “But he’s talented. Think of it as an investment.”
And then he understood. Funny how she could speak his language so easily. She made the world a little more tolerable. For people like him and Mr. Williams. For Emma, too.
The night Catherine played a private concert for Emma’s anniversary—Harry wasn’t there, but he heard all about it the next day. Emma came into work glowing. She showed him videos, grainy but still lovely, of Catherine in a small personal fancy dining room that they rented, playing an impromptu rendition of a song Emma’s husband used to sing when they were first dating.
“She played it after hearing it once,” Emma had said, eyes a little misty. “And she made us laugh, too. I think she’s magic.”
Harry had nodded slowly, then asked her to send him the pictures—just the ones of Catherine. He said it was for some press kit. It wasn’t.
Catherine still spent nights at his place, though not every night. And most nights ended the same way—him watching her fall asleep mid-sentence, her hair splayed across his pillows, her breath soft and even. She’d kiss him, and they’d kiss some more, and sometimes her hand would slip under his shirt and stay there, and his heart would race, his body would follow. But eventually she’d fall asleep against him, warm and tangled, and he’d lie there, wanting her in ways he didn’t even have words for.
He had taken more cold showers in the last month than he had in the last decade. But he didn’t complain. He wouldn’t have changed it for anything.
Because something in the way she reached for him without thinking, curled toward him in her sleep like he was a constant, made it all worth it. Because this—this was a rhythm he could live with.
And even in his frustrated quiet, he knew what it meant. He was falling in love with her.
Not in the impulsive, blindfolded way of his younger years. Or the way he usually gets attached to someone, with his head and his needs. But slowly. Precisely. Differently than his past experiences when the urgency of getting old got to him. It was a slow process, especially for someone his age, but he didn’t really care. He did it happily. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there had never been any other outcome.
The first two months were nearly over before either of them noticed. Not because the days went fast, but because they were full. Appointments. Rehearsals. Meetings.
Catherine’s documentary deal was set to begin—her first screen project. She’d turned down films before, but this one felt right. A quiet, poetic piece from the BBC, part of a larger series about the universe. She’d read the project aloud to him once, on the couch, bare-legged and wrapped in his sweater, and he remembered thinking that only she could make gravitational waves sound romantic.
They decided to have a night out before the chaos began. A dinner. A real one.
He took her to Emma’s husband’s restaurant. It was fancier than the usual places he took his girlfriends. There were multiple utensils, arranged according to a specific etiquette that most of his regular girlfriends wouldn’t know, even the upper middle class. It was the kind of fine-dining place that required serious reservations, or at least knowing someone important—which, of course, Harry did. But he hadn’t ever bothered to go before. Not with anyone.
She noticed.
“Why haven’t you been here before?” she asked, between sips of wine. “I know it’s hard to get a table, but a couple weeks' wait isn't the end of the world. You could’ve asked Emma ages ago, or one of your colleagues. I’m sure you have business with important people.”
He folded his napkin with unnecessary care. “I guess I just didn’t like the hassle of putting my name on waiting lists.”
She tilted her head. “You don’t like romantic dinners?”
“I do, but not the hard ones.” He paused. “Not ones that required waiting.”
Her eyebrow rose. “What about your previous girlfriend?”
He took a sip of water before answering. A beat too slow. That slippery territory again. Still embarrassing.
“I guess I haven’t really bothered before,” he said finally. Or wanted to, he thought. “A multi-course meal isn’t just for anyone.”
He didn’t tell her that he used to take women to the same three places on rotation—quiet but forgettable to him. He liked women who thought a couple hundred was expensive. It made him feel like he exceeded expectations by just avoiding food truck meals. Conversations kept surface-level. Nothing that stuck. Nothing that lingered. He wanted the romance just enough to get by, to make them stay. He’d take them to a somewhat fancy place and they’re already looking at him like he’s amazing, like part of his charm is his money. He didn’t mind. Love had felt like something abstract and theatrical then.
“Besides,” he added, “this is to make up for our first date.”
Catherine smiled. “I love that burrito truck. It’s seen me at my worst.”
He chuckled.
Back at the penthouse, it was late but neither of them were tired. They talked for a while—feet on the coffee table, glasses still half-full—until the conversation drifted to early years. He told her about the time he’d somehow earned a B in high school art by charming his way through a final presentation. Claimed his poorly drawn still life was a commentary on irony in postmodernism. The teacher had blinked at him, probably too tired to argue.
“I had no idea what I was talking about,” he said. “Still don’t.”
She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. He liked making her laugh. Probably more than he should.
And then, maybe out of some buried insecurity, he asked if she would get bored of him. If it was strange to date someone who couldn’t tell a C major from a D minor. Someone who, despite his power and polish, couldn’t really understand what it meant to be moved by your own creation.
“You think I pick people based on whether they can do art?” she asked, grinning, her voice soft in the quiet.
He didn’t answer. Not directly.
The pageant conversation happened by accident. A thread pulled too lightly, and suddenly it unraveled. One moment they were teasing each other over bad yearbook photos, and the next they were watching old videos of Catherine—aged somewhere between seven and ten—answering questions on a televised stage, her voice small but oddly composed. A pink sash, a tiara, a winning smile that looked practiced.
Harry hadn’t expected to find it so endearing. The clip was buried deep online, grainy and compressed, dug up through some obscure archive website with buffering issues. Catherine was red-faced the entire time, fingers clutching the edge of the couch cushion as if it might help her disappear. She kept insisting it was awful. She claimed her voice was too squeaky, her dress ridiculous, her walk stiff. But what Harry saw was a child who already knew how to charm a room. Articulate, even then. Witty in a way that didn’t feel coached.
“You won,” he said, softly. “Don’t know why you have to be so embarrassed.”
She rolled her eyes and reached forward to close the tab before the video could finish. He didn’t fight her on it—but he bookmarked the link. He’d watch the rest later, when she wasn’t looking.
Later that night, they were brushing their teeth together when her sister called, a picture of a woman who looked a little bit like Catherine but with darker hair glowed on the screen. Jane. The name flashed on the screen just as Catherine was finishing rinsing. She answered it without hesitation, putting it on speaker like Harry was already in the fold—just another pair of ears in the room, welcome to whatever family mess came through the line.
Jane’s voice was sharp, slightly amused. “Heard you accepted a movie deal.”
“It’s a documentary,” Catherine said, mid-spit.
“Same thing.”
“It’s not a movie,” she corrected. “It’s for the BBC. They’re interviewing Ashoke Sen.”
A pause. Then a scoff. “Like I know who that is.”
Harry tried not to laugh.
“I’m with Harry,” Catherine said, grabbing a towel to dry her face. “Say hello, Harry.”
“Hello.”
“The boyfriend, huh?” Jane said, too smoothly. “Heard a lot about you, Harry.”
They talked about some other stuff too, mostly about family. Harry trailed to his bedroom, half listening.
“Anyways, Jane, It’s late here and I’m having a sore throat. Plus tomorrow is my first day doing the soundtrack, so this is my last chance to get a really good rest.”
When she closed the phone, Harry already went rifling through his medicine cabinet, returned with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“For your throat,” he said simply, holding it out to her like it was nothing. “You have to drink it again tomorrow. Next time you feel sick, even just a little, you tell someone. Alright?”
She paused. Looked at him for a beat longer than expected.
Then nodded, quiet, and took the pill. He watched her slowly, making sure she really did drink it. He then took the glass and went out again to refill it, to put it on her bedside table— at least the one he assigned to her.
She stood in the bathroom doorway, sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was half-damp, soft at the ends. She looked at him the way she always did—like she was trying to memorize him.
Harry waited, silent, the way he often did with her. Some words had to arrive on their own.
“I like you, Harry,” she said.
He smiled, slow. “Well, I should hope so.”
But something lingered behind her voice. A shadow of guilt, maybe, or melancholy. She’d said earlier how emotional she was about tomorrow—how work would consume her, how her schedule would change. That she hated missing things. Her friends, her studio. Him. There was something about knowing what was coming that made her softer tonight. Like she needed to hold onto something.
She stepped toward him and kissed him. Lightly, at first. A cautious hello, a silent sorry. Then she kissed him again. Deeper. Longer. The kind of kiss that said she’d been thinking about this all day. Her mouth tasted like peppermint. Her hands touched his jaw, the side of his neck, slow and certain.
He kissed her back and found her pulse with his mouth, just under her ear. She inhaled, shallow.
“Thank you for being so patient with me,” she whispered.
He laughed under his breath. “Hasn’t been easy.”
Her laugh pressed against his skin. Then she kissed him again, slower this time. Hungrier. Her hands curled into the back of his neck, her breath a pattern he already recognized. Familiar and new. He groaned before he could stop himself.
“You’re trying to torture me,” he murmured.
She smiled, full and amused. Jumped a little into his arms, light as she always felt in moments like this. He caught her easily, carried her a few steps toward the bed. Their routine.
He laid her down to his bed.
“I want you, Harry,” she said.
His heartbeat stopped. He stared for a moment, eyes refused to blink, dark with desire, looking down at her on the bed. His frame caged her in.
“I want you—”
“Don’t say that,” he told her quietly. “Not unless you really mean it.”
She looked at him. No blink. No hesitation.
“But I do,” she said. “I think about you all the time. I’m going to miss having you around.”
“You're not going anywhere,” said Harry, giving her cheeks kisses. “I’m going to visit your studio everyday. Check if you’re still alive or not.”
“Everyday? That’s an awful lot of time, isn’t it? You’re not busy?”
“Everyday.”
He kissed her again—soft, and long, and grateful. She was starting to kiss desperately, clinging to him harder than she had ever done before.
“Please, Harry,” said Catherine, her eyes dark with lust.
He looked the same way, but he’d argued his feelings were more intense. It was long bottled up and stored away, waiting for her to start the fire. “You don’t need to beg, sweetheart. My beautiful Catherine.”
His hands trailed her body, braver than he ever was before. He touched breasts, slowly at first, then rougher when she approved with her moans.
“I wanted you so much. Would’ve waited a lifetime,” he said. He took his shirt off slowly, then hers. She was eager, raising her arms then wrapping it around him again.
“I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted you too,” she said, bringing him for a kiss again.
He groaned. “Don’t say sorry.”
She moaned, and the sound woke something so guttural inside him that he stopped.
She kissed him still, then asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m going too fast,” he said, his breathing heavy, inhaling more of her smell that somehow travelled down to his crotch, making his length hard, wanting to be inside her.
He was desperate. Oh so desperate. How long had he wanted this? So long, so long he wanted to touch her, to be inside her. To hear her moan as she writhed under him. The thought was too strong, traveling through his body like electricity.
“I’m not a virgin, Harry,” she whispered.
“It's not that,” he said hurriedly.
“I’m on the pill. Just started last—”
He groaned, stopping her words.
“No, it's just… I don’t think I can hold back, sweetheart.” He winced at the surge of feeling. How pathetic he sounded.
“You don't have to.”
It took a few seconds for the words to settle. Then Harry took off the rest of their clothes, and his hand moved rougher, faster. Took off her bra in a hurry, her panties with the same urgency. He touched her there, felt the wetness and groaned again.
“So wet, Catherine,” he said, his voice unfamiliar. Lower.
He touched her clit, his fingers moving in slow circles.
Harry loved touching her, making her sigh. It made him look at her in a different light, like she was older than she is. And when he touched her, he felt intoxicated. His fingers caressed her velvety insides, hot and wet. She was, simply, the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s not exaggerating. Her curves, entirely woman. Soft, lovely.
His lips trailed down her collarbone, then lower to her breasts. He took one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently before biting down softly. She gasped quietly as he moved lower still, kissing her stomach and hips before settling between her thighs.
Harry buried his face between her legs, his tongue licking up her slit before finding her clit. He sucked hard, making her arch off the bed. He was hungry for her taste and sounds. Her moans always urged him on. His tongue worked her with skilled precision, each lick and suck more intense than the last. His hands gripped her thighs firmly, keeping her pinned down as he ravaged her.
“Fuck, Catherine”, he muttered against her. “Tastes so good.”
She moaned, a low sound that made him harder, had him searching for more friction. He groaned against her clit, the sound vibrating through her sensitive flesh. He knew he was pushing the limits of his own control, but he couldn't stop. He needed more of her sounds. More of her taste. His mind repeating the name Catherine like a prayer.
He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upwards to hit that spot deep inside.
Catherine let out a sound. The sound of her nearly screaming his name, but somehow lost in thought, like she felt too much pleasure she forgot. It nearly made him lose it. His fingers went faster, and faster.
He growled low in his throat. A sound of pure primal need.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered against her thighs as he moved back up her body quickly. “You’re killing me, Catherine.”
His cock pressed against her entrance.
“I want you too,” he said, desperately. “So much.”
Without waiting another second, for fear of his growing insanity, he pressed the head of his cock against her soaked entrance and pushed inward. Harry's mind went blank, his pulse inconsistent. It was, simply, the tightest, warmest cunt he ever felt. It made him forget all the others. He was sure nothing came close. He wondered how he went so long without it.
He took his time, savoring the feel of her tight heat enveloping him inch by tortuous inch. Once he was fully sheathed, he paused, his breath coming hard and fast against her neck.
Then in an effort to not pounce her immediately, he bit her neck, sucking, making a mark. He couldn’t even focus on her breath, didn’t even notice when her hands trailed around his back, urging him to move. He stayed there for a minute, holding himself back despite her moans. He couldn’t be too rough, even if he wanted to. Maybe someday, when they were both desperate for each other. But not now when he was sure his needs excelled hers. When it nearly clouded his control.
Harry began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that made her back arch off the bed.
He filled her up slowly, inch by inch, watching as she took him perfectly. He was overwhelmed by how good it felt. How tight, how it squeezed his cock almost painfully. It was a hard fit, but it didn’t matter. He liked the feeling. Revelled in it. It was hot, wet, and perfect. Frankly, he wanted to stay buried in her forever.
She was caressing him, as if urging him to go on. Her soft hands went from his shoulders to his arms.
“Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he finally said.
With a sound of pure desire, he began to move gradually faster. His hips slammed into her with brutal force, each thrust designed to take her to the edge and beyond. He fucked her harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur.
She begged, repeating the word “please” but never got to the end of the sentence. There was something about her voice, the way she said it that made Harry hungrier. She was so polite, so soft in her request. And although he told her not to beg, he loved it. Loved the way she said his name like a prayer, as if her desire is close to anything he ever felt for her.
His thrusts became punishing, almost violent. He watched as her breasts bounced with each snap of his hips.
He knew he wasn’t being gentle anymore. He couldn’t. His body took control, claiming her hard and deep like he always wanted to.
Her moans filled the room, pushing him further.
His large hands found her breasts, squeezed it roughly, thumbs rubbing her hard nipples. He leaned down to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he continued hammering into her. His balls slapped against her ass with each thrust. He was grasping the last bit of control he had left, fucking her like a wild animal.
He switched between her breasts, lavishing them with equal attention. His teeth grazed against one sensitive nipple, making her gasp.
“Such beautiful breasts, sweetheart,” he growled, pinching one nipple between his fingers while he continued to suck the other. His hips still hammering.
“Fuck, you’re so tight. I can’t control myself, I’m sorry.” He went back to her mouth, kissing her again.
Her erotic face looked up at him, her brows furrowed, her voice softer, “It’s fine. I want you to.”
Those words were his undoing. He groaned so hard, his deep voice finally out from its restraints. Somehow, he thrusts faster. If his bed wasn’t expensive, it would’ve made a sound, would’ve moved with them and banged the walls. Internally, he cursed himself for not being able to stay quiet, focus on her body. Catherine, though, seemed to enjoy it. She didn’t mind that he went harder. Even better, she moaned right into his ears. The sound became louder when he groaned too. It was like a song, harmonizing, except it was erotic, filled with need.
His balls tightened, warning of his impending release. He squeezed her breasts roughly, sucked on her neck, marking her with hickeys.
Harry's body was a landscape of hard, coiled muscle beneath her trembling fingers. He could feel her hands. She mapped every ridge and valley, committing it to memory. He did the same, more out of need than to urge her. He explored the soft, yielding expanse of her skin. His hands roamed, possessive and hungry, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He cupped her breasts again, thumbing her nipples into aching peaks, before trailing lower, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
"Fuck, Catherine," he groaned, his voice rough with desire, "You're exquisite. Every inch of you." He settled between her thighs, his hard length pressing against her slick folds, making her gasp. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Needed you."
She moaned louder.
"You feel incredible," he murmured, nipping at her earlobe and making her shudder. "Like you were made for me. Made to take my cock so perfectly." He began to move again, his thrusts deep and powerful.
Catherine’s fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails leaving red crescents in his skin. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper. Harry obliged, pounding into her with a fervor that stole her breath. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and their mingled moans and cries of pleasure.
Harry felt her tightening around him, her inner muscles clenching, as if close. He redoubled his efforts, determined to bring her to the peak, to hear her scream his name in ecstasy. He was close, so fucking close, and he could tell she was too. He reached between her legs, finding her clit again and rubbing it furiously as he pounded harder and harder.
“Come on my cock, sweetheart. Milk me dry. Squeeze me, just like that,” he said, urging her on.
Catherine let out a sharp cry as she came undone, her body shaking beneath his as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. His name came out in a desperate moan as he felt her pussy clench around his cock.
That squeeze of her release did something to him. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he found his own release. He let out a loud roar, his hot cum shooting into her pussy. He kept coming. His balls were emptying completely inside her.
Harry collapsed on top of her, still buried deep inside. His heavy breathing filled the room as he tried to catch his breath. His softening cock remained inside her, still leaking cum. God, he felt like he was a few decades younger.
“You did so well. Such a good girl,” he whispered against her neck.
“I could still feel you,” she whispered. “Your cum is so warm.”
He felt her warm breath on his neck and her squirming body against him. His soft cock twitches inside her, still sensitive. He presses a kiss to her neck, then her lips, swallowing her heavy breaths. He remained buried inside her, not ready to pull out just yet.
After some time, Catherine squirmed some more.
A deep groan escaped his throat as his cock started to harden again inside her, slowly. Some of his spent leaked from her, making a sound that sounded too erotic. He tried to tune it out, think of anything but how it good it felt to be inside her.
“Stop, Catherine,” he whispered against her lips, but his hips moved involuntarily, thrusting slowly this time. “You’re making me hard again,” his hand gripped her hips, trying to somehow stop it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because she needed the rest.
He looked at where they were joined. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the slight amount of blood on her thighs.
“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” he said apologetically. “You're sure you're not a virgin?”
Catherine, still finding it hard to speak, whispered, “I’m sure.”
He hissed, looking down at the mess they made. His thick length was almost fully inside her. He withdrew slightly, watching his shaft coated with her juices and a little blood. He was supposed to pull all the way out, but instead he pushed in slowly again. It was arousing, watching her pussy clung to him. He watched as some of his cum from a few minutes ago went down to his balls. The sensation made him want to thrust again.
She was so tight. Tighter than any woman he had ever been with.
“I want you again,” he said and winced as he tried his best to halt any motion.
She moaned, her eyes half-lidded. He couldn’t tell if she was tired or if she wanted more too. Then she squirmed again, and that did it for him.
"Fuck, Catherine," he growled softly, "you're so goddamn tight." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her and making her gasp. "It's like you were made for me, molded to take my cock, aren’t you sweetheart? To take every fucking inch of me. You can take me, can’t you? You’ll stretch just for me, hm?"
“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “I can take you, Harry. I’ll be good.”
“Good girl,” he said. “So eager to please.”
Harry leaned down and sealed her lips with his in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to tangle with hers. He devoured her moans and whimpers, swallowing them greedily as he began to move faster, his hips snapping against hers with increasing urgency. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room again, spurring him on as he lost himself in the exquisite feel of Catherine's body beneath him.
"That's it, baby," he panted harshly against her ear, "Come for me. Squeeze my fucking cock with your perfect little cunt. I want to feel you come undone again. It feels good, doesn’t it?"
“It does,” she said hurriedly, nodding. “You’re so big. I’ll stretch for you. It hurts so good, it feels so good. I want you deeper. Please, Harry.”
Harry agreed but too busy with ecstasy to say so, almost laughing with relief when she said it.
He flipped Catherine onto her hands and knees, his large hands gripping her hips tightly as he positioned himself behind her. She felt the head of his cock pressing insistently against her dripping entrance, ready to plunge back inside her welcoming heat. With a swift, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside her, making her cry out in a mix of pleasure and slight pain.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned, pausing to let her adjust to the depth and girth of him stretching her open. "You're so tight like this. I can feel every inch of your little pussy clenching around me. You like it hard, sweetheart?"
“Yes, please, Harry.”
He began to move, his hips rolling in a deep, sensual rhythm as he held her hips steady. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside her, stroking that special spot that made her knees shake. His balls slapped against her clit with each thrust, the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the room yet again.
One hand reached up to tangle in her hair, gripping it lightly as he pulled her back against his chest. She was smaller than him, yet still fit perfectly. His other hand slid around to her front, finding her swollen clit and rubbing it in tight, quick circles. Harry could feel her getting closer to the edge, her pussy fluttering and clenching around his pistoning cock.
"That's it, my good girl," he growled in her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine, "Come on my cock. Milk me, sweetheart. Good girl. So wet. Soak me. Tighten, just like that. Yes, just like that."
His words were filthy, dirty, and oh so effective. They pushed Catherine over the precipice, her body convulsing and shaking as a massive orgasm ripped through her for the second time that night. She screamed his name, a guttural, primal sound of pure ecstasy as her pussy clenched down on him like a vice. The sensation was too much for Harry, and with a roar, he slammed into her one last time before exploding, his hot seed spurting deep inside her spasming channel.
They collapsed together onto the bed, Harry's weight pressing Catherine into the mattress as they both struggled to catch their breath. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as the aftershocks of their intense coupling subsided. Harry pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, letting her finally rest.
⊹
Harry had never known anyone to disappear quite so completely into their work. Not the way Catherine did. She didn’t just work at the studio—she lived there. Morning coffee gave way to late-night tea, which bled into caffeine-fueled dawns. She existed on crackers and adrenaline. When her hand began to tremble, she brushed it off—this happens when I forget to eat, she’d said with a smile. He didn’t find it amusing.
So he made a point by bringing her food. Had asked for her manager’s number to keep track of her when she’s not answering.
A bag dropped off at odd hours. A thermos. A warm pastry in the morning. A full dinner in a box, even if it was eaten cold. Sometimes he sent Emma, always with the excuse that he was running late, but never because he forgot. It became a habit. A quiet rhythm. Nourishing her had become the most important part of his day.
Her replies slowed. A text here, a missed call there. Sometimes silence altogether. He could’ve taken it personally, but he didn’t. He knew the pattern. She usually doesn’t answer when she’s with the whole orchestra. When she’s too preoccupied with other people. He knew how she worked, now that he knew her.
So he came to her everyday. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Even if it was just for a few minutes. Even if he stood at the edge of the room while she adjusted microphones or ran through a melody again and again until the sound was right. He always made time, because there was always time, if you looked for it. Although, that hadn’t been the case before her.
During spring, when she was supposed to be done, the word done lost its meaning. The BBC sent back notes—two tracks needed to be redone at some parts— higher or lower or more mellow in the parts they needed it to be. At first, she handled it. Smiled. Shrugged. The usual. But then she stopped sleeping properly. Stopped leaving the studio at all. The notes had burrowed in. Perfection became an obsession. He watched her slow down between takes, sometimes staring at the same page for twenty minutes, searching for something only she could hear.
She didn’t complain, but he saw the shift— in the way she tucked her knees into the studio chair, in the clutter around her, in the quiet frustration that lived in her shoulders. She was usually very neat.
Their first fight came during that period of time. Partially, it came from sleep deprivation and cheap takeout. From too many nights curled up on the studio couch, too many cold coffees reheated twice. It also came from a bump on her wrist that had been growing for a few days, under the skin like a second bone trying to form.
Harry walked in just as Talia, her manager, raised the book.
He didn’t register it at first—just the sound of voices, laughter maybe, and then that strange, high-pitched urgency he recognized as Catherine’s voice. He moved fast. His hand caught Talia’s wrist mid-air. The book stopped inches above Catherine’s arm.
She looked up at him, annoyed. “Stop, Harry. I need it to get fixed fast.”
He didn’t answer her right away. Just looked at the bump. It’s not red, it just looked like her joint got bigger in size. Though he noticed how she winced when she moved it. That was enough proof that she was in pain.
“That’s enough, Catherine,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
“But I have to finish this song. And it’s hurting. I can’t concentrate—”
“You’ll finish it later.”
“No,” she snapped. “I’m so close. Just one more day. You don’t know how hard it is to get it right. I can’t get the harp to sound like it should—”
“Let’s go.”
“No.”
They ended up at the hospital anyway.
It was a quiet ride. She didn’t say a word. Just sat with her wrist in her lap, like a child sent to the nurse’s office. Her shoulders curled inward. He kept glancing at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
At the hospital, the verdict was clinical: a ganglion cyst. Harmless, mostly. Common in musicians. Sometimes painful, yes—but not dangerous. The doctor explained the options with the kind of voice that didn’t leave much room for comfort. They could drain it, but it might return. They could operate, but that meant downtime—weeks, maybe. A brace would relieve the pressure, but she wouldn’t be able to play. And then there were medications. Slower, but manageable.
She listened to each option like she wasn’t really there. She chose whatever got her back to the studio fastest without any more pain, which was draining it.
It wasn’t a hard procedure. The needle wasn’t even big, and she didn’t look like she was scared of it. But when it came time for it to be drained, she asked Harry to hold her and he could feel her other hand tightening on his shirt. It must’ve hurt.
When she finally laid back on the hospital bed, exhaustion took her almost instantly. She didn’t argue anymore. She just closed her eyes and folded into sleep like it had been waiting for her all week.
Harry stayed by her side, asking the doctor quiet questions in the hallway about recovery time and some other stuff they should know.
“She’s pushing herself too hard,” the doctor said. “That is a symptom from working her wrist too hard. What she needs is proper rest. If she keeps this up, she’s going to get sick with other symptoms worse than just a ganglion. She could get really sick.”
Like he didn’t already know that. Like he wasn’t already worrying everyday. He wanted to tell the doctor that he knew but the girl is too stubborn and stupidly drowning in her work. Instead, Harry just nodded. Noted it all. Took the pamphlets. When he came back into the room, she was still out cold.
They let her sleep until the nurse finished checking her vitals. The doctor woke her gently. She blinked up at Harry, a little disoriented. He didn’t say a word, just took her coat and helped her get up.
The ride back to his apartment was silent. Catherine had crossed her arms like a teenager, staring out the window with tight lips and a jaw that had locked into place twenty minutes ago. He didn’t speak. He knew her enough now to know it wouldn’t help. Not yet.
When the driver pulled up to the penthouse, she didn’t wait for the door to be opened. She was out of the car before him, stomping ahead like she meant to put distance between them. Her shoes echoed in the marble hallway. By the time he caught up, she’d already dropped her coat on the arm of the couch and was sitting with her legs curled up, arms crossed again, sulking with intent.
He closed the door behind them quietly.
“I can’t believe you didn’t take me back to the studio,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice clipped and fast. “I told you I could finish it in one day. Maybe even tonight.”
He didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t really asking him. She just needed to release the tension building in her bones.
“The deadline’s a week away,” he said finally. “You have time.”
“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “I want them to be impressed. I want them to hear it and think—wow, she did it fast and she did it well. I was so close, Harry. You have no idea. I just needed the harp to fall right and I would’ve been done.”
She rubbed her wrist without thinking. The soft bandage made it look more fragile than it probably was. He couldn’t look at it too long.
“I should’ve just hit it with a book,” she mumbled.
That annoyed him. He stopped in front of her. Took a breath.
“That’s irresponsible,” he said firmly. Harder than he ever spoke to her before. “You hear me, Catherine? You don’t do that again. Never— Never do that again.”
She rolled her eyes. “I did it once before.”
“And you’re lucky I wasn’t there,” he said, still pressing, still loud. “Because I would’ve dragged you to the hospital that time too.”
She sighed, deep and dismissive. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” he said, walking past her to the kitchen, already reaching for water, maybe something to put in front of her. “I’m being a responsible adult.”
She didn’t argue after that. Just sat there, silent again, sinking slowly into the realization that her body—like time, like deadlines—was something she couldn’t control completely. And Harry, in his stubborn, quiet way, wasn’t angry. He was worried. That was worse somehow.
He walked to the kitchen and reheated the food he’d picked up earlier that afternoon, still in its paper bag from the studio run—untouched, because the hospital detour had gotten in the way. The microwave hummed quietly as he leaned against the counter, watching the numbers count down like they meant something.
He’d probably been too sharp with her. Too forceful. But at least she was here now. Safe, if grumpy. And if she hated him for it—fine. She could hate him while getting one full night of rest. That was the bargain he was willing to take.
Then she was there, padding into the kitchen like someone coming down from a fever. Her posture softer, head low. Like she was ready to surrender but didn’t want to say it out loud.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured.
“I know.”
He stepped in first. Arms around her before she could collapse into herself. He didn’t realize until then how much she needed that hug—how much she had been holding in with caffeine and sheer willpower.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re not being dramatic,” she said into his chest. Her voice cracked just enough to make his throat tighten. “And I missed you. Missed my friends. I’m never taking a screen deal again.”
He smiled, his chin above her head, resting against her hair. “You might change your mind later. You liked the first half, didn’t you? Before the notes came in. You just overthink the rest. That’s what happens when you care too much. It’s harder when you’re making things for other people.”
She nodded against him.
“It’s not like an album,” he went on, quietly. “When the only person you need to impress is yourself. They’ll have notes. Opinions. And you’ll listen, because that’s who you are. You care. That’s not a bad thing.”
There was a pause, and then he said: “Should’ve done an indie film first. They’d be so grateful you could send them an out-of-tune violin and they’d say it’s ‘experimental.’”
She laughed. Her body shook against his. When he looked down, her eyes were wet.
“You just have to learn to balance your life,” he murmured.
“I should,” she whispered. “I get lost in it sometimes. In wanting to do good.”
“I know you do.”
“I was working hard to make it perfect, but the urgency in which I did it, it’s because I didn’t want to miss out. I tried to make friends with orchestra people, but they’d rather see me as a composer than a friend. I sensed it. And my friends, well they’re artists in their own time, with their own schedules, with time to date and party. I’ve spent so many years missing out. Missing everything, getting left out. I’d be the one asking what the joke was, and they’d say, ‘You had to be there.’ And I wasn’t. I was practicing.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“I don’t want to miss out. On them, on you. But I keep needing to disappear to make great music. So I try to finish as quickly as possible, no matter how messy it gets, how unhealthy it is. As long as it means there’s no more inside jokes I couldn’t get, or a memory I missed.”
“We’ll make our own inside jokes,” he said. “Besides, nothing’s happening to me. Ever. And if something were to happen, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”
She looked up, smiling faintly through the mess of emotion. “I just want it done quickly so I can go home and not miss out on anything ever again.”
“I want you home too,” he said. “With proper rest. But you have time. What’s one more day?”
And that was that.
She fell asleep early that evening, he changed her into her pajamas while she was barely conscious. She collapsed into bed and slept like she hadn’t in weeks—deep and dreamless. When morning came, she didn’t stir even when he moved around the apartment. He let her be.
He left a note by her nightstand before work, told her to eat something and that he will be checking. That she could ask Mr Williams to take her back to the studio when she’s ready.
And then he was gone, leaving the door softly shut behind him. The penthouse felt warmer with her there, even in sleep. Even in silence.
⊹
True to her words, Catherine finished the piece the day she said she would. The BBC accepted her revised renditions almost immediately, sending a short note of approval that made her breath hitch and shoulders finally relax. She was proud. That much was obvious. And Harry could tell, because she showed up at his office door with wine and flushed cheeks— unannounced, of course.
He didn’t know she was coming. He should’ve. Emma had been acting strange for the past hour, typing with too much energy and dodging questions with suspicious precision. When he pressed, she deflected with unusual efficiency. Only later did he realize Catherine had called to ask for the address, and Emma—predictably loyal—had played accomplice.
“I come bearing gifts!” Catherine announced, pushing open the glass door to his office, her grin already brighter than the last few weeks. “Well, you’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? If this were my office, I’d work every day.”
He laughed, unable to stop smiling. Still in disbelief that she was actually there, like a bolt of light into a room that didn’t know it was dim. “No you wouldn’t.”
She leaned over and kissed him like she’d always belonged in his life.
“I was going to pick you up,” he said.
“I know. I wanted to see you earlier. See where you actually spend your time.” She spun slowly in the middle of the room, eyeing the bookshelves, the windows, the skyline behind them.
“That’s nice,” he said, his eyes trailing her movement. “You want to go out?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I want to treat you to something.”
Of course she did. He knew he wouldn’t let her, but he let her think she might. That was enough.
“They gave me a bonus,” she added like a secret, and her joy was so unfiltered it made him warm in a way expensive scotch never could. “So tell me, what’s your favorite food? Anything. Your pick.”
He blinked. A strange question. An ordinary one. And yet, no one had asked him that before. Not any of his previous girlfriends. Not anyone. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
“I don’t think I have one.”
“Sure you do.”
He thought. “Bagel?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll get you one tomorrow. But right now we’re celebrating. And you can’t possibly expect me to toast with carbs and cream cheese.”
He laughed, grabbing his coat, reaching for his wallet and phone in one movement. She was already halfway to the door, talking about possible options. He didn’t care where they went. It was the sound of her voice he was listening to.
Downstairs, as they exited the elevator, the doorman— more doorboy by the looks of it— smiled at Catherine with surprising familiarity. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Ainsworth.”
Harry squinted. “How’d you already know the doorman?”
“My heels fell off my feet when I was running in, and he helped me.”
“And you introduced yourself?”
“He asked who I was here for. I told him I was visiting my very important boyfriend.”
He looked at her. She was completely serious.
They settled on steak. Something grounding and simple, because Harry just wanted her to eat something filling and proper. The wine was good, the conversation better. She told him about the BBC meeting, how she finally felt a strange type of peace. Then, in between bites of potato gratin, she mentioned wanting to throw a small gathering. A celebration, with her friends, maybe some musicians. She said she’d need his help setting it up.
Harry mentioned he had a gala to attend tomorrow, some industry networking thing. She should come with him, he said. She’d be happy to, she said.
By the time the check came, Harry had already slipped his card to the waiter. She made a fuss about it for exactly ten seconds before yawning mid-protest. They were barely in the car when her head fell against his shoulder and stayed there.
By the time they arrived at the penthouse, she was fully asleep.
He didn’t wake her. Just carried her upstairs. Still in disbelief, still grateful. The wine, untouched in its bag, sat quietly beside her coat.
He placed it on the table and turned off the lights. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about harps or deadlines.
Just sleep.
And maybe—if he was lucky—him.
⊹
His work gala came a day before her celebration party.
Catherine was the first girlfriend he actually invited in a while. His exes rarely came, and if they did, they never bothered to pay attention to the conversations. After noticing that they might like to stay home, he stopped inviting them. They wouldn't be interested, he knew. He had never minded if his girlfriends were uninterested in his life, he’s convinced few actually did. He had seen relationships differently back then. But now he had the need to show his life to Catherine. And more, he wanted Catherine to go. So he asked her.
Catherine had been excited to go, more than he expected. Maybe it was because he told her that most of his friends were in the industry—men with cufflinks and practiced grins who only saw each other during events like this.
The afternoon of, a few hours before they had to leave, he stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist and steam still clinging to his skin. There it was, laid out across the bed like a gift—an unfamiliar suit. Sharp lines. Seamless work. Stitching so fine it was invisible. It was expensive. Probably more expensive than the ones he already owned, and those were nothing to scoff at.
He didn’t ask. He just stood there for a moment, towel dripping, a little stunned. Then smiled.
She must’ve taken one of his suits when he wasn’t paying attention, had copied the custom sizing and improved. She knew his measurements better than he did. He felt it in his gut again—that fluttery, maddening thing she kept making him feel. The one that settled somewhere behind his ribs and just… lingered.
He put the suit on. Of course it fits perfectly. Of course it did.
He found her in the walk-in closet, standing in front of the mirror in the middle of getting dressed. Her reflection caught him and she smiled, real and soft. Then she turned around, not fully zipped up.
“You look so handsome. I must say, I’m pretty darn good at this gift giving thing, huh? Turn around,” she said, biting back a grin, eyes flicking over the suit.
He laughed. It should’ve been the other way around, really. But he did as told, like a good man. Then after a second, he stepped closer and told her to turn instead. She obeyed.
His fingers zipped her up in silence, steady, deliberate. She smelled like flowers and that expensive hair oil she refused to admit was expensive. She hummed under her breath. He wondered, in the space between their bodies, how this became their life. How something this delicate could feel so certain.
The gala was held in a hotel ballroom dressed up to look like something finer. Marble floors, gold trim on the ceiling. A sweeping chandelier that no one really looked up at. It was for something or other—an annual event to recognize client milestones and corporate achievements, mostly a chance for industry types to see who was still around. There was always one or two names missing from the list. The gala was, if anything, a gentle reminder that the game never stopped.
This year felt different. He felt it before they even entered. Before they gave their names at the door and got a nod of recognition, before they were handed drinks. The room looked at him longer. Or maybe, most likely, they were looking at her.
Catherine wore a dark navy gown with a clean neckline and a fabric that glinted when she moved. Nothing loud. Just elegant. A single curl behind her ear. A slight flush on her cheeks—not nerves, just her usual color. She held his arm the way she always did, casual, natural. As if they’d been walking into rooms like this together forever.
The first twenty minutes passed in a blur of names and champagne. Harry shook hands while Catherine smiled and remembered every name. She charmed the bartender within minutes, said something complimentary about the way the napkins were folded. She complimented the color of a passing woman’s shoes. She leaned down to speak to a server holding a tray of miniature pastries and asked about some type of pastry he never bothered to know the name of.
Harry watched from a few feet away, sipping his drink. She made people feel like people. He was used to faces glossing over after the second glass, names forgotten, wives clinging to arms like accessories.
“Who’s this young lady?” one of his colleagues asked.
“Catherine, nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand.
“Nice to meet you too, Catherine. I’m glad Harry finally found a girl who looks happy to be here.”
“I’m happy to come,” she said with a small laugh. “The chouquettes were so good I asked for the recipe.”
“My wife would love you. She runs a bakery.”
“Really? Is she here?”
“Somewhere. I’ll introduce you.”
And he did. Catherine was whisked away to meet her, and Harry let her go without protest. She was like that. A tide. Moving from one person to the next, leaving everyone warmer than before.
He found her again ten minutes later, deep in conversation with his friend’s wife about sustainable packaging in pastry boxes. And although Harry was huddled with his friends— or colleagues— his eyes trailed to her.
One of his single colleagues, predictably, was two glasses of whiskey in and smirking. He talked to Catherine only briefly a few moments ago, yet she managed to make an impression on him.
“Where’d you find her?” he asked, leaning in.
“Cold Spring,” Harry said.
“Does she have a friend?” Another one of his colleagues asked. One that already has a partner.
“You’re not gonna have luck with that, she befriended the whole of New York already. She already introduced herself to the caterers. Give her a few more hours and she’d memorized all the names in this room.”
They laughed. Someone refilled their drinks. Somewhere between the toasts and the polite speeches, Catherine returned to his side and whispered something about how good the wine was and how she loved that the pianist played actual classical pieces instead of mainstream songs with repetitive melodies. She clinked glasses with someone’s wife, told someone else they had a nice laugh which made them turn scarlet and laugh harder than anyone was supposed to on these occasions, and remembered the name of a woman Harry hadn’t seen in ten years.
He hadn’t thought about it before, but it struck him then— how perfectly she fit with his crowd even with her unusual approach. Not like someone pretending. Just like someone who didn’t need the world to change for her. She shaped herself around it and still managed to remain exactly who she was, and somehow, she belonged. He didn’t know how she did that. But he knew this: they’d remember her long after the next course. Long after the speeches. And if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He would.
