summary: Joel loses all his self control when you accidentally wear his flannel instead of your boyfriend Tommy’s.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, soft dom!Joel, unspecified age gap, fingering, praise kink, use of pet names
a/n: I wrote this so quick but now I lwk feel bad for Tommy oops
wc: 2.4k
As the early morning sun creeps along the floorboards of the bedroom, you turn in the sheets. “Tommy?” you mumble sleepily when you find his side of the bed empty.
You stretch out, adjusting your eyes to the light as you scan the room. The house is quiet, and you remember now that he told you he had to leave early this morning. You sigh, for once you have no errands to run and no patrol to get ready for; you have yourself a free morning, but Tommy isn’t here to enjoy that with you.
Throwing the sheet off you, you feel a chill against your skin so you pad over to the dresser, taking out one of Tommy’s flannels. You wrap it around you, appreciating the warmth, the softness, and just how snuggly it feels against your skin. You don’t remember ever seeing Tommy wear this, but you recognize it, so naturally the thought leaves your mind as you exit the bedroom and head downstairs in search of breakfast.
"Mornin'," he grumbles, his back to you as he washes dishes in the sink. You pause in the doorway when you realize that you aren’t in fact home alone.
“Joel. Hi.” The hesitation is clear in your voice. Why is he here?
“Don’t mind me; we were out of anything good to eat. Tommy said I could call by here and raid the fridge.”
“Right, of course.” You fiddle awkwardly with your sleeve, unsure what to say, and even though he hasn’t turned to look at you yet, you feel a little exposed dressed in nothing but his brother’s shirt.
Joel fascinates you. He’s significantly older; he’s quiet, never says much, and he always radiates a grumpy energy that keeps you on edge whenever you are around him. But you can’t deny that when you are in the same room, especially when it’s just you and him, there’s a feeling that washes over you that fills your belly with butterflies.
If you were truly honest with yourself, you’d admit that you’re drawn to him; there’s an all-consuming attraction to the older Miller brother that you know is so wrong, and yet you can’t seem to stop. You care deeply about Tommy; what you have with him is good, it’s nice, but sometimes you find yourself wishing for more than that.
There are even nights when you fall asleep beside Tommy and dream of Joel instead. You wake up in the middle of the night, an overwhelming ache between your legs that even when Tommy attempts to relieve, you find yourself closing your eyes and imagining it’s his brother inside you instead. Of course it makes you feel bad; the guilt often eats away at you, and yet every day the craving for Joel only grows and leaves you desperate to know if he feels anything for you too.
Walking over to the cupboard beside Joel, you search for something to ease the pang of hunger in your tummy. In the corner of your eye you notice him glance towards you, pausing his movements at the sink as you feel his eyes examining you. You try to ignore him, turning away as you pad over to the opposite counter.
“What are ya doing?” His voice breaks through the tension. Can he feel it too?
“Making pancakes.”
He scoffs. “No, I mean… why are ya wearing that?”
You look over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes at him. “What do you mean?”
You watch him carefully as he allows his eyes to fall down your body, drinking you in as he leans back against the counter, the bob in his throat noticeable as he swallows.
“Joel?”
“That’s mine.”
“What?”
He nods towards you. “That’s mine.”
Your heart rate rises a little then, your eyes going wide as you realize what he means, and you pull the material further around you.
“I… I don't—" You laugh nervously, the redness creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. “But I found it in Tommy's room?”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell ya, sweetheart, but that’s my shirt.”
“No. No. This is Tommy’s. I’ve seen him wear this.” You haven't; you’re just scrambling to convince yourself that this isn’t happening.
“You’re mistaken. I’d even been looking for that this mornin'. Guess I left it here when I came over the other night.”
“Oh… I’m sorry.”
He tilts his head to the side, a smirk appearing on his lips as he pushes himself off the counter, taking a step closer towards you. "Ya trying to tease me, is that it?”
You blink, your mouth going dry as you try to process what he just said. “What? No, of course not.”
“I think you are. Want to torture me, don’t ya?”
You swallow. “I swear, I didn’t realize."
"Relax, don’t worry; it looks fuckin' good on ya."
You look away, trying to suppress the way he’s making you blush. “Joel…”
"Yeahhhh." His voice deepens then. “Say that again; I like hearing my name on your lips."
You meet his eyes, his words starting to take effect between your thighs. "Don't," you warn. This isn’t happening; he can’t be saying these things.
He takes another step towards you. You feel somewhat intimidated, small even, and yet you want him to continue; you want him as close as possible.
“What?” He asks. “Shouldn’t I say that? Jesus, you’re so innocent it’s adorable.”
“I should go change.” You say quietly and yet make no effort to move.
He ignores you. “Wearing anything underneath?”
“Stop.” His eyes drop down, noticing the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
“Why? Just tell me.”
You swallow again. Don’t do it. “…just panties.”
"Shit, darlin’. You've got my imagination goin' crazy.”
“That’s enough.”
“Fine.” He holds his hands up. “But if I see you wearing it again, I’ll have no choice but to take it off you myself.”
“You wouldn’t do that.” You smile, almost daring him.
“Wouldn’t I?”
“What about Tommy?”
“What about him?”
He makes the final steps towards you then, his hand coming to your waist, guiding you back until you're trapped between his broad frame and the counter. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.
"God, look at ya, such a sweet thing. All flustered, pretending like you don’t want this just as much as I do.” His lips hover above yours. “I’ve seen the way ya look at me… ya just too scared to admit that it’s me you want, not him.”
“He’s your brother, Joel.”
“Quiet.” His finger comes to rest on your parted lips to shush you. Slowly he inserts his finger into your mouth, your lips instinctively closing around it to suck. His eyes turn black then, and he pushes his hips into you, letting you feel what you’re doing to him before he withdraws his finger from your mouth with a pop. “We all desire things we probably shouldn't; that’s why it’s so hard to resist.”
“I can resist you.”
"No, ya can’t. If ya could you’d have left already.”
He’s right. You want this; you're aching for him to touch you.
He doesn’t take his eyes off yours as you feel him reach up between your bodies, his fingers fiddling with the buttons torturously slow until the fabric falls open. He waits a second, a smug grin on his lips before his eyes flick down to take in the sight before him.
“Fuuuuck, you’re so beautiful.” He bites his lip. “If you were mine…” he groans with a shake of his head. “I love my brother, but he doesn’t know how to treat ya right; he doesn’t know how to do the things only I could do to ya.”
The need for him between your legs is becoming overwhelming now; this might be so wrong, but it feels so right.
He reaches up, his finger stroking over your cheek, tracing down your jaw, your neck, until it grazes down over your nipple, making your breath hitch. He pauses there, his tongue dipping out to wet his bottom lip.
"More," you whisper.
“Patience, I’ll give ya more, don’t worry.”
His hand travels further down your body, over your tummy, and finally between your legs and over the damp lace.
“Jesus Christ," he pants. “You’re soaked, sweetheart.”
You move your hips against his fingers, desperately seeking more.
“Let’s get these off.” He pulls at the flimsy material, peeling it down your legs until you're completely bared to him.
He swipes a finger through your juices, up to your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your lips part and your head tip back.
“He doesn't get you this wet, does he?”
"Please,”
“He doesn't have ya fuckin' beggin'."
He teases you, brushing over your clit again and again, watching the way your body grinds against his hand and the way you pant his name.
“Don’t stop,”
He leans in to kiss you, pushing your mouth open with his tongue as he finally inserts a finger inside your tight walls. You cry out between kisses, the intrusion deeper than anticipated, especially when he adds a second.
“Good girl, doing so well for me.”
He knows it’s not going to take long; he can tell by the way you’re rutting against him, your whimper steadily getting louder as his fingers thrust quicker.
"Like it, huh?”
You nod.
“Wish it was my cock filling this tight pussy up instead?”
You nod. “Mmmh, I need you, Joel.”
“All in good time, baby girl.”
Then you hear it: the key in the front door.
“Someone’s here!” You panic, reaching down to grip his hand in an attempt to stop him, but he doesn’t let up.
He shakes his head, refusing to give in until you give him what he wants. “Almost there, just a little more.”
You hear the front door swing open as his free hand comes up to cover your mouth. “Don’t make a fuckin’ sound.”
“Hey, I’m home!” Shit. It’s Tommy.
By some miracle, something takes Tommy straight upstairs instead of the few steps into the kitchen, and relief washes over you as Joel continues to drive you towards your orgasm.
He leans in, pressing his bulge into your thigh, his lips tickling your skin as he whispers into your ear, “Cum for me.”
On his command, you grip his bicep so hard as your body begins to jolt violently against him, his palm successfully muffling your moans as he watches you fall apart around his fingers.
He doesn’t stop until he can see you can take no more, finally pulling away from you as Tommy's footsteps begin to descend down the stairs.
Tommy calls out for you again as you scramble to button up the flannel. You turn your back to his voice, hoping he won’t see how flushed your face is when he comes in.
Then you feel it, your boyfriend's hand smoothing along your back as he brushes past you, kissing your cheek in the process, and you hear Joel clear his throat on the other side of the room.
“Heyyyy, you okay?” Tommy asks.
“Mmmh.” You smile, but don’t meet his eyes as the guilt courses through you.
“You look a little flustered; are you coming down with something?”
“Yeah… maybe. I think I’ll go shower and freshen up.”
He tilts his head, trying to get you to look at him, but you don’t. “Want me to join you?” He winks.
“No.” It comes out too fast. Suspicious even.
Tommy frowns. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The growl of his stomach quickly turns his attention to food, and he turns to Joel. "Have you eaten yet, brother?”
You catch Joel’s eye then, watching as he brings his fingers to his mouth, slowly licking those that were just deep inside you moments ago, low hums escaping him as he tastes you.
“Yeah, just finished up.”
He says it so casually, and you can’t help but think how cruel you both are; Tommy doesn’t deserve this.
Yet despite the guilt, the way Joel still refuses to take his eyes off you starts to stir something inside of you all over again, and you worry that if you don’t leave the room now, it’ll become obvious.
"Wait." Tommy grabs your sleeve as you move away from him, and he frowns at you. “Baby, that’s Joel’s.”
“What?”
He laughs. “You’re wearing Joel’s shirt.”
You look down. “Oh…” you giggle nervously. “Silly me.” Before he can say anything else, you quickly leave the room and run upstairs towards the bathroom to wash away the evidence.
Exiting the bathroom, you fail to see Joel standing right outside until you bump into his chest. You look up at him, a startled look on your face as once again those dark hazel eyes search yours.
“Here.” You whisper, holding out the offending garment that caused all this.
"Keep it," he grunts.
“Are you crazy? I’m not sure Tommy would be too happy about that.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not sure he’d be too happy if he knew I just made you cum in his own goddamn kitchen whilst he looked for you upstairs.”
You look away, the blush creeping back in. He reaches into his back pocket. "You keep that and I keep these.” You both look down to see your panties scrunched up in his palm.
You shake your head, pushing the shirt against his chest. “You can keep them, but we can never do this again.”
His nostrils flare as he takes your hand, pulling you into the bedroom you share with Tommy, pushing you back against the door.
“What are you—" His lips cut you off, his tongue pushing into your mouth as he grinds his hips into you.
You whimper softly before pushing him back hard, desperate for air. “I mean it, never again.”
"Ya don’t get to tell me I can keep your underwear like some fuckin' souvenir and then tell me never again.” He growls quietly. "Friday. He’s on patrol the entire night, and he’s taking Ellie with him. Come by my place once the sun goes down.”
"No.”
“Excuse me?”
“This isn’t right!”
“I won’t tell ya again. Friday. I’ll be waiting.”
He brushes past you then, opening the door and leaving the room as you stand there breathless and so wound up. You hear him run downstairs, casually saying goodbye to his brother as you stand there wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.
Dark fic — please mind the warnings and skip if it’s not your thing!
Warnings and Tags: Explicit, +18, MDNI, heavy-explicit language, fake identity trope, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, mixed-dubcon-noncon-ish, canon-typical violence, obsessive!Acacius, possessive!Acacius, Empress!Reader (we can say reader is kinda dark too), pussy slap, thigh slap, lots of slapping (Marcus is hot af when he's angry), creampie, dark themes, overstimulation, unspecified age gap, choking, dirty-dark thoughts, rough sex, forced orgasms (many), squirting, threats, ancient rome, oral sex -m- receiving-, deep-throating, size kink (the general is glorious!), hand job, fingering, rough oral sex -f- receiving, hair-pulling, internal angst, roman-era, power-play, rough nipple play, dominance, descriptions and mentions of battle wounds/blood, food and alcohol consumption, forbidden-desire, cheating, breeding kink, cum eating, shameless smut (sorry not sorry), degradation, unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasms, denial of feelings, brothel, sex workers, blood, mention of death, cursing, swearing, angst, mention of gladiators.
W.C: 13,5k (thick plot, worth it) latin terms appear with translations for clarity.
Summary: Your husband couldn’t give you an heir, but the general-the one who’s watched, wanted, and would burn the Empire to put one in you, calls you peccatum dulce, the sweetest sin he’d damn himself for… and tonight, he will taste every drop.
Author's Note: Hey everyone! You probably know my love for the general... I have to admit, even I surprised myself writing this; been working on it for weeks! This is my very first one-shot & dark fic attempt, written for the lovely @tateypots’ Naughty or Nice challenge, I had Marcus Acacius x fake identity (naughty). Hope you enjoy!
Also, huge thanks to @arcane-fox for beta-ing and for all the support and kind feedbacks 💋 If you haven’t checked out her fics yet, you’re missing out, go check them!
ao3 link - angel's masterlist
some sins are sweeter when they’re stolen
He knew it was a sin long before it ever felt sweet.
Rome had rules for everything; bloodlines, marriages, women like her. Rules Marcus Acacius had enforced with an iron hand. He had watched men die for breaking lesser ones. He had never questioned them.
Until her.
She belonged to Rome.
That was the problem. Rome took what it wanted the same way it always had — without asking, without mercy. Her father had bled for the empire. The empire had answered by claiming his daughter, crowning her, binding her to a throne that did not love her back.
Marcus understood that kind of cruelty. He had lived by it. He had survived it.
He did not begin wanting her the way men were taught to want women.
It began as a fracture.
A quiet disruption in discipline — the kind that lingered long after battles were won and orders obeyed. She would enter the hall draped in gold and restraint, crowned and beyond his reach, and something in him would harden with the unbearable certainty that she was misplaced.
An Empress bound to a man who could not see what stood before him.
Marcus told himself it was loyalty that kept his gaze steady, his expression carved from stone. He told himself it was duty that tightened his jaw when her husband failed to claim her as he should have—failed to give Rome what it demanded. The whispers came anyway.
They crept through the streets, through the barracks, through the mouths of men who bled for a ruler they no longer respected. Fools with wine on their breath and laughter too loud, speaking of a marriage left cold, of an emperor young in years but broken where it mattered most.
Rome was patient with madness.
It was not patient with weakness.
Marcus heard the rumors and felt something dark coil in his chest — not because they spoke of her with vulgar curiosity, but because the truth beneath the words rang too clear. She was left unfulfilled. Unmarked. A womb denied its purpose by a man unfit to claim it.
And of all the places those whispers took root, the barracks were the most dangerous.
Men who lived with blood on their hands and wine on their tongues did not temper their words. They sharpened them. What began as murmurs in the streets turned into laughter among soldiers — crude, fearless, spoken by men who believed steel and loyalty placed them beyond consequence.
It was there, among armor and stone and the stink of sweat, that Rome’s ugliest truths were spoken aloud.
“They say she sleeps alone,” one of the legionaries snorted, leaning back against the stone wall.
“What kind of emperor leaves his own bed cold?”
“They say he doesn’t share his chamber with her at all.”
“Then who does?” another snorted.
A pause. A look exchanged.
“Not women,” someone muttered.
Laughter followed; uneasy, sharp-edged.
“Funny how his concubines see more of him than his own wife.”
“Gods above. Imagine that. An Empress untouched.”
Another scoffed.
“Untouched by her husband, you mean.”
A third voice chimed in, uglier, louder.
“If she were mine,” he said with a grin, “I’d never leave the space between her legs.”
The laughter came first — then the sighs, slow and hungry.
“Maybe he cannot,” someone else scoffed. “All that power, all that gold… and still not man enough.”
“Seems like our Empress deserves a true man’s cock,” he said, grabbing his own balls in a joking gesture.
They laughed harder at that.
Another legionary chimed in, mockingly thoughtful. “You ever see a fruit kept too long out of reach?” He chuckled. “Makes you wonder how sweet she must taste.”
More laughter — low, ugly, unchecked.
That was when the air changed.
Marcus had not spoken.
The men noticed too late — the sudden silence, the way the sound seemed to die in their throats.
“General—” one of them started.
Marcus crossed the space between them in two strides.
His fist struck without warning.
The legionary hit the ground hard, teeth clattering against stone. Someone shouted. Someone tried to pull Marcus back.
It did not help.
He hit him again. And again. And again.
Not in rage.
In correction.
The laughter was gone now. Replaced by screams, by pleading, by the sickening sound of flesh meeting stone.
When Marcus finally stood, his knuckles were red. His breath was steady.
The man on the ground did not move.
Months ago, that same legionary had bled on a battlefield at his general’s command — for Rome, for glory, for discipline.
Now he bled again, not for war, but for forgetting what should never have been spoken aloud.
No one spoke.
Marcus looked at the rest of them — eyes cold, voice low.
“Speak of her again,” he said, calm as a drawn blade, “and I will bury you beside him.”
No one doubted him.
YOU
The palace was quiet, but the quiet offered no comfort.
It only gave your thoughts room to breathe — and they were merciless.
They called you Empress, but the word felt hollow when you were alone. A title did not warm the bed. It did not silence the questions. It did not stop the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention. You had learned how to read those looks. You knew what they meant.
No one ever said it aloud, but you felt it anyway.
No child. No heir.
You had begun counting time differently. Not in days or seasons, but in glances. In how long silence stretched after certain conversations. In how often your name was spoken with careful restraint. You wondered when concern would turn to calculation. When patience would give way to necessity.
You told yourself not to think about it but the thought lived under your skin. It hummed there, constant and low. What if this was enough to make you disposable? What if love, vows, loyalty, none of it mattered without proof?
The shame was the worst part. It crept in quietly, uninvited. It asked questions you didn’t know how to answer. Is it you? Is your body the failure? You hated yourself for thinking it, but you thought it anyway. Because no one else would ask the question for you. Because if they did, the answer would destroy everything.
You sat in silk and gold, surrounded by guards and slaves, and had never felt more alone. You were not afraid of death, not really. You were afraid of being erased. Of being remembered only as a mistake that didn’t produce a future.
That was why the thought came to you at night. The one you tried to push away. The one that made your chest tighten with guilt and relief all at once. A wrong solution. A dangerous one. But a solution nonetheless.
You told yourself it was survival.
You told yourself it was not desire.
You told yourself you had no choice.
And the most terrifying part was this: somewhere deep down, you were no longer sure that was a lie.
They had told you duty first.
Your father had said it without softness, without pause. Rome’s future rested on your shoulders. Becoming Empress was an honor few women were ever given.
Do not forget what you owe the city. Do not shame me. Do not stain our name.
He had been a legatus once — a man who understood command. He gave you to the Emperor the same way he had given soldiers to war. No counsel. No comfort. Only orders.
Stand straight. Obey. Endure.
He never told you how to survive.
Now the one thing he feared most was unfolding.
Your husband could not touch you. Not in any way that mattered. He had taken your virginity on your wedding night with the care of a man fulfilling a task he did not want. Minutes. No tenderness. No heat. Nothing that lingered. Since then, two imperial years had passed — and there was no heir.
The Senate’s concern had become Rome’s favorite whisper. At festivals, eyes lingered too long. Smiles sharpened. Fertility was questioned openly, because in Rome it always was. Men were never at fault.
Women bore the shame.
You bore it in silence.
The concubines came and went from his chambers at night. Quietly. Frequently. Everyone knew. No one called it betrayal. You were expected to accept it as part of the crown.
You felt like something set aside. An object waiting to fail.
And you were done waiting.
You decided to do the thing you had never imagined yourself capable of. Not out of desire — not at first — but necessity. You needed an heir. Immediately. Each passing month tightened the noose. You would not be discarded because of his weakness. You had given everything to this marriage. You had earned that title. And if he could not secure your future, you would.
There was nothing wrong with that. You told yourself so until the words felt solid.
You were not like him. Prostitutes and slaves were not an option. You would have to see them again. Remember them. Risk recognition. You needed someone who would disappear the moment it was done.
Gladiators.
Not merely slaves of war, but men forged in blood and survival. Their names did not matter—where they came from mattered even less. What drew you was their strength, their presence, the hunger that lived beneath scarred skin. It unsettled you in ways your husband never had.
You were tired of indifference.
Tired of being touched like an obligation, a duty performed for appearances alone. Your body wanted proof it was still alive—that it mattered, that it could still answer to something fierce and undeniable.
If it took one, or many, it would not matter. You would continue until life took hold within you. That was the only measure that counted. It was reckless—perhaps even suicidal—but you knew the truth: to remain as you were was a slower kind of death.
You prepared carefully.
Loyal slaves. Silent men and women who owed you more than their lives. You trusted them to guard this secret until the grave, because in Rome, silence was often the most valuable currency of all.
You moved quickly because you had to. Every delay brought you closer to ruin.
You told yourself you deserved this. That there was no sin in protecting what was yours. That Rome had taken enough from you already.
And so, in the darkest hour of the night, you came willingly.
The villa had always been a refuge.
Long before the crown. Before the marriage. Before Rome decided what you were worth. It stood beyond the city’s reach — not abandoned, not forgotten, simply untouched by the noise of power. Stone walls warmed by the sun. Olive trees old enough to remember silence.
It belonged to the only person you had ever trusted without reservation.
Agrippa.
A friend chosen, not assigned. Someone who had never asked anything of you except honesty. Over the years, it had become the one place where you were not watched. Where you could breathe without measuring every word.
The slaves there were not strangers. They had known you since you were younger, softer, unnamed by titles. They did not call you Empress when no one was listening. They called you by your name. They guarded your secrets with the same loyalty they guarded the house itself.
You trusted them with your life.
That trust was not blind. It had been earned. Years of silence. Years of discretion. They had seen you arrive shaken, leave steadier. Had learned when to ask nothing at all.
This was why you chose this place.
No corridors filled with echoes.
No guards who belonged to him.
No eyes trained to report every movement.
Here, nothing was expected of you.
The villa did not judge. It did not whisper. It simply opened its doors the way it always had — like it understood why you were here.
Your most-trusted slave, the one who had dressed you since before the crown, who knew when to ask nothing, watched you in the lamplight and did not flinch. Her voice stayed low. Practical. Loyal.
“This is not recklessness, Your Highness,” she said, fastening the last pin with steady hands. “It is survival.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She had seen Rome sharpen its knives around you for months. Heard the whispers grow bold. Watched concubines pass your door at night while you learned to breathe quietly.
“A gladiator is the cleanest choice,” she continued, as if weighing grain or silver. “His body is not his own. It never was.” A pause. “And the arena will take him soon enough. There will be no witness left to trouble you.”
She met your eyes then — unafraid, certain.
“For a man like that, being chosen by a noblewoman is not shame,” she said softly. “It is reward. A memory he will carry like armor.” Her mouth curved, just barely. “If he survives long enough to remember it.”
Your throat tightened.
“He will not refuse,” she added. “Why would he? One night in a woman’s bed is more than most of them are ever given.” She adjusted your tunic, reverent now. “He will not know who you are,” she said quietly, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. “Only that you are a matron of rank. Nothing more.”
A memory he will carry like armor…
For him, perhaps.
But for you? Would it be regret, or the first narrow opening toward something long denied?
You drew a slow breath, the weight of the choice settling not on your shoulders, but deep in your bones. “Very well,” you said at last; the words leaving your lips like an order that would shape the rest of your life. “Bring the gladiator to the chamber at once..”
The slave inclined her head and withdrew in silence.
With that small motion, what had been contemplated became inevitable.
MARCUS
The Lupanaria (the roman brothel) was alive with noise, warm and heavy with incense and oil, the faint echo of harp strings winding through the corridors—music reserved only for the victorious General of Rome and his closest commanders. Torches flickered along the walls, casting gold and shadow over the polished floors, over men laughing too loudly, leaning too close to the women who moved with practiced grace — the best courtesans, the youngest and most beautiful, each one a temptation perfectly honed for eyes that lingered.
Some of Marcus’ legates indulged in these women, entwined in fleeting embraces, hands wandering where they ought not, celebrating victory in the indulgent ways Rome allowed. Soft moans and gasps floated through the hall, punctuated by the sharp slap of skin on skin, the subtle catch of breath, the occasional clink of wine cups forgotten in hands that were busy elsewhere.
Marcus observed it all with detached precision. Every glance, every touch, every sly smile noted and catalogued and yet none of it reached him. A goblet of wine rested in his hand, raised and lowered more out of habit than desire. He drank, felt the burn slide down his throat, welcomed it for a moment — anything to quiet the unrest coiled beneath his ribs. Platters were brought, rich with meat and fruit, and he ate just enough to satisfy appearances, chewing without tasting.
But the hunger remained.
Not the kind that gnawed at the stomach.
This one lived deeper, sharp, insistent, impossible to feed.
He was not here. Not in this chaos. Not in the fleeting pleasures of men too easily satisfied. His body sat among them, armored and whole, but his mind was elsewhere.
Because all around him, bodies writhed and cried out in delight, but his attention — the sharp, relentless edge of it; rested on: one thought. One memory. One obsession.
You.
Victory had brought him back to Rome in white, gold and blood. The city had roared his name as if it belonged to it. The legions had marched. The Senate had watched. Jupiter’s temple had waited.
And the Emperor, drunk, as he so often was, had fumbled.
The laurel crown slipped from his grasp, clattering against marble in a sound far too loud for something so sacred. A careless fracture in ceremony. Murmurs rippled through the senators. Courtiers stilled. Rome itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then you moved.
The Empress.
Disapproval had flickered across your face — quick, restrained, unmistakable — before grace took over. You bent without hesitation, silk and gold folding around you as you retrieved the fallen wreath as if correcting a minor inconvenience rather than saving an Emperor from humiliation.
Marcus remembered how he had dropped to one knee at once, bowing his head toward you. Not in submission—never that—but in recognition.
You stepped closer. Too close.
Your fingers brushed the white of his armor as you lifted the laurel, your breath quickening despite yourself. When you placed the crown upon his head without meeting his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossed his features—brief, instinctive. Without thinking, he reached up and caught your hand, stopping you before you could withdraw.
Behind you, the emperor was stirring, being steadied by slaves but neither of you noticed. In that moment, the world had narrowed. There was no crowd, no court, no throne, no witnesses. There was only you.
He leaned down—just enough. Barely. Deliberately.
His lips met your knuckles in the shadow between ceremony and transgression, the kiss lingering longer than protocol demanded, tracing your skin with intent rather than reverence.
He remembered the way you stiffened.
The almost imperceptible shiver that betrayed you.
The quick swallow of breath.
A soft, startled gasp.
Your reaction was written plainly across your face, and that alone drew a dark, knowing smile from him.
He had let his mouth linger a fraction longer, savoring the heat of your reaction, the way your composure fractured beneath the smallest touch. For one suspended instant — amid cheers, laughter, and the thunder of Rome’s approval — there had been nothing but you.
Only the way your body answered him.
Only the way your eyes flickered up before snapping away.
The memory curved his mouth now, slow and private.
And then something ugly coiled in his chest.
Because in all the years you had stood within arm’s reach of one another — banquets, ceremonies, the Colosseum, victory feasts — there had never been contact. Not once. No accidental brush. No stolen closeness. Nothing that could be claimed.
That moment had been the first.
And after it, nothing else had ever truly left his mind.
The war had lasted three months. Three months of marching, killing, bleeding. He had been wounded more than once — cut, torn, soaked through — but none of it had tested him the way distance from you had.
Pain had never frightened him.
Death had never tempted him to stop.
What had kept him moving was not Rome.
Not glory.
It was you.
The thought of your face.
Of your figure moving through silk and light.
Of your smile — restrained, careful — and the soft sound of your jewelry when you inclined your head.
Of standing close enough to feel your presence.
Of knowing that when the laurel was placed upon his head, it would be you before him — close enough to feel, real, breathing — even if you stood beside the Emperor, even if you were never truly his.
That certainty had carried him through fire and steel. It had sharpened his blade, steadied his hand. He had cut down enemies with your image fixed behind his eyes, every strike a promise to return victorious.
And the truth had been better than anything he had dared to imagine. You had placed the laurel upon his head with your own hands. He had wished it had never happened.
Wished he had bled out on some distant battlefield, lungs filling with blood, vision darkening — anything but that single moment of your touch. Because it had not soothed him. It had not passed.
It had fed the fire.
What already burned inside him had been given breath, and now it raged — uncontrollable, merciless.
He feared himself after that.
Feared the way his thoughts returned to you without permission. Feared how nothing could contain the hunger once it had taken root. Not discipline. Not war. Not distance. Every night since, he had come here, drowning himself in noise and bodies, trying to smother you beneath sensation.
He had taken women — dozens of them. Touched, tasted, indulged. Skin against skin. Heat and sound and need.
And none of it mattered.
Because not one of them felt the way you had.
Not one mouth, one hand, one body had ever carried the same feeling. None of them made his blood tighten the way it had when your fingers brushed his armor, when your breath had stuttered beneath his mouth.
They were distractions. Empty vessels.
He wanted you alone.
There was a dark, unquenchable flame coiled in him now — something ancient and violent, something that could not be reasoned with. No woman in Rome could douse it. No indulgence could blunt its edge.
Only you could.
And that was impossible.
The realization made his jaw tighten.
He was lost in it when a hand brushed against his thigh.
One of the girls leaned closer, eyes bright with practiced hunger, lips curved in a knowing smile. “Allow me to pleasure you, General,” she murmured, fingers teasing at the edge of his tunic, brushing the straps of his armor as if they were an invitation.
His reaction was immediate.
Marcus’s hand shot up, fingers tangling in her hair, yanking her back with brutal efficiency. Not cruel — controlled. Final.
“No,” he growled. “Not tonight.”
His voice cut through the music, sharper than he intended. Movement stilled around them. Some of the dancers froze. Others glanced over, startled, surprised. He did not look at them.
He was already on his feet, rising to his full height, armor still secured to his body. Only then did he realize he had never bothered to remove it. Had come here armored like a man expecting battle.
Instinct had brought him here — not desire. The part of him that sought control. To neutralize the threat.
And it had failed.
Logic had no hold on him now. Only the dark fire dictated his movement.
He crossed the room and pulled aside the curtain, letting the cool night air strike his face. He drew in a breath that did nothing to steady him.
“General, sir.”
He did not turn. “Leave me.”
“Sir — it concerns the Empress.”
He spun so fast the man flinched, stumbling back a step.
Marcus’s gaze was a blade. Cold. Focused. Lethal.
The legionary swallowed hard and leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. The words reached Marcus’s ear; and the world seemed to stop.
His eyes widened.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
Blood no longer coursed through his veins — it roared.
Rage flooded him, pure and absolute, burning away restraint, drowning reason in its wake.
Not the kind of anger that shouted.
The kind that decided.
Anger did not arrive alone.
It came layered — rage, fury, something older and sharper than either. The kind that did not shout. The kind that moved.
Anger makes men do brutal things.
Most men break under it. They lose control.
Marcus had never been most men.
When he was angry, bodies fell. Hundreds of them. Sometimes for strategy. Sometimes simply to feel the tension leave his hands. He had never feared what anger could turn him into. Anyone who did was a fool.
They had called him many things over the years — a bull of a man, a monster, a butcher, a lion-slayer, a merciless warrior. All of it true. His name alone silenced rooms, made legions hesitate, forced even senators to measure their words.
Even the Emperor.
The one man Marcus had killed a thousand times in fantasy and never once in reality.
The only man he truly wanted dead — and could not touch.
It had not always been this way.
Once, Marcus had been loyal. After victories, he rested. He drank. He took women without attachment and left them without regret. Slaves, courtesans, noble daughters — even his wives. None of them stayed with him, and none were meant to. Desire had been simple then. As easy as breathing. Meaningless.
After becoming a widower for the second time, even pleasure had lost its pull. Women became tools. Distractions. Nothing reached him anymore.
Then the old Emperor died.
Then his son ascended the throne.
And as if that insult were not enough, the young, inexperienced ruler decided to marry.
The day his bride -you- was brought into Rome, carried in ceremony, displayed in the Colosseum like spoils: Marcus felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest.
He had seen beauty before. Many times. Women of every station, every nation. Had possessed it. Had forgotten it. Some were prettier. Softer. Easier.
None of them mattered.
You did.
And it had nothing to do with beauty.
It was the way you smiled without knowing who was watching. The way silk moved with you, the way your hair caught the light. Your hands. Your expressions. Your lashes. Your eyes. Your voice. The quiet weight of your presence when you stood still.
Gods help him — it was as if you had been shaped to undo him. A siren placed in his path to dull his reason and sharpen his hunger.
From the moment he truly looked at you, everything in him burned. Not gently. Not slowly.
He imagined you stripped of the gold-embroidered imperial stola, the heavy layers of silk and status peeled away. Not out of tenderness — out of need. Out of obsession. He wanted to know what was beneath the crown, beneath the restraint. Wanted to know what you would do if you understood who stood before you.
If you would reject him.
Or obey.
More than once, he had imagined cutting the Emperor down where he stood — spilling him across the marble, taking you while your husband’s blood was still warm on his hands. The thought had almost made him smile.
But it was not the Emperor this time. Not the distant enemy. Not even the wounds of battle that had stirred him like this.
He had not felt this fury when the Emperor touched you with ceremony but no care.
Not when he gripped your arm too tightly.
Not even on your wedding night, when duty had forced Marcus to look away.
Not on the Field of Mars. Not when his sword cut men down.
This was different.
This was tonight.
Because of what had been whispered into his ear.
Because of what you had chosen.
Tonight, you had decided. One night. One stranger man. Not for pleasure — but for an heir.
How dare you.
Not because you wanted someone else.
But because you were willing to turn yourself into a function.
Marcus did not yell.
He did not strike.
He did not shatter anything.
He mounted his horse.
Hooves rang against stone as he tore through the sleeping streets, iron striking marble, the sound echoing through the dark like a warning. The city blurred around him — torches, walls, shadows — as he drove the animal harder, faster, as if speed itself could outrun the fury boiling in his blood.
The night wind cut against his face. It did nothing to cool him. He rode like a man racing fate. Like a man already too late.
The anger did not consume him.
It focused him.
He turned it into opportunity.
The fire that had burned in him for months, years. The hunger no woman, no conquest, no victory had ever quieted…
Tonight, it had purpose.
And that purpose was you.
With that single, reckless choice, you had dared to decide the fate of both yourself and him.
The villa gates burst open to the sound of hooves.
Four riders cut through the dark, cloaks snapping, armor catching torchlight in sharp flashes of bronze and steel. The courtyard froze — breath held, instincts flaring all at once.
Agrippa Varro, the villa’s owner, stepped forward before sense could stop him. His wife’s fingers clenched around his arm, nails biting through fabric. Panic flickered across both their faces.
Then recognition struck.
Marcus dismounted in a single, fluid motion.
He struck the stone like a verdict, his caligae (sandal) ringing against marble, cloak snapping behind him — rage held in check by iron discipline.
“General,” Agrippa said hoarsely.
So did everyone else.
Marcus did not acknowledge the greeting.
His gaze swept the courtyard with open contempt, as if their very presence offended him. Slaves lowered their eyes. Guards stiffened, unsure whether to move or disappear.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Nothing more.
They knew who he meant.
They did not know how he knew — and none of them dared ask.
Marcus turned slightly, his voice cold and precise. “Seal the villa,” he said. “No one leaves. No one enters. If I see a single unfamiliar face after this moment, I will assume it is an enemy.”
That was enough.
Agrippa stiffened. He exchanged a stunned glance with his wife — a silent, frantic question passing between them. This was not what they had expected. They had thought Marcus would demand explanations, invoke the Emperor’s name, perhaps even insist the Empress be escorted away at once. That he would stop this. That he would restore order.
Instead, he had sealed the villa.
At his signal, a slave stepped forward — the one Marcus chose with a glance alone. The man bowed deeply, fear etched into every movement, and turned to lead the way inside. Through the atrium (the central open area of a villa). Past marble columns and flickering shadows. Toward the inner chambers.
Marcus followed, his dark cloak cutting through the space behind him, his stride sharp, restless, violent in its restraint.
He understood the moment he crossed the threshold.
The preparation.
The hush.
And the man being brought toward the inner rooms.
The gladiator was bare-chested beneath his cloak, skin scarred, muscles tight with readiness. A mask already covered his face — bronze and leather shaped into the visage of Mars, god of war. Not waiting. Being delivered.
Marcus moved. Three steps.That was all it took.
He seized the man by the shoulder and drove him backward, shoving him hard enough to send him staggering out of the passage. Marcus’s hand closed around the mask — not ripping it away, but gripping it firmly, deliberately, asserting ownership with the smallest motion.
“Take him,” Marcus said, voice low and absolute. “Return him to his cell.”
The slaves hesitated, caught between their loyalty to their empress and the fear of the man - the general - standing before them.
Marcus lifted his gaze. That was it.
Just as they had brought him, they seized the gladiator and pulled him away in silence. Sandals scraped against the stone, the sound thinning as it vanished into the corridors.
Seconds later, he was gone.
Marcus stayed where he was a moment longer than necessary. The mask still rested in his hand—heavy and cold.
He turned it slowly, then slipped it onto his face with ease. The straps tightened, and the world around him grew narrow. His breath echoed inside the bronze mask, louder than he had anticipated.
Only then did he focus on the slaves lingering at the edges of the room.
“You,” he said calmly, lifting his hand, waving in a gesture. “Come here. Help me take off my armor.”
YOU
The cup tasted like punishment.
Your slave said it was necessary. The medicus nodded beside her, solemn and useless, murmuring about warmth and balance, about coaxing life where Rome insisted it should exist. You drank because they told you it might help. Because for two years now, everyone had been trying to help you conceive.
As if the problem were that simple.
As if herbs and whispered prayers could make up for the truth — that nothing had ever truly been planted there.
You swallowed and winced. Bitter. Sharp. You tipped wine into the cup without hesitation, watching the dark red soften the brew’s sickly color, then drank again. Better. Warmer. Almost convincing.
You set the cup aside and reached for the mask.
Venus.
The choice had made you laugh earlier — quietly, without humor. Love. Fertility. Desire. The goddess Rome pretended ruled women’s bodies. You allowed your slave to tie it carefully, as if silk could hide more than your face. As if you could tuck your unease behind it and borrow courage for one night.
You wore a simple tunic — thin silk that caught the light and gave more than it took. No excess. No titles. No imperial weight. Only a necklace at your throat, earrings brushing your neck when you moved. The back of the tunic lay open, skin exposed down your spine, held together by a delicate chain that traced your waist like a promise.
You looked deliberate. Not innocent. Not ashamed.
Achingly, dangerously compelling — the kind of beauty that demanded attention without begging for it.
With the Venus mask and your bare, unguarded form, you were dizzying. As if the world were witnessing the birth of the goddess all over again. Any man would have gone to his knees.
That was the point.
The mask erased your name. The man who came would not know who you were — only that you were noble, that you had chosen him. To him, you would be no different from the other patrician women who sought a night of secrecy and indulgence. Rome was full of them. Their intentions were usually simple.
Yours were not.
This was not lust. It was necessity. You were the Empress. You commanded armies, bent senators to your will, ruled without question. As long as your husband never learned of this night, what crime was there? What fault?
You could live with that.
You had to.
You drew in a breath — and froze.
Voices. Footsteps.
Too soon.
You hadn’t given the signal.
Your slave’s head snapped toward the door, tension rippling through her body. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too tight. You hesitated — just long enough to almost stop this. Almost.
Then you lifted your hand and nodded.
It was done.
You turned your back to the door. You did not want to see him enter. Not yet. You wrapped your fingers around the wine cup, grounding yourself in its weight, its cold edge biting into your palm.
The door opened.
Silence followed.
Not the heavy, anticipatory hush you had expected — but something sharper. Wrong. Your slaves shifted behind you. One of them stiffened, breath catching audibly.
That was strange.
You put the cup aside and turned.
The man stood alone.
No escort. No guards. No ceremony. Just him — filling the chamber as if it had been built for his presence. The mask hid his face, but his gaze found you immediately, unflinching, intent.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Silk. Shadow. Breath.
He wore the mask of Mars, fierce and unyielding, its sharp edges hiding his face but not the fire in his gaze. You met him through your Venus mask, delicate and ethereal, yet your eyes betrayed no hesitation.
Then he stepped forward.
Unhurried. Certain.
Your slave moved at once, placing herself between you, chin lifted in practiced authority.
“You will not approach the lady unless she permits it.”
He did not even look at her.
He shoved her aside with one efficient motion — not violent, not gentle. As if she were simply in the way.
Your breath caught, sharp and instinctive.
“Stop,” you commanded, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it.
He didn’t.
His eyes never left you.
Your slave rushed forward again — and this time, he caught her by the throat. Not crushing. Just enough. Enough to make the room lock in place.
Shock hit you. “Enough!” Your voice cut through the room. “Do you even know what you do? Who you presume yourself to be?” you demanded, anger flaring.
He released her with a shove and straightened.
“Leave,” he said.
The voice came from behind the mask — low, controlled.
Something in it struck you like a memory you hadn’t known you were keeping. You had heard that voice before. Across marble halls. Over the roar of crowds. Calm amid blood and ceremony alike.
“All of you. Leave us. Now.”
Your heart stuttered. “That’s not possible,” you whispered.
He reached up and removed the mask. For a heartbeat, your world narrowed to the sharp outline of his face, suddenly revealed by the flickering torchlight. His brown eyes caught the glow — familiar, burning, unmistakable.
Shock slammed through you, and you instinctively stumbled back, heart hammering. “General Acacius,” you breathed, voice trembling.
The room tilted.
Without taking his eyes off you, he barked, “Out! Now!”
No one argued.
They fled as if chased, sandals slapping stone, silk whispering panic. The door shut with a final, echoing thud.
You were alone with him.
Your pulse thundered. Shame crawled up your spine, tangled with fear, fury — and something far worse. You stood frozen, unable to decide what you felt.
He crossed the remaining distance and stopped. Bare-chested. Powerful. Built like the statues that lined the atrium — only warmer. Breathing. Real. You had never seen him without armor before.
The sight stole the air from your lungs.
His gaze followed yours. Lingered.
“H-how? You shouldn’t be here,” you said hoarsely.
“I could say the same of you, your highness,” he replied evenly.
He reached up and removed your mask, fingers deft as the ties came undone. Your hair fell loose, and you dropped your gaze without thinking, embarrassment burning across your cheeks.
His hand didn’t withdraw.
Instead, his thumb slipped beneath your chin and lifted it, slow and insistent, until you had no choice but to look at him.
He paused there, unmoving. Just for a moment.
Not surprise.
Not softness.
His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unblinking, as if he were stripping you bare with nothing but his gaze. As if he were seeing past flesh and silk and title, down to something exposed and dangerous beneath.
Something tighter settled into his expression.
Like a man realizing the blade he’d been circling was sharper than he remembered.
His jaw locked. His eyes darkened further, tracking every breath, every flicker of hesitation on your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle. As if seeing you fully — unmasked, unguarded — had cost him something he hadn’t meant to give.
Instinctively, he leaned closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to threaten it.
His attention dipped — briefly, deliberately — to your mouth. The space between you shrank, heavy with intention. Panic flared in your chest, and you tried to turn your face away, the hunger in his eyes suddenly too much, too ruinous to meet.
“This was a mistake,” you said, the words tight, fragile.
His thumb remained beneath your chin, unyielding.
“It would have been,” he replied quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “if I hadn’t come.”
You tried to pull away. He didn’t let you. “What- Let go of me.”
“You’re tired of being treated like an object,” he growled. “And yet… here you are. Playing with fire, little Empress… do you not understand what you risk?”
How dare he.
“You wouldn’t understand,” you snapped. “If you’re here to lecture me on honor—”
“I understand perfectly,” he said. “I didn’t come here to lecture you or protect your husband’s honor. Or your father’s.”
“Then why?” you demanded.
He released you.
“Because what you desire,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on your face, unblinking, “you shall never receive from one unworthy of you.”
Your breath caught. You could scarcely believe your ears — that he would suggest such a thing.
“I am not letting you give yourself to a man who will forget you before dawn.”
The words landed like a blow.
“Acacius—” Your hand rose to your chest as you stepped back. “How— why—no.”
He surged forward, presence overwhelming, breath warm against your skin.
Not kind. Not gentle. Predatory.
“You still don’t see it,” he said, voice dark with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it.
“I have burned for you,” he continued, each word forged tight with restraint. “For years. In my thoughts. In my sleep. In every battle, it was your face that kept me standing.” Your eyes widened, disbelief clawing at your mind, your ears betraying you. “And you dare think,” he went on, quiet but vicious, voice like steel coiled around fire, “that I would stand aside while you reduce yourself to a mere vessel? While you let some nameless body be used to bear an heir? As if that were all you were made for?” Your breath shuddered. “And gods help me,” he added, jaw clenched, “as if I would ever allow that.”
Something twisted low in your body at the words. Heat flared where there should have been only fear. Only shame.
You hated yourself for it.
Because beneath the humiliation, beneath the danger of him standing there, claiming space and certainty alike, your body betrayed you — answering his fury with a treacherous spark of want.
And that frightened you more than anything else.
His hands came to your shoulders — firm, unyielding — halting you where you stood. He forced you to look at him.
“How could you lower yourself so?” he asked quietly. Not shouting. Judgment was colder than fury. “How could you make yourself lesser than what you are?”
“What is this insolence—” you began.
“Insolence?” His mouth twisted, humorless. “And what of your audacity?”
Your heart thundered. “You speak as though—” Your voice wavered. “Do you claim an attachment to me beyond duty?” Your eyes searched his. “Is this love, then… General?”
A sound escaped him, not laughter, but close enough to mock it. “Love?” he echoed softly. “A small word. A thin one.”
His grip shifted. One hand rose, pushing your hair back to bare your throat. His palm settled there — possessive, overwhelming by its sheer weight alone. “Do not profane what I bear by naming it love,” he murmured.
You shivered.
His thumb brushed the pulse at your neck, deliberate. He felt its frantic beat. A faint, dangerous curve touched his mouth.
“I have imagined this,” he confessed quietly. “My hands upon you. Your composure breaking. Your will bending.”
“Stop,” you whispered. “Please."
“You tremble,” he observed calmly. “Good.”
His large hand closed around your throat—not in haste, but with intent. Beneath his palm, the fragile give of your neck was unmistakable, a reminder of how easily you could be broken if he wished. The awareness made his clothed manhood twitch.
“Acacius,” you gasped. “You’re hurting me.”
His head tilted, eyes intent, studying you like a creature caught between fear and the instinct to run.
“This,” he said quietly, tightening just enough to make his meaning clear, “is restraint.”
Then — slowly, deliberately — he released you.
“This ends here.” The instant his hold loosened, you turned and moved for the door — swift, desperate, unthinking.
He caught you with ease from behind. “We haven’t even begun.” He growled, pulling you hard against him, his arms locking around you from the back. You struggled, twisting, trying to break free — but it was impossible.
Gods, this was wrong.
All of it was wrong.
“Y–You…” Your voice faltered. “I… we can’t. my husband trusts you. If this is ever heard—”
He cut you off without raising his voice.
“Curse your husband,” he said. “Abi in infernum. (Let him burn.)"
The vulgarity of his words shocked you — the sheer irreverence of it — and yet, beneath the fear, something else flared, sharp and unwelcome. Through the layers of cloth, you felt his hardness pressing insistently against your arse. Your breath hitched, heart racing, caught between alarm and a thrill you did not want to name.
He buried his face into your hair, pressing his nose along the curve of your ear, nudging the soft lobe aside as he inhaled you like a man tasting something forbidden. His tongue traced your warm, soft skin, slow and deliberate, tasting the faint essence of jasmine that lingered there.
The scrape of his beard brushed your neck — rough, unmistakably male — and the sensation sent an involuntary shiver through you. Your pulse leapt beneath his mouth, traitorous, loud. The heat of him so close made your chest tighten, made your knees feel unsteady, as if your body were responding before your mind could catch up.
A low sound escaped him — not laughter, not quite. Something closer to satisfaction. The kind that lingered beneath the surface, like the hum of a predator savoring its prey.
You struggled again, twisting in his arms, trying to break free.
Again, his arms caught you like iron traps, locking around your waist, pulling you back against him. You struggled, but he didn’t even flinch.
“Let go — Acacius, please—”
His breath grazed your ear, low and steady, but with a sharp edge hidden underneath.
“Resist me once more," he whispered, his voice low and edged with steel,
“and I will drag you into the atrium. I will have you there. Before my men, before Agrippa and his wife, before the slaves.”
You froze completely. “Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely more than air. “Please… do not.”
“Then be still,” he said simply.
Not a plea. Not a warning.
A command.
He pressed closer. You could feel the weight of his threat in every inch of his control.
“This can be something we both enjoy…” he said, voice velvet and venom, “...or it can be just for me. But either way — you’re not getting away. Decide.”
His hand found the back of your tunic, fisting the fabric without hesitation.
The cloth tore from your shoulders in one brutal motion—the gold-chained garment draped across your back giving way all at once. Something snapped—a delicate chain, perhaps—and a rain of jeweled ornaments scattered across the floor, clattering sharply.
“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said, his voice thick, deliberate. “You have lived in my thoughts,” he admitted. “In ways the gods would condemn.”
A breath.
“Now... you're mine to cherish.”
Another pause.
“And to ruin, if I choose.”
He pulled the silk from your shivering body slowly — not to savor, but to claim.
The fabric slipped to the floor like a secret undone. He stared.
Not just at your body.
At your skin.
The way it caught the lamplight. The way it rose and fell with every panicked breath. The way it wasn’t meant for anyone else but him.
His hands — calloused from war, scarred from blade and bone — hovered for a moment before finally landing on your waist.
You inhaled sharply.
Not pain.
Not fear.
The sheer weight of his presence.
You still hadn’t turned to face him.
You stood rooted where you were, breath shallow, afraid of what you might see if you did. Afraid of what it would confirm.
His hands moved over your hips, along your sides — slow, deliberate, not wandering but learning, as if committing the shape of you to memory.
“Soft,” he murmured, almost to himself. “As I imagined.”
His touch rose, restrained yet inevitable — tracing your back, your shoulders, his fingers brushing the line of your collarbones with a strange reverence, like a prayer unwrapped rather than spoken.
“He does not deserve this,” he whispered.
He leaned closer, his breath warming your jaw, close enough that you felt it without daring to turn.
“You were never his.”
His fingers went to the knot at his hip.
Unhurried. Deliberate.
The subligaculum (a kind of underwear) loosened with a soft sound, linen slipping free of its tension. The fabric fell, forgotten, at his feet.
Your breath caught You felt it then — the shift.
Not in the room.
In him.
When he straightened, the space he occupied felt suddenly dangerous, as though the air itself bent around his will. He stood with the stillness of a statue before motion — all potential, all threat.
You turned your face away instinctively, shame and something far worse tightening your chest.
He noticed.
The corner of his mouth curved — not in amusement, but in something colder.
“Tell me,” he said, almost idly, “the man you call husband… does he even touch you now? He can’t give you what you need, can he?”
You stiffened, spine straightening despite yourself.
“Do not speak of him with such disrespect,” you said sharply.
He gave a short, incredulous laugh, sharp as a blade.
“How loyal. So dutiful,” he added, voice dark with contempt. “So Roman.”
His eyes flicked toward you, catching your movement — a glance heavy with anger, with disbelief. You looked away instinctively, heat and shame twisting with a dangerous curiosity deep in your chest.
He noticed.
His mouth curled — not a smile, but something sharper, crueler, predatory.
“Yet here you are,” he continued, voice low, dripping with scorn. “Sneaking off to a borrowed villa. Choosing a gladiator to do what your precious… husband cannot.”
Your chest tightened. “That’s not—”
His tone snapped. “You wanted him to put an heir in you.”
Silence slammed between you.
In a single motion, his hand fisted in your hair and yanked you around to face him. Enough to make your breath catch.
You were too close now.
Too exposed.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop yourself — and your throat went dry.
“Like what you see, my Empress?”
He leaned in, forcing your chin up with two fingers.
“I’m willing to bet,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction, “that whatever you endured in that cold bed of yours never came close to this.”
You swallowed. Hard.
He smiled then — slow, predatory.
“That’s what I thought.”
His grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.
“Turn not your eyes,” he growled. “There is no retreat now — not that you would want one.”
Your eyes dropped again — and this time, you couldn’t stop the sound that escaped.
“Oh gods…”
Marcus stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, he tilted your chin up.
His mouth was a breath away from yours when he whispered:
“Forget your gods. They can’t hear you now.”
He caught you by the shoulders again, firm, cruel, and pressed you down so that you sank onto your knees before him.
Your breath left you in a sharp gasp, your eyes widened, your entire body stunned from his hot, throbbing manhood resting against your face.
It stole your vision. Your thoughts.
You barely registered the general’s face above you, only the way his mouth curved; slow, knowing as he took in your stunned silence.
Dear gods.
He was a lot bigger than you had expected. And the raw scent, that was out in full force, made your head swim from how much it was overwhelming your nostrils. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen a man’s penis…
But this?
Even believing it was real strained the limits of your mind.
Marcus stood before you without shame, without hesitation — a figure carved for war rather than worship. Solid. Towering. Dangerous.
Both his presence and his scent roused something primordial within you, awakening your womanhood as though answering an unspoken mating call, older than reason, deeper than will.
Your husband had never looked like this, and his manhood had never stirred you the way this did.
Marcus was twice his age, and yet somehow felt carved from something far older — something primal. Thick muscle shaped his frame, not the ornamental strength of noblemen, but the hardened body of a man who had fought, bled, and survived.
Scars traced him like history written into flesh.
This body did not ask.
It took.
The comparison came unbidden; cruel and undeniable. Your husband could not stand beside this. Would not dare.
You hated the way your insides clenched at the thought, nipples drewing tight.
Hated the way your mouth went dry.
Hated how something deep and traitorous inside you whispered, slow and reverent:
This is what a true man looks like.
Marcus watched you with something darker than satisfaction. Amusement, maybe. Possession. Victory.
You hadn’t even touched him yet, but your breath had already gone shallow, your lips parting without permission.
You were an Empress.
And yet here you were, kneeling, breath shaky, mouth parted, stunned by the sight in front of you… and even more so by the fact that you wanted it.
A flicker of shame curled in your stomach.
Then—
Fingers in your hair.
Firm.
Unforgiving.
“You’ve made me wait long enough,” Marcus growled. He tilted your face up, the heat in his eyes enough to scorch you from the inside out. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this now.”
Your heart pounded. You should’ve pulled back. Should’ve spoken. Should’ve run.
Instead, you just stared, breath hitched, mind blank, pride forgotten.
And Marcus, with a dark, crooked smile, leaned in just close enough to whisper: “Be a good girl now, regina mea.(my queen)”
His grip turned unforgiving as he guided you forward, stealing your breath as he forced you to take him — relentless, claiming, leaving no room for hesitation.
Your pupils shrank to the size of mere dots at the abrupt action. Your gag reflex was suddenly suppressed as you found yourself in the middle of deepthroating the man’s cock out of nowhere.
Your entire body trembled, instinctively trying to pull back, desperate to get some air. But the firm grip on your head held you in place. All you could do was focus on steadying your breathing, drawing in air through your nostrils. Hoping that you would be able to satisfy him with your tongue.
Gods, the taste was even stronger than the smell. Yet not once you get the feeling of wanting to gag or wretch from it. As a matter of fact, a small part of you found the thing to be… actually quite pleasant.
A low, guttural sound tore from Marcus’s chest; something feral, raw and you didn’t know why it made your own chest tighten the way it did. But it did.
The sound went straight through you, settling somewhere deep, igniting something you had spent far too long denying. Fervently licking the underside of his shaft to the best of your abilities while he drilled and slammed his massive length to the very back of your throat. Even with all of that, you couldn’t stop yourself from bringing a hand to between your thighs. Slipping two of your fingers into your burning, soaked core, plunging them, knuckles deep, into your wet cunt like a shameless whore.
This was unreal.
You — the illustrious, proud Empress of Rome. A woman raised on silk and ceremony. A woman who had built her entire existence around dignity, status, and control.
And yet here you were.
Kneeling.
Fingering yourself while the general of Rome used your mouth like it was some type of sexual relief toy.
And the gods help you — you didn’t care.
Not about titles.
Not about appearances.
Not even about the husband who hadn’t touched you in months.
All you could feel was the heat curling low in your belly. The ache. The burning awareness of how long you’d gone without being wanted like this.
You were shaking — not from shame, but from need. From the way your body responded despite everything your mind screamed you should remember.
His fingers loosened suddenly.
Not in kindness — in choice.
He let go of your hair with the same calm a beast might show just before pouncing again.
And just like that, he slipped free from your mouth with a wet sound.
You gasped — at the absence, the shock, the unbearable heat still coiled low in your belly.
Saliva clung to your lips — slick, messy, warm with the unmistakable blend of your spit and his precum — trailing down the corner of your mouth in a slow, shameful line. Your chest heaved, rapid and uneven, rising with every shallow breath you couldn’t quite catch.
“This wet,” he murmured, reaching for your hand, observing your soaked fingers. “Just from sucking my cock?” His thumb circled over the mess, slow and cruel. “So eager,” he mused darkly, “and yet so unfulfilled.” He leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a blade.
“Is this how royalty trembles? From the taste of a man made of war?”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You needy little whore.” You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to deny, maybe to beg — but he brought your fingers to his lips first. And sucked. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
“Sweeter than honey,” he muttered against your skin — but there was no reverence in it. Only hunger.
His hand tightened suddenly around your waist, and before you could speak — even breathe — he hoisted you into his arms like you weighed nothing.
Not gentle. Not loving.
Like you were something stolen. You gasped, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders. He didn’t even glance at you.
His voice, when it came, was lower than before. Rougher.
“I’ll carve my legacy into your womb, seed by seed, until there is no part of you untouched by me.”
Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice a slow venom.
“But first… I want the source.”
A pause. A breath. A cruel smile.
“You think I’d be satisfied with a little taste?”
Another growl — deeper now.
“I want to drown in it.”
And with that, he threw you onto the bed — hard enough to make the mattress protest, the silks twist beneath you.
You barely had time to blink before he was already on top of you, eyes burning like a man gone feral.
“Let’s see,” he rasped, his hungry eyes trailing down your body. “If the rest of you tastes as good as your shame, regina mea.”
It wasn’t just a word — it was a growl, raw.
Your throat grew dry under his ravenous gaze. Your whole body shivered under the weight of it. Every hair on your arms stood on end, your throat went dry, and your pulse raced.
His large, rough hands gripped your thighs, yanking you closer with a force that made your heart pound. The sheer power behind his pull sent your head spinning, every part of your body instantly alert to his dominance. You struggled instinctively, but the iron‑tight grip left you rooted in place, your legs locking in tension.
He smacked the side of your thigh, hard and sudden. “Would you have me drag you to the atrium?” he thundered, his voice low and commanding, vibrating with fury. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Then be still, and resist me not,” he growled, teeth clenched, and you obeyed.
With his strong hands, he spread your knees like splitting a fig in two and buried his head between them. His heated breath reached your wet folds before his mouth did and you bit your lower lip at the sensation. A sound came from his nose, Gods, he was… inhaling the scent of your arousal, a low, satisfied sound escaped him. Looking at him through your spread legs was terrifying, yet strangely intriguing. Your heart was pounding wildly as you thought about what he would do next.
His hands hungrily grabbed at your arse leaving red marks on them while his warm tongue fiddled around inside you. He licked, tasting your juices, nudging your clit with the tip of his tongue. You were wet, but not wet enough to his liking. Marcus wanted you swollen and dripping. Shock and pleasure fused and swept through your entire body, you clawed frantically for something to hold onto, something you could sink your fingers into. But with his grip tight around your hips, his head was just out of reach—far for you to grasp—so you dug your fingers into the sheets instead, your back arching. His hungry mouth found your clitoris and he sucked on it till it grew bigger. You felt your body heating up and your cunt getting even more wet at this forceful stimulation. Relentlessly, his tongue went deeper inside, licking over you with the wide, flat surface of his tongue, exulting in your strangled moan that he felt vibrating against his tongue, lips, and ears.
You hadn’t known that such pleasure-such a sensation-could even be real. You felt as though you were losing your mind from it. You clapped both hands over your mouth, pressing hard, not to stifle a scream, but to keep what remained of your sanity intact. Marcus heard your muffled scream and lifted his head. His tongue, coated with your wetness, traced his lips in a measured, deliberate motion, eyes never leaving you. Then he slapped, struck your hand aside and seized your wrists, yanking your hands away from your mouth.. “Do not dare to silence yourself,” he growled. “Find your voice,” he said. “Let me hear you."
Then he parted you with his thick fingers, swirled his tongue over and over, and you jerked and shook, thighs falling open shamelessly, wantonly, your hips moving instinctively, desperately to urge him closer and deeper. “Ooooohhhh! Please!” You screamed, “Oh gods, oh gods!”
He growled, pulling your hips closer to his mouth so he could go deeper, his mouth devouring you as you felt curls of his hair brushing against your thighs, his lapping and sucking producing slick, sinful sounds that only served to drive you further wild.
"Gods, please," You reached and yanked his head closer sharply, fingers tangled in his partly gray curls, nails scraping against his scalp. Your thighs were shaking, you felt hot and cold all over. He loved the way you scratched at him, how you shivered against him. His hard cock was dripping, straining so painfully.
Marcus’s grip tightened, followed by a sharp blow on your arse that tore a cry from you, digging his thick fingers deep into your core.
His beard prickled your folds so deliciously, his nose rubbed against your clit. He pushed his tongue deep into you again and sucked while fucking you with his fingers. You cried out, sobbing, and he felt more slickness leaking from you, felt your swollen flesh pulse under his tongue. He gripped your thigh with one hand and your arse with the other, holding you fast as he lapped up your juices greedily, groaning and growling in pleasure at the taste of your sweet honey. A broken sound slipped from you, caught somewhere between a sob and a cry, and it only seemed to drive him on. He hummed, sucked ruthlessly, the pleasure wasn’t only yours at the sweet violence of your response, your body bucking and your wetness on his lips and chin. “Rather sweet,” he said against you as he licked and sucked, punctuating his words with the curl of his tongue, with its flicks and flutters. He spoke no more for a long while, dedicating his tongue only to worshiping you and ruining you. It’s enchanting how you squirmed and wriggled, losing all grace and propriety, letting the façade you wore fall away completely in the face of you need for him. Never before had he wanted to ruin a woman the way he wanted you.
No other woman had ever drawn such a response from him, never stirred this depth of feeling or hunger—and the realization unsettled him. It made him wonder how it was possible that you alone could provoke something so fierce, so consuming, that even he had not known it existed.
The wet sounds of his tongue gliding over you filled the chamber now, faintly echoing beyond the door. Anyone outside, if listening carefully, might catch the echoes. Your moans intertwined with his low, throaty grunts and the sharp, wet smacks of his movements, merging into a dark, intoxicating rhythm—a melody of sin, fierce and unbridled, wild and consuming, each sound deliberate, like a man savoring a feast.
You didn't know how many times you came.
After a while, too much pleasure clouded your brain, and you forgot to count. Your heart beat wildly and you gasped for breath as if your whole body were melting in his arms. But all this time, his hands never loosened its grip, his mouth never left your folds. When he said he wanted to drown, he wasn’t jesting, he really seemed like he wanted to drown in your juices. You felt the sweat trailing down your back, it was as if you were slowly coming back to yourself, drifting down from some distant height. The world settled into focus again. Then you lifted your head and looked at him. But he was not yet finished with you.
Twice you peeked, and twice he drank your pleasure from you, dipping his tongue in to lap at you, avoiding your sensitive spots until you were ready for him again.
Once again, you peaked, suddenly this time, heat flaring in your belly and rushing under your skin, your cunt fluttering around his tongue and your thighs trembling against his face, your core is pulsing. Your brain had gone numb, your senses had gone numb, you only later noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks. You did not know whether you were crying from rapture, or because another man had given you this incredible intensity, or because such pleasure existed at all and you had been denied it for so long—deprived of it by your husband. You did not know which of these truths had broken you open. All you knew was that what had just been done to you—forced though it was—had filled you with an overwhelming, undeniable delight.
Marcus sit up on the bed and lifted his hand, crooking two fingers in a silent summons. “Rise,” he said. “Come closer.”
You obeyed, even as your knees trembled beneath you, crawling across the bed toward him. Drawn forward against your own will, compelled by the unspoken certainty of his command, you moved on—each measured inch an unacknowledged surrender, felt not in thought but in bone and blood.
His beard and jaw still bore the trace of your arousal, catching the light in a way that made your throat tighten. His lips were swollen now, darkened with heat and breath—and for the first time in your life, a man’s mouth held you spellbound.
You swallowed hard as your eyes lingered on his lips. The desire to kiss him rose sudden and unbidden, startling in its intensity. How had you never seen it before—how dangerously compelling they were, how they promised not tenderness, but conquest?
“Clean it,” he said, fixing you with a piercing stare. You blinked, meeting his gaze. When you hesitated, his hand reached behind your head, fingers closing in your hair. “Use that pretty tongue of yours,” he murmured darkly. “Taste yourself on me."
With a firm pull, he drew you closer, guiding you toward him.
You leaned closer, drawn by something you could no longer name. Slowly, tentatively, you traced the line of his jaw with your tongue, tasting the salt of him there, and your heady essence, then brushed your lips against his mouth. Your breath caught. You wanted to kiss him—no, you needed to—and the realization unfurled inside you, inescapable, undoing you far more than his touch ever had.
“Acacius,” you murmured, the plea barely a sound.
You wanted to know the taste of him, to feel his breath mingle with yours, to dream of his tongue—eloquent and dangerous, as if it had always known how to take what it desired.
For a heartbeat, he did not move. Then his hand came up, firm, stopping you just short of his lips. His fingers closed around your chin, tilting your face up, not unkindly—but decisively.
“No,” he said quietly, eyes dark and intent. He held you there a moment longer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, before easing you back—control reasserted without another word.
You fell back against the bed, breath uneven, while he rose to his feet. He crossed the room and poured himself a measure of wine from the decanter. You watched him as he drank, his back to you. The way he had denied you—that single, deliberate refusal—had left a sharp edge of anger beneath your skin. Still, you would not look desperate. You would not look like a supplicant.
“You taste better with wine,” he said, dismissing your situation entirely. "Your husband never gave you this kind of pleasure it seems. I can see it in your pretty face.”
You lowered your gaze at once.
“Damn fool,” he snarled. “Such a crime to leave such ambrosia untasted. Ah, regina mea, I could drink of your cunt forever and never be thirsty,” he said, lifting his cup to you.
He took another slow, deliberate sip, savoring it, while you studied him, trying to pierce the reason behind the refusal of his lips.
You bit your lower lip. “Does the general,” you asked, voice cold, measured, “never kiss the whores he fucks?”
For a single heartbeat, your question struck its mark. The man who had been all hunger and shadow faltered, something unreadable flashing across his face—cornered, exposed. You had reached him where it mattered. But the moment was brief. He mastered himself just as quickly, the mask sliding back into place, control reclaimed as if it had never slipped at all.
“You presume too much.” He laughed—low, unbothered, almost amused. His eyes slid over you slowly before lifting to meet yours, draining the cup in one swallow. “Besides, I haven’t fucked you yet.” As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never left you—still sprawled on the bed, exposed to his gaze. There was nothing hidden in the hunger there. He set the cup aside and began to walk back toward you.
Your heart leapt into your throat. Under the weight of his wolfish-stare alone, your pulse betrayed you, every step he took tightening the air between you.
Your eyes betrayed you, lingering where they should not—on his manhood, veins raised like living marble beneath the skin, carrying a promise of strength that needed no name to be understood, mirroring the same restrained power that defined the rest of his body.
There was an ease to him that had nothing to do with innocence—an assurance born of familiarity, of having learned bodies as thoroughly as battlefields. You wondered if it was merely the discipline of a soldier, or something more intimate. Not strength alone, but experience—the kind earned in shadows and silence, in nights that left their mark. The way he held himself suggested a man who had known desire well, and had never been ruled by it.
Your walls clenched around nothing.
By that time, you were blushing deeply as you watched the him positioned himself before you. Spreading your legs as his erection was looking full and firm with lust and arousal, precum leaking from his tip. If you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn that the length actually grew in size from a few mere moments ago. As he looked at you darkly, a sharp mix of excitement and unease tightened in your chest. You knew that in mere moments, you would be fucked by the general of Rome.
You had to admit—you had never imagined that the man who would take you, who would claim you like this, would be him. And yet… perhaps this was better than some nameless gladiator you had never known. Wasn’t it?
“So,” Marcus asked, a slow, taunting curve to his mouth, “you wish to be kissed, do you?” His gaze held yours, dark and knowing. “By the very man you were trying to flee from only moments ago?”
You felt the tip start to poke at your entrance. You bit your bottom lip as you watched the fat bulbous tip, followed by his thick inches slowly slide their way inside of you. A moan slipped from your lips as your eyes fluttered shut, your breath betraying you before words could. Marcus’s hand came up, slapped your cunt, drawing a sharp squeak from you before you could stop it. “Answer me,” he growled.
“Yes—” you cried, the word tearing free before you could stop it. “Yes, I wish you to kiss me,” you breathed, your body arching beneath him, caught between need and surrender.
He grinned, a slow, predatory curve to his lips. “Then,” he said, voice low and sharp, “you’ll have to earn it.”
Your mind swirled, trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. Before you could decide, his hands grabbed at your waist, you glanced up at him and was met with him giving you a playful smile— right before slamming the rest of his length in with one vicious thrust.
“Oh GODS!” You cried as your whole world went white. Your mind exploded from intense pain, pleasure and fullness, crashing against your entire body. Your mouth agape in a choked cry, nothing coming out at that very moment.
A sharp, surprised grunt left him, taken aback by just how tight you were. Your grip on him was like a python’s, quivering and quaking all around. Were he a lesser man, he would have likely reached his climax almost immediately, all because of you beneath him. Not even the virgin courtesan from the lupanaria could match the level of tightness you were exuding. It was both impressive and intoxicating—you felt divine. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, every fiber of him alive with sensation. He had never felt this way with any woman before—not even close.
For a heartbeat, the predator faltered, undone by the inevitability of your hold. Yet almost instantly, he recovered—lips curling into a dangerous, possessive smile, muscles taut with restrained hunger. Even as he regained his composure, the knowledge lingered: you had claimed him, and it thrilled him in ways no other had.
His first thrust was sudden and merciless, sharp as a tearing bandage. You cried out at the shocking fullness, your body jolting into a haze of overwhelming, mind-numbing pleasure. “Ahhhh...oohhh...Gods!"
His big hand wrapped around your throat, slapping your arse with the other, “Not your gods… you’ll scream my name,” He grunted as he began to move inside you, his grip on your throat not lessening for a second. The slaps on your arse and cunt kept coming, over and over, raw and relentless, as he fucked you too hard, too deep, with no intention of slowing down. Your screams weren’t enough to stop him—if anything, they only seemed to please him, driving him to thrust deeper and deeper until you felt his balls slamming against your arse cheeks.
By the time he found a steady rhythm, you were reduced to breathless moans and sharp cries, the kind that belonged to a woman utterly claimed. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, while your legs jerked and bucked helplessly at his sides under the relentless force of him.
The heavy, rhythmic impact of your bodies colliding echoed through the room, mingling with the sounds spilling from your lips—noises you had never imagined yourself capable of making. Each slam, each gasp, carried a wild, almost shameful intensity, and still, you found yourself utterly unable to stop it.
The more he slammed himself into you, the more your mind fried and your insides churned from his glorious length.
Marcus treated you more like a shameless filthy whore than a woman—or, hell, even a human at that. Yet the very idea of being fucked this way didn’t feel as shocking or unappealing as you had first imagined.
For a moment, the pleasure threatened to overwhelm you, and you squeezed your eyes shut—but his hand on your neck shook you insistently.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and you obeyed, meeting his dark, unyielding gaze as your bodies moved together.
“Now… scream my name.”
He thrust again, harder, more brutal this time. You gasped, trying to resist, but the sound escaped anyway, “Marcus!”
Every soul in the atrium—and likely throughout the villa—must have heard you. In that instant, you understood exactly what he had meant when he said “earn it.”
He thrust once more. “Louder. Declare me… in full..”
Slapping your arse with both hands, he kept you in place as he pumped into you with great speed. You screamed, almost sobbing, each name rising higher than the last, “Marcus! Justus! Acacius!”
A dark, satisfied laugh escaped him, thick with possession and hunger.
“Well done… let everyone know who claims you. Let them hear who fucks you,” he growled, eyes blazing, every muscle in his body taut with the knowledge that you were his—claimed, shattered, and entirely under his control.
His large hand moved over your bouncing breasts, squeezing with rough insistence, fingers pinching your nipples sharply. The other slid down your stomach, teasing the cleft between your thighs in perfect rhythm with each thrust.
Before you realized it, you found yourself cumming, your body was overtaken, a shattering wave of pleasure ripping through you. A high, desperate cry escaped your lips as your body shuddered, your juices spilled, slicking both of you, toes curling against his back in the intensity of it all.
Marcus grunted, caught off guard by the tightness of your folds gripping him. Squeezing him down as if you were attempting to wring his cock out for his seed. There was something almost… old in it, a dark thrill he hadn’t known he’d missed.
Yet he did not slow, did not relent. Every movement drove deeper, claiming you fully, and still he drew endless satisfaction from your body, unyielding, relentless, and wholly possessed by the sensation of you.
“Marcus! W-Wait!” you cried, eyes wide at his resumed thrusting. “I-I'm still—have mercy, please!”
You couldn’t even finish the sentence. A cry of pleasure tore from your throat as your body shook through another climax, Marcus deliberately dragging it out with long, deep strokes. His hands found your bouncing breasts once more, taking one into his mouth while teasing the other, his tongue hungry and brutal as he suckled, before letting go of your nipple with a loud, wet pop that echoed briefly through the chamber. You could not tell whether he meant to rouse you further, or if he was simply indulging in the pleasure of it himself.
Somehow, your legs had slid up onto the bed without you even noticing; Marcus’s strong arms lifted them higher, wrapping them around his waist, guiding you instinctively while you clutched his head close to him with what little willpower you could muster.
Your screams grew louder, more urgent, every second feeding his predatory hunger.
It didn’t take long before another wave overtook you, leaving your legs trembling, breath broken, the world narrowing to sensation alone.
Then he paused.
For a fleeting moment, you thought it was mercy.
It wasn’t.
You were still trembling, utterly sated and almost dazed, struggling to open your eyes. You felt him lift you slightly, and beneath your hips he placed something soft—perhaps a pillow—so that your hips were raised, your rear arched. Ah… you realized, even in the haze of pleasure, that this was the method used to increase the chance of conception, a knowledge that sent a shiver through you in spite of yourself.
After adjusting your position, he resumed his relentless thrusting, one arm sliding under you to wrap firmly around your waist. His movements grew harder, faster, each stroke a brutal claim on your body.
You were utterly lost in your storm of delight, unable to notice how deeply trapped you were in his dominating mating press. His chest pressed flush against your voluptuous frame, every motion scorching, possessive, unyielding.
His hips began to snap faster, a clear, primal signal that he was nearing his own climax, and you could feel the heat radiating from him through every curve of your body. The intensity was overwhelming, your senses consumed by him—by the force, the control, and the fierce, inescapable pleasure he was giving you.
By the gods.
Your form was exquisite, a decadence beyond reckoning. He had not foreseen this, not even in himself — the way desire sank its hooks so deep it threatened to consume him whole. You knew nothing of the divinity of your own flesh, nor of how completely it ensnared him, he simply couldn’t get enough of you.
Marcus pressed his lips fiercely against your neck, lingering there with brutal intent. You felt the force of his mouth, the demanding pull, then the sharp pressure of his teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. A raw moan tore from your throat, unbidden, as his hold on you tightened. You were crushed under the weight of his thick form—yet you did not care in the slightest.
With a sudden, powerful downward thrust, he poured every ounce of force into his hips, movements primal and unrelenting. A seasoned military man, far older than your husband yet giving you pleasures he never could, he grunted low in satisfaction, each sound vibrating against your neck as he reached his climax in one brutal sweep. You felt every guttural murmur, every shiver of release, his essence filling you so well. Your eyes rolled back, and a shameless cry of pure bliss tore from your lips as you were filled with the general’s thick seed. He pressed your body down against the pillow beneath your hips, lifting your rear high, angling you perfectly—as if to ensure every last drop of his breeding was swallowed by your womb.
You both remained still, his lingering warmth and the last aftershocks of ecstasy circulating within you. Your eyes met as Marcus inclined his face toward yours; his features were damp with sweat, dark curls clinging to his brow and catching the lamplight with a faint sheen. His brown eyes glinted like polished bronze in the low glow of the chamber, steady and intent. You were locked there together, wrapped in the haze of post-climax heat, and even now he remained hard, filling you completely—an exquisite fullness.
“I know why you didn’t want to kiss me,” you breathed, chest rising and falling beneath his arms as he held you tightly. His eyes, still misted from climax, sharpened on you. “Because there’s a saying,” you breathed, voice trembling, “that the bond of love is sealed on the lips—osculum vinculum amoris est. You fear realizing you’re in love with me, and prefer to surrender to desire instead… don’t you, General?"
He smirked. “Ah… clever little empress. Speaking of lips and love—daring to have me confess to something that does not exist, testing me, even while you lie beneath me.”
As if to prove his own words true, as if to demonstrate that no such feeling held power over him, his finger traced the line of your jaw. His eyes burned as his lips brushed yours, barely there, a calculated tease rather than a claim. His thumb followed, skimming your lower lip, coaxing it apart in silent invitation, controlled and measured.
For a fleeting moment, hesitation crossed his face. You felt it—knew it instinctively—as though a single kiss would cost him something he was not yet willing to surrender. And gods, how you wanted it. You wanted his mouth on yours, wanted to taste him, craved his lips with a hunger sharper than anything you had ever known.
But he did not give in. His jaw tightened, that familiar hard line returning as his posture straightened, discipline snapping back into place. He withdrew, composure intact, leaving the space between you charged and aching—while your lips still burned with the memory of what he had almost allowed.
You remained pressed together, the heat between you slowly ebbing as he finally softened within you. He held you steady as he withdrew, still warm, leaving behind only the faintest trace of his seed as it slid down your arse and soaked into the sheets below.
His grip stayed firm beneath your hips as he pressed you back against the bed, his palm settling briefly between your breasts, grounding you there. “Do not move,” he said, already rising.
You could not have moved even if you wished to—your legs and pelvis numb, every muscle aching, as though the great columns of the temple of Jupiter had collapsed upon you and left you buried beneath their weight. And yet… you were happy. Grateful. Still, as his body lifted away, a quiet ache settled in your chest. You already missed the crushing warmth of him, the way his solid, muscled body, had held you down.
Marcus adjusted you with practiced ease, one arm steady at your hips while his gaze lingered on the marks already blooming across your skin—faint now, darker by morning. His fingers brushed your lips, slow and deliberate, tracing them as if committing their shape to memory… and then, just as slowly, he withdrew his hand. Your eyes met.
He turned away first. Whatever thought had crossed his mind, he abandoned it.
You gathered yourself on one elbow, breath unsteady. “If you do not kiss me now,” you said quietly, unable to hide the hope in your voice, “you may never have another chance, General.”
He was already reaching for his garment, the distance returning with every movement. The moment he left the chamber, he would be unreachable again—so you pressed on, hopeful and daring all at once.
Despite your exhaustion, you smiled, a quiet challenge in your eyes. “Even if you were to seize the chance,” you said softly, testing him, “do not imagine I would make it easy for you.”
He paused at the door, glancing back with a slow, knowing smile. As if you weren’t already mine,” he drawled. “Tell me, my lady. Where does this confidence come from? Or is it simply defiance you wear so prettily? If I choose to take what I desire, there is no wall in Rome, no name, no vow that could bar my way."
He turned and left the chamber, the door closing behind him and sealing you in silence. Alone at last, you drew a slow, unsteady breath, his seed floating deep within your insides, his scent clinging to your skin—while his final words seemed to echo in the quiet, lingering as insistently as he did.
You knew you would see him again—at every ceremony, every banquet, every festival where Rome displayed its splendor. From across marble halls and torchlit courts, your gazes would meet, a silent acknowledgment, a greeting meant for no one else. At each triumphant return from war, he would stand before the city as its conqueror, and you would stand beside another man as his wife—an ornament of Rome, a symbol, a possession.
Yet your body, your longing, even your heart, belonged elsewhere. They belonged to him—quietly, secretly, like a truth spoken only in whispers. And they would remain so, hidden beneath silk and ceremony, until the seeds he had sown within you took root and blossomed into a son, an heir growing silently in the shadows of empire.
Summary: Pedro is all yours after the Super Bowl ends.
Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader
Tags: bf!pedro; drabble; established relationship; oneshot
Warnings: +18 content; MDNI; smut; cum; nudity; inappropriate language
A/n: first of all: LATINO POWER! second: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND, HE LOOKED SO HANDSOME AND HOT IN THAT WHITE OUTFIT. Im happy that Pedro participated in this show that's so important for the Latino people, it means so much to us! I'm so proud of my roots and it's so good to have someone like Bad Bunny and Pedro using their influence to speak out in such dark times as this. I couldn't be more proud and grateful for the greatest halftime show ever! I love you Benito and I fucking love you Pedro! About this little fanfic, it's just a passionate rambling of mine. This man deserves all the love in the world and as long as I'm alive he will be loved and desired in all my stories! And last but not least: ICE OUT! AND FUCK YOU TRUMP!
Word count: 689
Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance had been historic, featuring some of the biggest Latin celebrities of the moment.
And of course, Pedro Pascal was there.
Your man looks radiant: his curls loose and moisturized by Coco, his eyes shining with emotion, the first buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the skin you had left flushed the night before. Pedro is so shy that you can tell exactly how nervous he is, and at the same time how happy he is to be there. He films and takes pictures of everything, thinking about how much you’ll love seeing it all once he gets home. And when he does arrive, he’s still buzzing with adrenaline from having taken part in something so important.
You wrap your arms tightly around him and scatter kisses across his face, so proud of the man you chose to spend the rest of your life with. He is one of a kind in every sense: the most loving, the kindest, the most empathetic. You met at a political protest, and from that day on, you never let go of each other.
It felt like a meeting of souls.
Even though he is famous and you are just an anonymous person, Pedro has never made you feel less important. There was nothing you didn’t know, nothing that ever made you feel absent from his life. Even when you couldn’t be with him in moments like that, he always made a point of returning to you as soon as possible. Like now, in his bedroom, city lights reflecting over his bare chest. You trace invisible lines with your fingers along the small marks on his neck left by time.
He is entirely beautiful from head to toe.
His hands rest slowly on your hips, a crooked smile forming the familiar dimples on his lightly shaved skin. You smile back and brush a curl away from his forehead before he leans down to kiss you. His kiss is unhurried, his warm tongue exploring your mouth as the two of you roll naked across the bed, him leaving you on top. His slightly calloused hands slide along your back as you straddle him and feel him fit inside you.
Bracing yourself against his chest, you take control, moving exactly the way he likes. Pedro is completely submissive to you, letting you do whatever you want and placing your pleasure above everything else. Watching your body overtaken by desire is his greatest pleasure, listening to your breaths, your moans, the furrow of your brow when you’re getting close. His loving gaze admires your body, sculpted perfectly for him, your hips moving in a constant rhythm, your long hair—his favorite—falling in layers down your back.
He loves the rosy hue that spreads across the apples of your cheeks and your lips, left damp from their shared kisses, as the sexual act goes on.
When you open your eyes, he knows, telepathically, that you’re close, and sensing your exhaustion, he switches positions.
Pedro sinks into you, gripping your hips firmly with one hand while the other cups your cheek, keeping your eyes locked on his. He likes fucking you while looking into your eyes, diving into the deep glow of your dilated irises. It excites him even more; his cock feels heavier between his legs, and he nearly cries out when you wrap your legs around his hips and tighten around him in response to his movements.
That’s enough for him. Pedro rushes to kiss you, and you both cum at the same time, the kiss breaking as a rough moan spills from his mouth against yours. You smile, breathing hard, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck while he drags his nose along your cheek and buries his face in your neck.
Pedro feels undone and lets out a nasal laugh. He wishes he had lasted longer, if it weren’t for how overstimulated he was.
He breathes hot and heavy against your skin, then lifts his face again, meeting your satisfied smile.
“I got you.” you murmur. He smiles and presses a languid kiss to your mouth.
Summary: Like a moth to a flame, you're drawn to Joel yet again.
Warnings: reader's got some deep insecurities and anxiety she's struggling with (self doubt, feeling not good enough, putting up walls, panic attacks, etc), language, smut (18+), piv sex, oral sex, competency kink, praise kink
Masterlist
It's been a week.
Seven full days since Joel was in your bed. And like a coward, you avoided going outside whenever his crew was working next door. But even if you wanted to, they didn't give you much of a reason. His crew was respectful and quieter, mostly because they began working indoors now. But you still caught glimpses of Joel frequently going in and out of the house to grab something from the trucks.
You hadn't spoken. It was like it never happened. But it did. You know it did, because his name and number are still scribbled at the bottom of the white board you have on your fridge, right underneath the list of items you need to grab from the grocery store next time you go. It glares at you every time you get milk for your coffee. Your gaze naturally drifts to the digits scrawled in his unique handwriting, like a beacon scanning the sea.
You never called him. You're not even sure what you would say if you did. Yet you can't bring yourself to erase his script from the board.
Around Thursday, your mind starts playing tricks on you. Right on schedule. You overanalyze everything and the further away you get from the last time you spoke to him, the more fuzzy the memory grows. What was his mood when he left? Did he regret it? Was he ashamed or feeling guilty? Is that why he never gave your house so much as a glance all week? Was he trying to forget?
It doesn't matter, you keep telling yourself. You didn't want anything more from him, you made that abundantly clear. So why are you still obsessing over it? Why are you even thinking about it now, a full week later, while you watch his crew eat lunch together in the shade on your neighbor's front lawn? Why are you scanning the group for those familiar broad shoulders and warm eyes and feeling disappointed when you can't find him?
Your computer monitor goes black from being left unattended for so long while you continue to look. You don't even notice.
He's avoiding you.
Well, you're avoiding him, aren't you?
You try to shake the invasive thoughts loose but they don't budge. Doubt begins to fester in the corners of your mind.
You set the parameters, you remind yourself. You're the one who didn't call him.
You pinch the bridge of your nose as the wave of insecurity washes over you.
It's easier this way. You don't get hurt this way.
You breathe slowly—in, then out. Then do it again, repeating your mantra to yourself until the tightness in your throat eases and you can feel again.
"Jesus," you mutter to yourself. How pathetic. You had sex with the man once. You hardly know him and yet you still have the same issues you always have when it comes to men you've dated.
Slowly, your gaze lifts to look out your window again. Finally, you spot him. He's under a tree with two other workers with a cooler open in front of him. He's holding a half eaten sub in one hand and a clear gallon jug of water in the other. They're laughing about something and even from this distance, you can see that dimple appear next to the corner of his mouth. His eyes soften and crinkle a little bit when he smiles and says something back, making his crew laugh even harder.
Without realizing it, the tension in your shoulders loosens. Your pulse slows and your mind is no longer clouded with insecurities. You feel steady again.
Suddenly struck with what you think is a fabulous idea, you stand up, nearly knocking over your chair in the process.
"Cookies."
Some demon possesses you to hurry to your kitchen and whip open your fridge for a roll of chocolate chip cookie dough you bought a few weeks ago and you get to work. Your eyes only settle twice on his number scrawled with black ink on the board while you preheat your oven and slice up the roll.
When you slide the baking sheet onto the top shelf and close the oven with a soft, satisfying thud, you dust your hands and smile to yourself. You're far from a domestic goddess, but baking some premade cookies is certainly a skill you possess.
They work hard, right? There's no harm in bringing them cookies. It's not weird.
There's a tall, narrow cupboard next to the fridge where you store most of your dry goods, including the baking spray you're looking to return to its spot on the bottom shelf, but when you open the door and notice the mess of items scattered on all four shelves, you frown.
Glancing at the clock to confirm you have a full hour before your next meeting, you decide it's the perfect time to reorganize your pantry. It's definitely not because you're fighting the urge to pretty yourself up with a touch of makeup and a spritz of perfume at the thought of being close to Joel again soon.
Ten minutes later you have two shelves of items scattered around your kitchen floor. It feels good to clean and organize. It helps ground you when your anxiety flares up, like a gentle reminder you do have control. After disinfecting the shelves themselves, you carefully place all the items back, turning the labels forward and lining up cans in a perfectly straight line.
You stand to admire your work with a pleased smile. Halfway done. Just as you lean forward to empty the last two shelves, you smell it. Burning.
You forgot to set a timer. Shit.
With a panic, you straighten up way too quickly, cracking your head on the top shelf of your pantry in the process. You cry out and stumble back, rubbing the sore spot just in time to watch in horror as the wood snaps from its place against the wall and shifts forward.
"No!" you yell, but it's hopeless. A bag of flour explodes on the ground. A glass jar of something pickled comes next. Salad dressing that is thankfully in a plastic bottle follows, along with a half opened bag of cookies and some stale cereal. You close your eyes so you don't have to watch the rest but you can hear it, your tidy little world giving into a chaotic mess at your feet.
If you were a crier, now would be the time. Instead, the usual wave of panic surges through your veins, your pulse speeds up, and your throat starts to close.
"It's f-fine," you whisper to yourself, forcing your eyes open. "It's just... I can fix this." But it's not helping. And the cookies are still burning. And your life is still crumbling. And you're still not good en—
Stop. Your eyes squeeze shut again.
One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, out.
Your jaw is clenched hard but you force yourself to go through the motions to calm your body.
Triage. It's what you do best. You do it at work all the time.
Your eyes fly open and you look around.
Oven first. A fire is worse.
You grab a mitt and yank the burned cookies out of the oven, only to take the tray and put it immediately on your back porch so the smoke doesn't set off your smoke detector because you're fairly certain that high pitched squeal will actually be the last straw right now.
Second. The mess on the floor. Liquid traveling under appliances is bad. That means more work. So you set yourself on stopping the slow moving trail of vinegar and god knows what else.
Once that is cleaned up, you begin to feel calmer. Actually seeing progress being made helps, it always does. Cleaning up the flour and cereal and all the other dry goods is easier. Your throat relaxes and your pulse returns to normal.
Your floors needed to be mopped anyway, you think after all the shattered pieces of glass are swept up. Not to be deterred, you grab a new baking pan, put in another batch of cookies, and actually set the fucking timer before you get a mop and clean up the floors from any sticky residue.
Once the batch is finished in the oven—looking perfect, actually—your kitchen smells clean and your life is back in order. Just the way you like it.
"Alright," you breathe, flicking some hair out of your eyes. You find a cheap plate made for outdoor entertaining and place the cookies on it, trying to make them look as aesthetically pleasing as possible, but at the end of the day they're just... cookies from a tube. Whatever.
You peer out your window, readying yourself to take them over to the crew. That's when it hits you: what the hell do you even say? 'Here's some cookies, you're working so hard on a house that isn't even mine'?
You could give them just to Joel, but you know that'll look even worse. At that point you might as well just get a shirt that says we had sex on it.
This was a stupid idea. What were you thinking?
And what's worse is, if you don't give these cookies away, you'll end up eating them all by yourself in two days.
From your spot in your living room, you can see some of the men beginning to stand. Their break is coming to an end, along with your window.
Apology cookies. That's it!
You'll take these cookies over as an apology for being annoyed with them the last few weeks.
There's only time to rake your fingers through your hair once or twice. That's good. You don't want to look like you're trying too hard.
Yeah, like bringing them fresh baked cookies doesn't look like you're trying hard.
After wrapping the plate tightly with plastic wrap, you head out your front door with what you hope is a casual look on your face and an energetic pep in your step. Gravel crunches under your sneakers as you walk across your driveway, alerting a couple of the men to your presence. You try to ignore the kick in your chest the closer each step brings you to Joel.
"Well, look who it is," one of the older workers says wearily when you're within earshot. You smile sweetly at him, closing the distance between you and the crew. It's impossible not to notice the way they all stop laughing and talking as you approach, making you feel like you're about to give a presentation in front of an audience or something. It's certainly not helping your nerves, but you power through as if you were leading a meeting at work.
"Gentlemen," you greet them, coming to a stop. Joel is the last to turn but something tells you he knew it was you that was approaching. He doesn't look surprised to see you. In fact, you think he looks pleased. At least, based on the way he lets his gaze slowly take you in tells you he's pleased.
You ignore the way your stomach flutters.
"Oh," you say lightly with a smirk when you lock eyes with him. "Gentlemen... and Joel," you correct yourself, making some of the guys chuckle. Joel included.
"Somethin' you need, darlin'?" he asks. That familiar southern twang has your pulse skipping in your throat.
"Need? No. Want? Yes." You lift the plate of wrapped cookies for them to see. Instantly, their eyes light up as they all look at the plate. All except Joel, who keeps his gaze directly on you. "I wanted to come over and give all of you these cookies. As an apology."
"I'll take those, thank you," a scrawny looking younger guy with a terrible sunburn says, snatching the plate from your hands. You smile as he takes it over to the crew.
"Apology for what?" Joel presses, still not showing the least bit interest in the snacks. The rest of the men have started tearing into the plastic, your conversation no doubt fading into the background.
"Apology for being... rigid these last few weeks." You clasp your hands in front of you, addressing solely Joel now that the crew has forgotten you existed.
Joel steps closer so he can lower his voice. "Feelin' rigid again today, sweetheart?"
You bristle but your face gives you away. He can read how flustered you are at the vaguest hint of your last encounter and it only encourages him.
"No!" you choke, "Jesus, Joel. I'm just trying to be nice."
"That so?"
Your eyes flicker to his crew. Not a single soul is paying either of you any attention.
"Of course. What else would it be?"
A deep, thoughtful hum rumbles in his chest as he inches a little closer. The heat of his gaze sets your skin on fire. Every spot of your body he lingers on comes alive.
"Could be you were lookin' for my attention," he says rather boldly. You scoff even though your cheeks flush almost immediately.
"Don't flatter yourself. Actually—" You turn to face him head on, arms crossed defiantly across your chest. You tilt your chin up to pin him with your most confident glare. "I was hoping to borrow a drill. So, yeah, you could say I have an ulterior motive. Not the one you wish, though."
"A... drill?" he repeats, voice filled with doubt. His brown eyes sparkle with amusement as he looks down at you, his shadow shielding you from the powerful Texas sun. "What do you need a drill for?"
You jut a thumb casually over your shoulder, back towards the direction of your house. "I broke a shelf in my pantry. I need to fix it."
His mouth twitches as he thinks over what you said, like he's trying to decide if you're lying or not. You can see the gears in his head working, no doubt trying to come up with something to say that will make you squirm.
"Sure. I'll let you borrow a drill. You know how to use one?"
You shrug. "How hard can it be?"
Joel rolls his eyes with a sigh before motioning you towards the lawn. "C'mon, Handy Ma'am."
You laugh at the lame joke and follow him to his truck. Now that his back is to you, you allow yourself a few moments to admire his strong shoulders and easy gait. It's exciting, knowing what this man is capable of behind closed doors, surrounded by people who wouldn't suspect a thing.
Joel opens the back of his cab and reaches forward with a grunt. You bite your lower lip and try not to stare too long at the way his shirt rides up, revealing just the slightest hint of his boxers. Suddenly, your mouth feels dry.
"Think this one'll do the job," he says, emerging with a yellow cordless drill. He holds it up and presses the trigger a few times in rapid succession, making sure the battery is charged before handing it over to you.
"Thank you," you say, eyes widening briefly when you feel the weight of it in your hand. It's heavier than you expect.
Joel must see your uncertainty and quirks an eyebrow at you. "You need help?"
"No," you shake your head quickly. "I can do it."
You can't, but he doesn't have to know. You can pretend you fixed it when you return it to him later.
A slightly awkward moment of silence settles between you, like you're both trying to find a reason to keep the conversation going without looking like you're desperate. You pretend to inspect the drill while Joel casually studies the sky.
"Wondered if I scared you off," he finally says, chin still tilted upwards. "Didn't wanna pester you or nothin' but... I was thinkin' 'bout you."
The softness in his voice catches you off guard. "Oh, uh..." you stammer, surprised. "No. Not scared. Just... busy."
"Yeah. Good. That's good." He drops his gaze to look at you once before staring at something on the ground. His jaw rocks from side to side and he clears his throat. It occurs to you then that he's... uneasy? Nervous?
It shouldn't, but it relaxes you for some reason.
"I thought about you, too," you admit quietly. His face lights up with a cocky grin and you immediately regret it.
"Yeah? You thought 'bout me?"
"Oh, shut up."
"No, tell me. What were you thinkin' 'bout?"
"I take it back."
"Can't. It's already out there."
"You're impossible!" You aim the drill at him and press the trigger. The gentle whir acts as a soundtrack to his laughter, which only makes you scowl.
"Just got one question for you," he says, still laughing. Despite yourself, you can feel the corners of your mouth tug upwards at the way he looks at you like you're the only thing worth looking at in that moment.
"What?" you reply dryly.
He leans in then and you forget to breathe, nearly dropping the drill in your hand from the way he smells like the earth and coffee and some spicy undertone. Probably deodorant or shampoo—
Stop it.
"Wanna screw?"
You gasp, face hot as you quickly scan your surroundings. Luckily, no one overheard him. At least, you don't think they did. Still, you're about to rip into him when you turn back around only to find him smugly standing there holding up a... well, an actual screw.
"Excuse me?" you hiss.
"Said... do—you—want—a—screw?"
"That is not what you said."
"You're hearin' what you wanna hear, darlin'."
You make a frustrated noise and turn on your heel, back towards your house. "Thanks for the drill!"
"Hey, wait!"
"No, Joel, I don't want a screw!"
Some of the men in his crew chuckle as you march past but you don't care.
"I was just jokin'," Joel says after catching up with you. "Gimme that, I'll do it," he adds, reaching for the drill.
"I can do it."
"No, you can't. You ain't ever touched a drill before in your life, have you?"
Your pace slows and your grip on the drill loosens. "Well, no, not technically—"
"Then lemme help you. It'll take ten minutes, I don't mind." Joel turns and walks backwards next to you so he can address his men. "Imma help her fix her shelf, get back to workin' on that framin', need it done 'fore the concrete guys come next week."
You hear an amused murmur behind you and you stiffen. You don't need to hear what they said. You already know.
"They're gonna think something's going on," you scold him, embarrassed as you stomp up your porch steps.
"Well, somethin' is goin' on," he argues. You stop dead in your tracks and turn on him, making him stumble.
"This is not like last time," you warn him, pointing a finger at his chest. His wide, tanned, sweaty, gorgeous chest.
"I know, I know," he says, palms in the air. You stare at him for another moment, making sure he understood and was being serious before lowering your hand and offering him the drill.
"Good. Follow me."
You miss his sly grin when you turn to open your door.
***
"How the hell'd you do this?"
"Huh?"
Joel gestures to the splintered wood. "This. You take a hammer to it?"
"No, I—my head, I knocked into it when I was cleaning."
Joel gives you an incredulous look before focusing back on the shelf. "Goddamn. You alright?"
You huff, brushing off his concern. "Of course. Can you fix it?"
Joel clicked his tongue as he examines the wood further before peeking inside your pantry. "Gonna need a new piece of wood. I got some scrap in the back of my truck, gimme a second, be right back."
"Oh, forget it. It's too much trouble. I'll figure someth—"
"It ain't too much trouble," Joel says firmly, cutting you off. He gives you a sincere look, like he wants to make sure you understand. "It'll take a minute. You're doin' me the favor, anyway. Less wood I gotta unload later."
Before you can argue further, he disappears down your hallway and back out the front door. Your screen swings shut and you hear the dull thud of his boots hitting your porch, then the sound fades and you're left all alone in your kitchen, struggling yet again with your inner demons.
You're a burden.
You never even called him, you don't deserve his help.
He doesn't care about that. He doesn't care about you like that. He got laid, he got what he wanted and left his number because he thought it was the right thing to do.
It didn't mean anything.
"Oh, my god. What is wrong with me?" you mutter, rubbing your eyes in frustration. You shake it off, straighten your shoulders and smooth out your shirt just in time because a moment later, you hear Joel jog up your front steps and open the door.
You take a deep breath and force a smile when he triumphantly enters your kitchen, holding up a piece of wood.
"This should do it."
"Great."
Joel kneels down with a heavy grunt and gets to work, but something caught your eye: he returned wearing a tool belt.
It looks good on him.
Snap out of it.
"Do you want something to drink?" You're already moving towards a cupboard, pulling down two glasses before he answers.
"Sure."
You have half a pitcher of lemonade you made a few days ago—the powdered kind, obviously. Your culinary prowess only extends to cookie dough logs, not reaming citrus.
There's a high pitched squeal from the drill and the grating sound of wood being punctured and twisted by metal. You wince and set his lemonade down on the counter behind him, then take yours a few feet away to your small kitchen island. With a little jump, you hoist yourself up to sit on the edge of the counter, bare legs dangling over the sides as you sip your lemonade and watch Joel work.
He unclips a flashlight from his belt and pops it between his teeth so he can see what he's doing. He's all business, focused entirely on doing the job and nothing else. There's no awkward air, no sexually charged quips. When Joel Miller is working, he's putting his entire focus on doing a good job.
It's kind of hot, when you think about it. His head must be an encyclopedia of manual labor. He knows the exact right screw to use, the right wood... he knows to avoid the back panel because there's likely electrical running back there for your refrigerator. He knows to install the shelf a little lower than before because you're shorter than the pantry.
He's smart. A different kind of smart than you're used to. Watching him work gives you a new found appreciation for him.
You don't realize you're staring until he pockets the flashlight and peers out from inside the pantry with a knowing smirk.
"See somethin' you like?"
Normally, you'd bite back with some sarcastic remark to cut him off at the knees, but this time, you're flustered and you can't shake it off in time to think of anything clever.
"Uh—" You clear your throat and take a sip from your glass, hoping he can't see the way you're breathing a little faster. But he does see it. He sees everything. The smile slips from his face and his gaze darkens fractionally when you rub the back of your neck and take a deep breath before responding. "How long have you, uh—how long have you done this?"
Joel pauses a moment, still leaning halfway inside your pantry with the drill poised against the wood. He can see the way you fidget on your counter, the way your thighs press together and your teeth dig into your lower lip.
"What? Construction?" he eventually asks. You nod. "All my life. Started out at a landscaping company right outta high school, then went to U Tech to be a welder. Took some classes here 'n there 'bout different things. Hopped around a bit to find what suited me best."
"And what was that?"
He frowns. "What?"
"What suited you best?" you clarify. Joel smiles and drags his gaze back to your shelf. Before pressing the trigger for the drill, he answers.
"None of it. Liked it all, so I started this business. Little bit of everythin' that way."
The sound of the drill drowned out the space left for you to reply.
He makes it sound so simple. Like of course he just started a business from the ground up because that's what he knew he wanted to do. And he seems to be good at it. And enjoy it. You wonder if he knows how rare that is.
You're too lost in your own musings to realize he had been talking. You blink and refocus on him, standing next to your pantry with the drill at his side and his tool belt slung comfortably around his waist, looking at you expectantly.
"Huh?"
"I said, how long you been doin' your job?"
"Oh. Uh, almost ten years. Started as an intern during my final semester of college and accepted a job after graduating. Never really considered anywhere else."
"Why?"
You swing your legs and shrug. "Easier than starting over, I guess."
"Do you like it?"
You think about his question. Do you? You want to say yes, but you're not even sure anymore. You're pretty sure you used to, right?
"I'm good at it," you finally say. But Joel sees through it. Of course he does.
"Didn't really answer the question."
You laugh and look down at your freshly mopped floors. "I like that I'm good at it, how about that?"
Joel hums to himself and slowly turns to examine your shelf. He gives it a little shake, taps the top to make sure it's steady, then tests the door before making a satisfied noise and stepping back.
"You're all set here."
You lean forward a bit to look inside the pantry, impressed with how quickly and neatly he was able to fix it. There's no question you wouldn't have been able to do the job half as good.
"Thank you."
Joel grins, giving you a flash of that dimple, before picking up a few loose screws from the ground and pocketing them somewhere in his belt. You catch a glimpse of his stomach and you swallow hard. Your gaze shifts briefly to the clock—you still have twenty minutes before your next meeting.
"Anythin' else?" he asks, glancing around the kitchen. He picks up the lemonade and leans a hip against your counter while he drinks. His eyes settle on the whiteboard on your fridge, where his writing is still scrawled with his name and number, and guilt blooms in your chest.
"Yeah," you say softly, pulling his attention from the board. Slowly, he sets down the empty glass where he found it. He raises his brows, waiting, then you lift your hand and curl your finger, beckoning him forward. His expression softens and he does as you wish, closing the space between you until he's standing between your knees, inches apart. You drop your hand and hook your finger around his tool belt, giving him a playful smirk. That's all he needs to see. He presses both palms flat against the countertops on either side of your hips and tips his face down, brushing his lips gently over your own.
He's testing. Wondering if he's reading the room right. You respond with a little more pressure and he relaxes into the kiss with a sigh. Your arms loosely circle around his neck and you part your lips, inviting his tongue to dance with your own. He's so warm and smells so good, you almost forgot. Your mind goes hazy as you give in, letting your fingers thread gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. He practically purrs into your mouth, clearly enjoying the affection.
"I have twenty minutes," you breathe, pulling back just enough to whisper the offer.
"I can work with that," he replies just as softly. Then his mouth is pressing eagerly to yours, sealing the deal.
His hands slide up your shirt, mapping the skin underneath. He makes a pleased sound and kisses you a little harder when you shift forward, pressing yourself closer.
Joel flattens his palm against your spine, drawing you in. You welcome it by wrapping your legs around his waist and deepening the kiss with a soft sound.
He's so good at this, you think. He's good at making you feel good, at turning your brain off. All the static in your head leading up to this moment vanishes under his touch.
You break the kiss when your leg slides down and collides with a tape measure strapped to his hip. You glare at it like it offended you but Joel doesn't notice—his mouth trails down your jaw, pausing at your throat to graze his teeth gently over your pulse point. A shiver rolls down your spine.
"As much as I like this," you murmur, unlocking your legs from his waist, "it's gotta go."
You tug hopelessly at the tool belt and Joel chuckles, low and deep next to your ear.
"Oh, you like it, huh?" he teases while simultaneously dropping his hands to his belt. You roll your eyes.
"Don't start."
"You got a little fantasy? That what this is?" He unfastens the tool belt and leaves it in a heap on the floor.
"No, it is not a fant—"
"I can dress up like all the village people if that's what you're into."
"Oh, my god, shut up," you groan before yanking him forward, covering your mouth over his. But you're smiling. He can tell.
His hands fly up to cup your face, his fingertips dig into your cheeks, and he kisses you so carefully that it catches you off guard. You lean into it and let him set the pace. You don't mind so much. His lips massage your mouth open and then his tongue dips past your teeth, searching for its mate. He tastes like lemon, sharp and sweet against your tongue, which undoubtably tastes the same, yet you think it tastes better on him.
He's a great kisser, but you'll never give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
"Fifteen minutes," you warn him, already breathless when you whisper against his lips. He smiles and his eyes crinkle in that way that makes your heart stutter so you push that silly feeling down before sliding off the counter and dropping to your knees.
You have to stifle a laugh when his eyes grow wide. His button is already undone and you have his zipper halfway down before he finds his voice.
"Y-you—we don't g-gotta—"
"I want to," you tell him, hooking your fingers over the waistband of his jeans and pulling them down his legs.
"Darlin'—"
"Joel," you say firmly. You stare up at him from your spot on the kitchen floor. He just continues to flounder and grow red in the face, but at least he stopped talking. "Let me do this. Please?"
His eyelids flutter shut and he groans. "C'mon, that ain't fair."
"What?"
"Sayin' please like that."
"How'd I say it?" you tease as you pull his boxers down to his ankles. His cock bobs to attention and you shimmy forward, pressing your thighs together to quell the ache burning between your legs. When your hand gently wraps around the base, he gasps and his eyes fly open. You start to stroke him, admiring how thick and hard he is for you already.
"Joel? You didn't answer me."
"Huh?" His voice is about two octaves higher.
"I said—" You lean forward, making sure to hold eye contact when you stick your tongue out and slowly drag a thick stripe up the underside of his cock. His arms fly forward to brace himself on the counter behind you. "How'd I say it?"
You flick the tip of your tongue over the head, licking up a small drop of arousal that rests there. Joel swallows hard and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. When he's ready, he drops his voice so it's rough and deep above you.
"Said it like you might die if I don't stuff my cock in that pretty little mouth of yours."
You grin right before wrapping your lips around him with an exaggerated moan. His eyes roll to the back of his head and his jaw slowly drops the further you take him, inch by inch, only stopping once he tickles the back of your throat.
"Oh, fu—goddamn—"
One hand finds the back of your head and his fingers splay wide. He's not pressing you forward or tugging on your hair like other men before him had done. It's just a steady, grounding weight as you begin to move, slowly at first, savoring the way his breath hitches every time you swallow him again.
"You're good at that," he gasps, watching you bob up and down. Your fist covers the rest of him you can't take, twisting and pumping in rhythm. He groans again and a fresh wave of wetness pools between your thighs. "S-so good. That's it. Tha-a-t's it, oh, shit—look so pretty like this, honey. Shoulda known that smart m-mouth has many talents."
It shouldn't, but the praise warms your chest like the soft glow from hazy sunbeams. You don't think he even realizes it, that's the worst part. He's not saying it to get what he wants. He genuinely means it when he compliments you.
It propels you, making you suck harder, moan louder, and even though tears sting the backs of your eyes from how badly your jaw burns, you don't stop because Joel just keeps telling you over and over and over again in that warm, deep drawl what a good girl you are and you make him feel so good and you drive him fuckin' crazy.
"Slow down—wait—"
His voice is pained. It's the only thing that pulls you out of it. You slow down but you keep him in your mouth, sucking gently on the tip as you gaze up at him curiously with watery eyes.
And Joel? Joel looks like a complete wreck.
His face is flushed. Neck, too. He's panting and a little sweaty at the temples just from the few minutes you've been on your knees. It has you brimming with pride, and from the looks of it, forcing him to hold eye contact with his cock filling your mouth is just making him crumble even more.
"Jesus Christ, I'm gonna come if you don't stop," he whines. Your tongue slowly swirls around his girth and you just tip your head to the side, giving him a look that says, well, that's the point.
He receives your wordless message and shakes his head.
"Wanna fuck you. Wanna feel that tight pussy again." Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall—ten minutes. The hand on the back of your head tightens and you focus back on his face. His throat bobs before he speaks. "Gonna let me, sweetheart? Gonna let me make you come?"
You make a frustrated noise before releasing him from your mouth and stand up. His dick twitches from the cool air of your kitchen, wet and angry looking from being left unattended. Without thinking, you turn around so your back is to Joel and begin to unbutton your shorts, but he swivels you back around to face him.
"Nuh-uh. Wanna see you."
You open your mouth to protest—you're pressed for time as it is, pausing and picking this up in your bedroom is a mood killer at this point—but he just scoops you up and somehow, with his jeans and underwear bunched around his ankles—carries you a few feet away to your kitchen table.
"Jesus," you murmur when your back hits the firm wood. But then his mouth is on you and his hands are pushing down your shorts and you forget what you were annoyed about in the first place.
He pulls away only briefly, just to bend down to fish a condom from his wallet while you work on removing your panties. With eight minutes left, the thick tip of his cock is finally pressing into you and like a puppet on a string, your spine arches and your jaw drops at the stretch.
"Shit," you whisper, breathing deep as he settles inside you.
"Yeah, miss me, sweetheart?"
You scrunch your nose with your eyes pinched shut as you adjust to the heavy feeling of him prying you open.
"Don't... get cocky," you breathe, thighs relaxing around his hips with a sigh.
"Don't get what?" Joel pushes in deeper and you gasp.
"Asshole," you mutter, but when your eyelids flutter open, he can see the traces of amusement you're desperately trying to hide. "You're the one begging for my pussy a minute ago," you clip back, and Joel smirks before he shifts his hips.
"Got me there," he says, slowly thrusting back inside you. A traitorous soft moan slips past your lips and his gaze darkens, like a predator honing in on its prey. He continues to work you open with slow, deep thrusts, lost in the way you respond to each one and wishing more than ever he could have dragged you to your bed, stripped you naked, and taken his time with you.
"Five... minutes..." you remind him when you start to roll your hips in sync with his movements. Joel's eyes dart to the clock and he groans before falling forward, caging you in on your table. He buries his face against your throat and begins to move faster. The table legs scrape against the floor each time your hips collide and you roll your head backwards as the heat builds low in your stomach.
"Right there," you gasp. He grunts and fucks you harder, the head of his cock kissing a soft spot deep inside that is slowly making you come undone. His lips messily suck at your throat, the sharp scratch from his beard sending chills down your spine.
Your fingers get lost in his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge. It's so easy to fall back into this with him. Dangerously so. After the first time, you thought you got it out of your system. Unfortunately for your work hard now and play later mindset, the hot, annoying, funny construction worker next door has figured out how to read you like a book. He's gotten under your skin and burrowed into your brain, taking up space where once you held plans on advancing in your company, ideas for the latest projects, and innovative ways to acquire new business.
Case in point, you never take a lunch break, and yet here you are, baking cookies like June fucking Cleaver and getting railed on your kitchen table two minutes before your next call.
"Joel," you pant, vision going blurry at the edges, "m'close."
He lifts his head from your throat so he can study your face, just like he said he wanted to do. He grunts, hooking one of your legs over his forearm to widen your hips. You cry out and tug on his hair. His eyes roll back for a moment before he blinks hard and snaps out of it.
"Let go," he says, teeth clenched like he's fighting off his orgasm, "give it to me. C'mon, know you can do it. Lemme feel you."
You writhe and whimper, arching your back to deepen the angle. You're so close that it burns the back of your throat. But the ticking clock on the wall is adding too much pressure and you feel yourself starting to lose what he so expertly built up.
"I—fuck—"
You squeeze your eyes shut and make a frustrated noise. Joel senses it: the way your muscles give up, the exasperated furrow of your brow, and he quickly grabs your chin.
"Look at me."
His voice is so deep and commanding that your eyes snap open in shock. He's inches away from your face, forcing you to stare deep into his eyes. His hips never stop. He never loses rhythm, still hitting that sensitive spot that holds you right at the edge.
He doesn't say anything else. Just makes you hold his gaze so you can see the fire in his eyes and the desperation on his face.
Don't think about the time. Don't you dare think about work. Stay with him. Focus on him. On this.
Another sharp snap of his hips sends you soaring. Relief rolls down your spine and through your limbs. An embarrassing sound rips from your throat and your cheeks burn but you don't look away. He stays locked on you, watching the way your face melts with pleasure. He growls low and fucks you harder, chasing his own high. Your table knocks loudly against the wall but you're too lost in a hazy bubble to notice.
"Good job," he breathes, and your heart stutters. "Feels better, don't it? You deserve to feel good, baby."
Your eyes roll back and you let out a weak moan from the praise. The words hit you just right and he knows it. Joel smiles to himself before feverishly capturing your lips with his and letting go with a heavy groan.
Your chest tightens when his hips slow and you wonder what it would feel like to have him dripping out of you during your call. You wonder if the people on the other end would be able to tell what he just did to you.
Your phone pings brightly on the counter and you both freeze, mouths still pressed together but unmoving now. With a sigh, you tilt your head away to look for it, but Joel pushes himself up and grabs it himself, handing it over while still buried deep inside you.
"Hope you don't gotta be on camera," he grins.
You tap in your passcode on your phone and laugh softly. "I think I'll make up some technical issue."
Joel makes a pleased noise before settling back down on top of you to catch his breath. You join the call and pray no one asks you any questions for at least ten more minutes because he seems so content to just wrap his arms around you and quietly bury his face against the side of your neck.
This is nice, you think, closing your eyes while the familiar sound of boring higher-ups chirps from the speaker of your phone. Your heart rates slow in tandem and the sweat cools on your skin as the next few minutes tick by. Your fingers drift unwillingly to his hair and you play idly with the soft curls there. You swear you feel him relax even further into your hold from your gentle touch.
It's peaceful but you know it needs to end. He needs to get back to work. So do you. But for once, you don't want to be the one to push someone away first.
The choice gets taken from you anyway when you suddenly hear your name from the phone and your eyes snap open. You reach to unmute and Joel pushes himself up on his hands, careful not to make any noise.
"Yes, I believe that's correct at this juncture, but I do have a follow up meeting on the books with the client next week where I'll confirm."
The robotic voice thanks you and you mute yourself again before your gaze slides to Joel.
"Guess that's my cue," he says with a lopsided grin, then he winces when he pulls his half hard cock from between your legs.
You watch lazily as he rolls off the condom and tosses it in your trash. What do you say now? This isn't something you regularly do. Joel doesn't make it awkward and you both have to get back to work, so there's no reason to linger, yet you still feel like you need to say something.
You push yourself up and rub the back of your neck before hunting for your panties and shorts on the floor.
"Uh, thanks," you say, buttoning your shorts. Joel is picking up his tool belt and when you speak, he glances up.
"For the sex or for the shelf?"
You laugh. "Both. But mostly the shelf."
Joel gives you a teasing look and sets the belt on your counter so his hands are free when he crosses the room to join you.
"Y'know," he begins, rubbing his chin, "next time you wanna see me, you don't gotta go through all the trouble of burnin' cookies and breakin' shelves. Left my number right there."
He juts his thumb over his shoulder towards your fridge and your gaze follows. Your stomach twists with guilt again. You didn't expect him to bring that up, but you suppose you'd want an answer if it was you putting yourself out there.
Then you blink and look up at him in surprise. "Burned cookies?"
He grins and his head tilts towards your back deck, where the charred baking sheet of cookies still remains, solidified like a goddamn fossil.
Your face flares with heat. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh."
Your phone is in your hand, executives are yapping away. You should be listening. You want to get ahead, right? Every meeting is a chance to make a splash. Make your mark. And yet... it's the last thing on your mind.
"Listen," you sigh, and Joel folds his arms across his chest. You drop your gaze so you don't get distracted by the muscles straining against his worn, soft shirt. And you definitely stop thinking about what it would feel like to wear that very same shirt on your own body. Because those thoughts don't have a place here. Not with you. Not anymore.
"I'm listenin'," he urges, lifting one eyebrow.
"I don't do..." Your hands flail as you search for the right word. Joel just waits, amused. "I tend to stay away from... relationships," you say, instantly feeling raw and exposed. You don't need to explain why. You don't owe him anything. Just leave it at that.
"Honey," Joel smiles, "I ain't lookin' to buy you a ring, I just wanna buy you a beer."
You chew your bottom lip, avoiding his gaze. He gives you a minute to think it over, but when it becomes clear you don't have a response, he shrugs and turns to pick up his belt.
"Ain't that serious," he adds, masking his hurt by clearing his throat. "Just thought it'd be nice to talk to you when neither of us gotta run back to work."
"Why?"
His hands still and he slowly turns around. "Huh?"
You shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking a little timid. It's not a look he's used to seeing on you.
"Why... do you want to talk to me?" you finally whisper, gaze glued to the ground. It hits him then that whatever walls you built up must be for a reason, something that cuts much deeper than his initial assessment of you being the overachiever, workaholic type.
He makes sure to straighten his spine and take a deep breath, facing you full on so you know what he's about to say means something.
"'Cause I like you, sweetheart. And I wanna get to know you better."
The softness in his voice makes you flinch. He lets you sit with it for a few more minutes, not rushing you, not saying anything more. He waits patiently while your brain turns over what he's said until you finally blink and meet his eye.
The walls are back up, but it's gentler now.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll think about it."
"Is the answer okay, or you'll think 'bout it?"
You roll your eyes. "Same thing."
"It ain't. See—okay implies: yes, Joel, I'll give you a call tonight. I'll tell you my favorite bar and when I'm free, and I'll even let you pick me up in your beautiful, shiny truck—"
"Your truck is not beautiful."
He raises a finger in warning. "Don't talk bad 'bout her again. Hurt her feelin's last time."
When you crack a smile, Joel does the same. His chest lifts to see you happy and out of whatever dark place you disappeared to inside your head a moment ago. He doesn't like that, and he makes a note to be extra careful with you until you're willing to tell him more.
The voices coming from your speakerphone grow louder as a few different men talk over one another, drawing your attention down to your hand. Joel decides not to push you further and heads towards the door, tool belt slung over his shoulder.
"You know where to find me," he calls when he opens your front door. You look up but stay where you are in your kitchen. "I'll be waitin'," he adds after a pause, then quietly shuts the door behind him.
Your heart thuds loudly in your chest when you're left all alone once again. The conversation happening in your hand should be your primary focus, but it's not. The men are loud, but the numbers scrawled on your fridge are louder.
That familiar, creeping fear claws its way up your throat. That swell of panic and a fresh wave of uncertainty follows.
It's just a beer. It's not serious. It's not like—
With a determination you haven't felt outside of work in a long while, you stomp to your fridge and stare at his name scrawled in black ink. He's got blocky writing. But his numbers are sharp.
You smirk.
Of course the numbers are sharp. He's a contractor. He lives and breathes numbers, just like you, but in a very different way.
Don't overthink it.
You punch the numbers into your phone and stare blankly at the empty text message. You swallow tightly, ignoring the pang in your chest and the voices arguing over projections or referrals or something that seems incredibly insignificant now.
It's a big leap. Something you swore you'd never do again. Yet here you are, about to do it, because something about Joel just feels... different. And you're really interested in finding out if you're right.
What's the worst that could happen?
You wince.
Okay, bad question. You know the worst that could happen. You've lived it. Barely.
Stop it.
You take a deep breath and quickly tap out one word. Four letters. And hit send.
camp counselor!Joel Miller x f!reader | 3.4K | read on AO3
Summary: Joel Miller, the new head counselor at Camp Happy Trail, makes sure this summer will be one you won't forget.
WARNINGS: 18+ Only! No outbreak AU. '80s AU. Think Camp Crystal Lake vibes w/o the murders. Set in 1980. Mention of another p-boi. Mention of semi-public sex. Accidental voyeurism. Fingering. Auralism. F!masturbation. Joel is a bully AND has a big 🍆. Kissing. Breast/nipple play. One spank. F!oral. Unprotected piv. Creampie. Mention of pregnancy (not reader). Cheating. Secret fmf threesome (makes sense in context). M!oral. Cum swallowing. Reader is early-to-mid-twenties, able bodied, with breasts and vagina, but otherwise undescribed. Feel free to imagine Game Joel or Show Joel.
Adriana's note: another little thing in my wips for a few weeks, and I really wanted to have it out by the end of summer. This was inspired by a fantasy an idea of Joel in 1980s short shorts (this look should definitely make a comeback)
dividers by @/strangergraphics-archive 👑
JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST
SUMMER 1980
You love your summer job as counselor at Camp Happy Trail. You love being outdoors, helping the campers with swimming, canoeing, hiking, learning about nature. You’ve looked forward to it every summer since high school.
This year is different. There’s a new head counselor in town, and he’s trouble in the form of Joel Miller.
He’s tall, broad, graying, and stern. His dark brown eyes apprise every counselor in front of him as the group gathers on the camp’s front lawn two weeks before opening day. He goes over the rules and expectations of all staff members. You pay attention even though it’s the same old drill: no fucking around during working hours, make sure the campers are safe at all times, please report injuries and have them sent to the nurses station, et cetera. You could recite the rules by heart.
Only one thing has you concerned.
You raise your hand to speak. Joel glances over at you but continues talking, stressing the importance of keeping away from drugs and alcohol during the next two weeks, especially once the campers come on opening day. You know all that. Still, you wait with your hand raised until Joel sighs, giving you time to speak.
“What happened to Frankie?”
Joel tries really hard not to roll his eyes. “Francisco Morales won’t be here to help us set up. He’ll be here on the camp’s opening day.” He snorts, arms crossed as he eyes you up and down. “What, is he your boyfriend or somethin’?”
“No..” you reply, unable to stop the embarrassment from creeping up your spine. Of course you and Frankie hadn’t set any firm definitions about what you are, but the past two years you’ve spent here have also been spent by fucking him in the woods during early morning hikes, blowing him in the storage shed, and sneaking him into your cabin to have him go down on you all night.
You have his number, but there’s been no answer when you’ve called before driving up to the campsite. You wonder what’s keeping him from being here.
Piper, the girl you’ve hated since you’ve been counselors together these past few years, shoots a smug look your way as the meeting is adjourned, and she walks off with Joel’s arm around her waist. She glances over her shoulder at you, giving you the finger.
She’s just jealous because Frankie chose you over her two years ago. She hasn’t let you alone in peace since.
Joel is a hard task master. At dawn he has the counselors up and jogging through the trail in the woods and chopping firewood before breakfast. Swim safety is in the afternoon when the heat is at its worst, the air humid with the scent of sunblock and stagnant lake water. At the very least you’re given some time to lay out in the sun afterward, drying off on the warm boards of the dock.
Back at the cabins only two people are unaccounted for – Piper and Joel. The other counselors make crude guesses as to where they are and what they’re doing. You’re elected to go and find them before it gets dark. Piper has dinner duty and Maya refuses to do all the cooking alone.
Slipping on your jean shorts, your towel slung over your shoulders to catch the water droplets from your still-damp hair, you set out in search of Joel and Piper.
The sun is just starting to set when you find them in a thick copse of trees near the edge of the forest, Piper pressed against a tree as Joel’s fingering her, his hand down the front of her red bikini bottom as he plunges inside her, head bent close to her ear, muttering dirty things. You stop, half-hidden by the trees as you watch them, your own pussy growing wet just bearing witness. You know you should turn and leave, forget you ever saw this, just tell the others that Piper and Joel are coming back soon.
But you’re frozen to the spot, watching them in the secrecy of the woods, your own hand ghosting over your clothed clit, imagining what Joel’s thick, rough fingers must feel like.
There’s a sharp snap of a twig that echoes in the air, causing Piper and Joel to quickly part. You’re already hurrying down the path, shame and lust heating your cheeks.
Everyone is split up in pairs, the counselor bunks only small enough to house two comfortably, and unfortunately Joel assigns you and Piper together. You tell yourself it’ll just be a couple months and most days will be too busy for you to have to deal with her very much.
Piper grabs the top bunk before you have a chance to claim it. But once you’re settled in the bottom, she makes you switch back after she finds a spiderweb too close to the ceiling.
But even your nights can’t be peaceful. Joel sneaks in after lights out, and you have to endure the soft giggles and moans coming from the bunk below you. The entire bed frame rocks with Joel’s thrusts as he fucks your bunkmate.
Great, just great.
They make no effort to hide whatever’s going on between them. His hand is permanently on her ass, barely clothed in the camp counselor uniform shorts, his entire paw covering her ass cheek. The others don’t notice or don’t care, too caught up in their own romantic entanglements.
It only makes you miss Frankie more. Out here in the woods you have no way of contacting him except through the main office line, but Joel stands right in front of anyone who wants to call home, dials the number on the rotary phone, and waits with arms crossed as the call is made. Nobody does personal calls while he’s in charge.
You try to keep yourself busy with helping get the camp ready. The grass near the cabins is maintained, repairs are made to the buildings themselves (which Joel oversees, and you can’t help but to check him out a little while he’s fixing the sign above the infirmary – he looks too good with a hammer), checking that the generators are working properly, and that the electrical system and water pressure are good.
There’s so much to do that by the time you climb up into your bunk you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.
The only thing that could possibly wake you is Joel fucking Piper in the bunk below yours.
Joel’s grunts and groans, paired with Piper’s moaning and gasping, keep you awake. You lose count of how many rounds they go, the entire bed bunk frame shaking with their movements. And at one point you can’t help it as your fingers travel beneath your sleep shorts, finding your wet pussy and tracing your slit. Two fingers fit inside you easily as you lift your legs to get comfortable. Closing your eyes you start fucking yourself on your hand, imagining Joel’s fingers inside of you instead of yours.
You’re trying desperately to keep your whimpering to a minimum but you doubt they’ll hear you over their own sounds. Your fingers match the pace of Joel’s thrusts, though you imagine his cock is a lot bigger than your two fingers combined. And the way he’s been fucking Piper for almost an hour solidifies the fact that his stamina is good.
Your fingers glide over your clit, circling and swiping, your hips arching up as you chase the friction you so desperately need for your release as you listen to Piper’s moans and Joel’s increasing grunts. Eyes squeezed tight you plunge your fingers as deep as you can, timing it just right with Piper’s final, momentous scream. You try to keep as quiet as possible as your release coats your hand, clit throbbing, legs quaking.
Joel corners you after breakfast the next morning, barring you from following the others to the field where a soccer match was planned. Instead he drags you to the boat shed. You hate it there. It’s dusty and cramped and there are cobwebs in the corners.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, your heart in your throat as Joel peers down at you, something unreadable in his deep brown eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he mimics you. “You think I don’t know you were gettin’ yourself off to me and Piper last night?”
The blood drains from your face, leaving you cold. “Wh-what?”
“Stop actin’ innocent. You weren’t exactly quiet. Piper was laughin’ at you, sayin’ you’re a lonely little virgin.”
“I’m not a virgin,” you tell him tersely.
“Really?” Joel’s voice is full of derision. “Prove it.”
The blood drains from your face. “H-how?”
“You’re a smart girl. You know how.” But just to be mean he explains it in detail. “How about you bend over–” he slaps the hull of a nearby canoe and puts his hand on your lower back, pressuring you towards it. “--pull those pretty little short-shorts down and let me check for myself.”
“You’re not serious,” you sputter.
“You afraid or somethin’?” he smirks.
You’re not afraid per se. But you’re definitely wet enough so that he’ll tease you if he finds out. “Of course not,” you stand up to him boldly.
He looks amused by this, and the way he cups his bulge in his own shorts shows he’s more than a little turned on. Your eyes drop down to where his thick cock is hardening under the skin-tight fabric.
With determination in your eyes, you’re certain of yourself when you reach up and grab Joel by the nape of his neck, kissing him. His eyes go wide at the initial shock of surprise, but then they close, a deep and satisfied growl in his chest as he kisses you back, his tongue slipping past your lips. Your gasp turns into a soft moan as his large paw on your lower back presses you closer to him, rubbing his hard-on against you.
“I bet this pussy’s already soaked,” he mutters, finally breaking from the kiss to nip at your neck. “But first..” he pulls away, a devilish look in his eye. “Lift up that shirt, honey, and lemme see those pretty titties.”
You scoff despite the fact that you are indeed soaked, but you’re already this far in. You might as well go all the way. You lift up your shirt, your white lacy bra on full display. Joel’s big meaty hands pull down the cups, palming your tits with his rough bare hands, bouncing them in his palms. “Look at these.. you gonna lemme suck ‘em?”
Fuck. This isn’t going how you expected but you can’t complain. You nod and he immediately pulls you close, picking you up and pinning you against the canoe as he takes your nipple in his mouth, groaning, using his free hand to pinch your other nipple. “So sweet,” he groans, releasing off you with a wet pop before sucking on the other.
“Joel!” you gasp, a fresh wave of wetness seeping through your underwear.
“Don’t worry, I’m gettin’ there,” he mumbles, helping you shimmy out of your shorts and pressing you forward against the boat. He lands a quick spank across your ass cheek, chuckling at the way your flesh jiggles and the sound of your yelp. Then he spreads your cheeks wide. “Look at that.. pretty as the mornin’ dew..” He kneels down and laps at your honey, making you moan. Almost too late you catch yourself, muffling your own sounds with your palm.
His large, rough hand trails down your spine, keeping you in place as the thick head of his cock slides through your folds, collecting your wetness and teasing you as he slides between your cheeks. You mewl in protest as he chuckles. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not a virgin. Not the way you’re actin’ so greedy for my cock. Well darlin’, take it..”
He eases into you, using shallow thrusts and you can’t help but exhale, the rush of breath leaving you in surprise before he angles you down, sliding in to the hilt. “You’re full of me now,” he grunts out, holding steady to your hips. “God damn, tighter than a nun’s asshole.”
Your walls flutter around him with each stroke, your hands bracing you against the smooth wood of the upturned canoe. You whimper in time with each smooth thrust. Each time Joel bottoms out you feel it deep in your belly, probably deeper than anyone’s ever gone.
“Wish you could see how you’re soakin’ me,” Joel grunts, giving a few quick thrusts to let you hear the sound of your sloppy pussy. “How do you like it, darlin’? You want me to make a mess of you inside, or do you need me to pull out and shove this cock down your throat so you can swallow my load?”
“I-inside,” you pant. “I have an IUD.”
“That’s a relief,” Joel mutters, speeding up, one big hand wrapping around your front to tickle your clit. “C’mon, baby, need you to come on my cock before I bust inside you..”
He slows down just enough for you to work your way up to it, the heat building in your belly and your core, moaning at the way he lifts your hips to meet each thrust, sweat gathering at your temples. “Joel,” you whine, thinking of nothing but the way he’s fucking and filling and stretching your cunt. With an expertly angled thrust home you fall apart, moaning his name as you squeeze around him, and he picks up the pace, slamming into you until he swells inside you, his hot cum painting your walls. His cock is still twitching in the aftershocks when he finally releases his grip on your hips and pulls out of you. You quickly shove your underwear and shorts back on to catch his leavings already starting to leak out.
“Smart girl, bein’ on birth control,” Joel mutters, stuffing himself back into his own shorts. “I wish Piper was responsible like that.”
You school your features into nonchalance after you pull your shirt back down. There’s a little stab of guilt when you realize you’ve just fucked your bunkmate’s boyfriend.. even if she is a bitch. “What do you mean?” you ask innocently.
He reddens, as if he shouldn’t have spoken. “You’re sworn to secrecy, alright? Piper’s pregnant.”
“What?” Joel immediately clamps his hand over your mouth. He still smells like sex.
“Shut. Up,” he warns. “If I find out you told anyone else you’re packin’ your bags and goin’ home. Understand?”
You nod and whisper “Yes,” when he removes his hand. “It’s yours?”
He scoffs. “She says so. Still– not a peep. Got it?”
Piper becomes grumpy when Joel’s visits make an abrupt stop. But she’s no bitchier than usual, likely trying to get back into Joel’s good graces. Little does she know he’s only stopped coming to her because he’s taken up fucking you instead – in the storage shed, in the empty cots in the infirmary, the walk-in pantry in the kitchen. He maintains the position that he doesn’t like you very much while you’re in front of the others, sometimes giving you tasks you have to complete on your own – with the sole purpose of finding you to hook up.
The last night before the campers are due, everyone lets loose. Couples sneak off into the woods with sleeping bags and sinful intentions, some stay on the pier by the lake, drinking and laughing.
You’re the only one who’s made it to your bunk at an appropriate hour, wanting a full night’s rest before the big day. But your sleep is interrupted when Joel and Piper come in, slamming the door behind them, all over each other, kissing and giggling. With a silent groan you put your pillow over your head, already expecting to drown out the noises they’re about to make, which are going to keep you up all night.
They’re in the bottom bunk, a little quieter now that their mouths are busy. But soon there’s that familiar rocking rhythm and the sound of Piper’s moans and squeals, coming to a crescendo. Once again Joel’s stamina is off the charts. You’re in the middle of pleasuring yourself, two fingers shoved as deep as you can go, when everything stops and you hear Joel murmuring. There’s a creak as he gets out of the bunk, and Piper giggles as he positions her facing away. Now Joel’s eye level with your bunk and you gasp as you come face to face with him. He winks at you.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper as quietly as you can.
“She caught up with me. I couldn’t shake her,” he explains just as softly. “Don’t leave me hangin’, sweetheart. Bring that pretty pussy to my face.”
Without hesitating you lift up your nightdress, scooting to the edge of the bed, thighs spread around Joel’s face as he fucks into Piper – oblivious to everything going on – in the bottom bunk. He’s got his dick buried in her while he’s eating you out. You’ve never experienced anything hotter.
You hear Piper’s staccato cries as Joel pounds into her from behind, his own moans humming through your flesh, heightening your arousal, your clit standing at attention between Joel’s lips, his mustache tickling your soft skin. You already know you’re going to come when your legs start shaking, toes curling at the waves of pressure building up in your very core.
“Joel!” you try to whisper as softly as possible. “Joel!.. I’m gonna come!”
He only smacks harder into Piper, her own cries louder than yours. “Come for me,” he whispers back, the tip of his tongue giving one teasing swirl around your pearl before he dives back in. Your back arches off the bed, lightning shooting through your veins as your cunt pulses, drenching Joel’s mouth as you come. He groans, licking up every drop, watching you through his lashes. “Good girl,” he whispers, backing off when you become too sensitive, his lips warm on your inner thigh, stubble scratching at your soft skin as he pulls off of Piper, turning her around so she’s sucking him off.
You hear her moaning and sighing, gagging on his cock. Meanwhile Joel lazily fingers you, scissoring his digits inside your sloppy pussy, his eyes black and glossy while Piper deep-throats him. Your fingers card through his hair as you ignore the softening of your heart in seeing him so tame and vulnerable.
Your name is on his lips but he moans Piper just in the nick of time, his breaths growing unsteady as he comes close to the end, getting ready to bust in Piper’s mouth. You take his head in your cupped hands. “Come, Joel.. give her what she wants,” you whisper. He groans, his thrusts getting sloppy as he fucks his girlfriend’s throat, stilling at last, his features tensing then relaxing as Piper gasps softly, swallowing his thick load.
The next day Joel treats you the same as he always has. Everyone’s minds are on the Opening Day festivities ahead, even if some of the counselors look like they’ve only had a couple hours’ sleep. You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not just because of last night, but because you’re genuinely excited for summer camp to officially begin.
The campers hurry out of the stuffy buses and onto the rolling green grass, toting duffel bags, wearing the gold and blue camp tees and ball caps, eager for their summer to begin. Everyone is assigned to a counselor, and as soon as your group is ready you start to lead them to their cabin. You have a full day ahead: a quick icebreaker so everyone can become acquainted, a scavenger hunt that will enable the kids to work as a team, then a game of capture the flag, then lunch. You have your day cut out for you, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’ll cross paths with Joel again..
Your thoughts are interrupted by someone shouting back at the buses. All the counselors turn to look, surprise written on their faces as they find one more latecomer to Camp Happy Trail.
Frankie Morales, adjusting the Standard Oil cap on his head, dark curls already sticking to the sweat on his neck, hurries off the last bus. His royal blue camp tee clings to his torso like sin, accentuating his broad frame. You’re speechless when he reaches you, putting his arms around you and lifting you off the ground before landing a big kiss on your lips. The campers are grossed out, giggling and making faces.
When he pulls away, cupping your face in his hands, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you, just as shocked as you are to see him finally arrive. “I missed you, babe,” he says, planting one more kiss on your forehead. “So what have I missed?”
if you made it this far, thank you! follow @baronessvonglitter-fics for updates 💚
series summary: you become involved with joel miller—the father of the bride. he was meant to be your dirty little secret to get you through the wedding festivities, but falling for him wasn't part of the plan.
pairing: no-outbreak!joel miller x fem!reader
series content warning(s): EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), age gap (joel is in early 50s, reader is in early 30s), secret relationship, lots of smut, sneaking around / hiding, reader had a rough childhood (childhood trauma - neglect), commitment issues (both from reader and joel), eventual romance/relationship, no use of y/n. each chapter will have its own separate warnings!
a/n: not sure what to call this specifically, "best friend’s fiancée’s dad!Joel"? lmao anyway, i'm revamping this entire story so if you've read the original, there will be a few scenes that i'll include here, but this will generally be a brand new story. ya girl has been YEARNING for joel miller, so the only way i know how to fix it is to write for him. hope y'all enjoy this as much as i do <333
status: complete.
schedule: every wednesday
Chapter 1: Engagement Party (posted on 12/30)
Chapter 2: Bridal Shower (posted on 1/7)
Chapter 3: Bachelor/Bachelorette Party (posted on 1/14)
Joel's no longer just your sleazy older neighbour, watching you every night through his bedroom window as you get ready for bed. He all but has made himself at home in your life. And he intends to make sure he stays right where he is.
Warnings
+18 – mdni; shameless smut, implied voyeurism, masturbation, dry humping, (mentioned) consensual somnophilia, boob-fucking, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v sex, breeding kink, sleazy!Joel, undefined age gap, daddy kink
a/n
PRETTY MUCH what the title suggests! our sleazy-peeping-nighbourhood Joel graduated to breeding Joel. I really have no excuses for this other than that I really wanted to write it?? Also as a ty for all your likes, reblogs & comments on Peeping Joel!! 🖤 y'alls input is what keeps me motivated to write!! not beta-read, happy reading <3
word count – ~2.1k
as seen on – archiveofourown
He was rock hard. It wasn’t like there was anything he could do to help it—- was just you, and your nightly routine. In a way he’d pavloved himself. He knows that. Your shorts had barely hit the ground in front of the bed and his cock had stirred to life.
Didn’t help that he was laying in your bed now. That he could hear you move about in the ensuite, water running, the sound of products moving across the counter and being opened, used.
How couldn’t he sit there, in your sheets. Working himself while he waited for you.
“You sleazy pig,” you didn’t even seem shocked, walking back into your bedroom, seeing him in all of his naked glory, dad-bod — although his belly was the result of beer and not the healthiest diet; fist around his cock, stroking himself. “Can’t believe you,” you shook your head, even as you pulled your top over your head.
Joel groaned, watching your breasts spill free, “She says, showin’ me her glorious fucking tits.”
You only rolled your eyes, snatching the lotion he’d used as lube, to lather it into your skin. First your arms and chest and maybe you made a show out of it. Making sure he got a good fucking view of your breasts as you worked the lotion into your skin. Nipples pebbling and all. Just like you had when you knew he sat in front of his window every night.
“Fucking tease,” he groaned, cock twitching.
“Oh so you’re complaining?” You asked, tossing your panties at him.
And Joel didn’t disappoint, nose pressed into them, inhaling deep. “You dirty old fuck,” you rolled your eyes, climbing on top of him.
“Gotta love how ya actin’ like ya ain’t liking it,” he clicked his tongue, a hand on your hips, the other taking a hand full of your glorious fucking tits.No doubt expecting you to sink down on him.
But you had a better idea.
Grinding your slick cunt along his cock, root to tip and back again. Feeling every inch of him glide through slick folds. Teasing your clit just right. “Fuck,” you moaned, head falling back.
“See babygirl, knew ya liked my cock.” Of course he was smug about it. “Just like that,” he encouraged you. “Knew ya liked Daddy’s cock better than ya silly little toys.”
“Asshole!” The insult lacked bite, which may or may not be due to the word being wrapped into a moan.
“You like it,” he countered, clearly enjoying himself. Using the hand on your hip to guide you along his cock.
And fuck he was right.
“No,” he tried to shift, tried to sink into you. “Not tonight,” you breathed.
“C’mon, babygirl…” he complained, fingers flexing against your hip. “We’ll be careful.”
“No Daddy,” you reached for his hands, pinning them on his chest where you braced your weight. “Someone used the last condom this morning and didn’t get any new ones.”
A year in and he had fucked you plenty. On and against every surface of your home and his, including the windows facing your bedrooms.
Your body pressed into the cool glass while he had sunken into you from behind. He had refused to clean the shape of your glorious curves off of the glass.
Not that he slept much in his own bed now.
Too comfortable in yours, with your body in his arms.
After the first time, condoms had become a staple. Sometimes he pulled them off, just to paint white ribbons across your skin.
He knew that you weren’t on birth control, that you weren’t fond the side-effects and had promised to take care of protection. And he had, an always replaced stash of condoms, the ultra-sensitive kind. Because he longed to feel you around him.
He’d meant to get new ones three days ago, but between work running late and you complaining that you needed him he’d simply forgot. Using the last before breakfast and after waking you with his tongue in your cunt.
“Just the tip?” He tried, while you still worked yourself on top of him.
“Yeah right,” you moaned, “You can’t even resist now and want me to believe you will resist sinking balls deep into me?” You clicked your tongue, a wicked little grin tucking on your lips.
Oh how he loved that smart mouth of yours.
Just as much as he loved to stuff it, like when you believed he’d let you sass him over on your way home from the grocery store some five months ago.
He had to pull over, unable to concentrate while your smart tongue had worked him to make up for rolling your eyes and calling him a grumpy old man.
Not that he had expected you to follow through, when he’d unbuckled his belt and opened the fly of his pants enough to pull his cock out. When he should have known better… well aware that his babygirl never backed down from a challenge.
──────────
“‘ll pull out?” He promised, and you scoffed.
“I know school’s been a while for you,” he had half a mind to tuck his hand free to smack your behind for that “But you should know that that ain’t save at all.”
You had a point.
Not that he wanted to admit that.
“What? Ya not keen on givin’ me a little Miller?”
“Joel,” you half whined, half moaned.
“’s not what y’call me babygirl. Not when ya cunt is drippin’ all over m’cock.” You didn’t respond, go figure, but you didn’t stop rolling your hips either. “Y’d look so beautiful with m’child. All round a soft an glowin’,” you threw your head back, weather because of how good he felt under you or because of the picture he pained, Joel wasn’t sure.
But he used your movement to tuck one of his hands free from under yours, not to move it back to your hip to guide you, but to trace along the soft skin below your navel instead.
“Would spoil ya rotten!” He declared.
“Sure y’would,” you moaned. “And I’d be the talk of the street. Pregnant from my sleazy neighbour who’s twice my age…”
“‘m not sleazy.”
“Sure, you didn’t watch me for month jerking off,” you countered.
He flashed you a grin. “’s not my fault, babygirl. Ya put on a spectacular show.” And he knew now that you had, just for him. “‘sides, ain’t matter what they think. We can move.”
Your movements grew erratic, your pace picking up—- he knew you were close. His hand slipped back to your waist, to guide you, but his thumb kept drawing soft circles into the skin of your belly.
“Y-you gonna tell me you want,” you panted, “A white–- picket fence?”
“Nah, not m’style,” he mused, “But if’s what you want then…” he trailed off. “‘ll build ya a whole fuckin’ castle if’s what ya want.”
“That’s—- quite the promise,” you moaned, her fingers flexing against his chest. “Just to cum inside of me.”
“Ain’t just cuming inside of ya, babygirl,” a low rumble, his cock twitching under you. “Would make sure it sticks.” He felt it, the tensing of your abdominal muscles, the coil behind your navel snapping as your orgasm tore through you. Hips bucking and back arching.
A glorious sight.
But so would be you, round with his baby. He hadn’t lied. Hell he’d even do the white picked fence if you wanted that. Complete with a Golden Retriever and and whatever else your heart desired.
Preferably his cock, day and night.
“Pervert,” you panted. Had you read his mind?
“Just sayin’…” he was still rock hard, still craved the welcoming depth of your cunt. Now more than ever. And he wasn’t above begging you to feel it wrapped around his cock. Too so because the thought of you pregnant with his child, the thought of you being his was far too tempting to dismiss it. “‘d take good care of ya.”
“Yeah, yeah, spoiling me rotten, I heard you.”
“Good, was worried ya were t’far gone t’hear.” You flicked his painfully hard nipple, making his cock twitch and him groan. “C’mon, ya can’t tell me y’haven’t thought ‘bout it.”
“What? Having your child or your cock, bare, inside of me.”
“Both.” His thumb still drew idle patterns into your soft skin. “Need one f’the other an one leads t’the other.”
“Oh so you did pay attention in biology?” You arched a brow and he smacked your ass with his unoccupied hand and you didn’t yelp. You fucking giggled.
God you would be the death of him.
──────────
He finished between your glorious tits. And not that he was complaining about that… but he would have loved feeling you wrapped around him still.
Not that the sight of thick white ribbons covering your skin didn’t make up for that. Enough, that he took a moment to admire it, while he caught his breath.
“Gonna buy condoms first thing tomorrow,” he sighed, climbing off you to get a wet cloth and clean your chest. Paying extra attention to your breasts.
“Heard that one before,” you tease while he pulled you into his arms.
His chest to your back.
“Gonna do it,” he breathed into your neck while a large hand settled above your abdomen. “Meant what I said babygirl,” his voice sounded soft with exhaustion and something else. “Gonna build ya a castle…”
The topic didn’t come up again. Joel stocked up on condoms and then proceeded to fuck you seven ways to Sunday.
In the kitchen instead of breakfast, in the shower after an exhausting day, in the back of his truck because you’d snarked him, irritated after work, while muttering something about fucking the bad mood right out of you.
And frequently after watching you go through nightly routine. Rock hard like the first time he saw you across the small strip of grass through the window.
“You’re impossible,” you rolled your eyes, finding him working his cock yet again.
“T’word y’re lookin’ for is irresistible.”
You snorted, shimmying out of your panties. “Sure,” you reached for the lotion, aware he’d used it too, to lather a some into your arms. “Quit jerking off and put your hands to better you,”
“Am puttin’,” you tossed the lotion onto his naked belly, “Hey!” He complained, even as he reached for the lotion to squeeze a generous amount into the palm of his hand.
He worked the lotion into your left leg first, starting at the calf, moving over your thigh and to your ass. Down right massaging it into your skin. Your right leg received the same treatment before he moved on to your hips, waist and belly.
By the time you had settled astride him, fingers loosely pumping along his length, he had moved on to your breast, making quite the show out of lathering cream onto your skin. Massaging until it had fully settled into your skin.
Then, and only then did he shift and reach for the nightstand, to get a condom.
He barely got the drawer open before you sunk down on him.
“Fuck,” he moaned, hands immediately flying to your hips. “Y’sure babygirl?”
You nodded, watching him out of hooded eyes and Joel immediately shifted you under him, a thigh hooked over his hip, his breath hot against your lips.
There was no rush to his movements, slow and deep. Savouring each deep thrust. And fuck you’d forgotten how good he felt like that. “If this sticks,” your teeth caught his bottom lip.
“Gonna make it stick,” he grunted before you could finish your sentence.
“Then you better get started on the promised castle,” you teased, reminding him of his promise from weeks ago. Fingers in his hair, nails against his scalp.
Joel’s hips bucked. “First thing t’morrow babygirl.” He promised and even though you had been fine the first time around, when he’d finally caved and marched over here, you somehow didn’t doubt that he would manage to knock you up just because he decided to.
“Fuck y’feel so good babygirl,” he groaned, while your nails left crimson-shaped imprints on his shoulder. “An ya gonna look so pretty. All round ’n soft with m’baby,” you clenched around him. “Oh so y’really want it,” you had half a mind to wipe the smug grin of his face but then his cock dragged against that spot that made your toes girl. “Look at’cha squeezin’ me.” He moaned. “So tight babygirl—-”
He was hot on your heels when your orgasm rips through you, spilling deep inside of you.
“’s right babygirl, keep squeezin’ Daddy’s cock,” he groaned, still catching his breath when he pulled you into his arms. “Keep milkin’ my cock, makin’ sure it sticks.”
clint flood x sex worker! female reader || one-shot || ao3 link
summary: By day, you’re a waitress, crushing hard on your handsome regular. By night, you’re a call girl. When Clint unwittingly books you for an evening, your two worlds collide.
non-smut tags: grief. romance. eventual sweetness. afab reader. late night heart-to-heart. banter. no y/n. age gap (early 30s reader). girldad Clint. takes place after Freaky Tales. moved to present day so they have phones. money troubles. mentions of infidelity (not Clint or reader). some body insecurity. reader’s physical appearance not described beyond some hair. reader can walk and kneel. smut tags: nervous, tender Clint who gets filthy as hell when his walls come down. mutual masturbation. excessive dirty talk. Clint likes to watch, and he’s kinda obsessed with your thighs. Clint orders you around. brief spanking. praise. pussy pronouns. cock pronouns. big dick Clint, and he’s got some tattoos. pet names (“gorgeous”, “baby”). not not a blowjob. spoiler alert he cums on your pussy.
wc: 16.2K 🫣
author's note: Freaky Tales is my favorite PP movie, so I've been wanting to write Clint for ages. This fic builds up slowly and steadily to the dirtiest smut I've ever written. The diner-core and themes of grief were influenced in part by @mcthsman’s Toska. so was the pussy slap. Check out Toska out first if you haven’t already - it’s fantastic.
MDNI banners by @\cafekitsune, dividers by @\saradika-graphics
You made up stories about all your regulars at the diner.
The punk kids who always paid with change, for instance. You guessed they were in love with each other but scared to admit it. And the girls who liked milkshakes and wrote lyrics on their napkins – they were an up-and-coming rap duo, about to get big. The tall guys who came in hungry and filled up the corner booth? They had to be second-stringers for the Oakland A’s.
And then there was him. The handsome father. He came by every day at 2:15, right at the start of your shift. Silvering hair, scar on his cheek, and those dark, sad eyes. You knew there was a story behind them.
He only ever ordered a black coffee for himself, and a sliced-up banana for the baby. He always said thank you. You liked those thank yous. His voice was full, and it sounded kind, but you tried not to notice. And you tried not to notice the slant of his shoulders, or his big, thick hands, because the left one always wore a silver ring.
Handsome Guy was married. Of course he was.
“You can still daydream, though. It’s not cheating if it’s in your imagination.”
This advice came from your shift-mate. Casey was a decade younger than you, but you were in the same year at Mill College. She never made you feel behind for it, and she’d gotten you the job at the diner. During the lulls, the two of you did problem sets together.
At the moment, there wasn’t much homework getting done. Handsome Guy had just pulled up, and Casey was craning over the counter to stare at him through the window.
“He’s in his leather jacket today,” she said. “Somebody should outlaw that thing. And he drives some kind of blue vintage Chevy.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you. “The seats in those cars go all the way back.”
Your brain conjured an image of your legs on either side of Handsome’s hips, those big hands of his on your waist. Your skin grew warm.
“Stop putting impure thoughts in my head. We have a whole shift to get through.”
Casey grinned. “I’m not allowed to notice a customer’s car? What’s so impure about that?”
You busied yourself putting on a fresh pot of coffee. Handsome never complained, but you didn’t want to charge him for boiled-down sludge. The bell over the door tinkled, and Casey let out a sigh.
“Damn,” she said. “Have you seen his butt? Why can’t he sit in my section, just one time?”
“You really want one of your four-tops taken up by a banana and a coffee? Twenty-five percent of $5.50 is, like, a dollar.”
“He tips twenty-five percent? My friend. Homewreck him.”
“Yeah, that’ll end well.”
“When it all goes down in flames, it’ll be a good distraction from finals.”
You felt a twinge of panic. Finals only mattered if you could scrape together the spring semester’s tuition.
“Funny,” you managed.
You dodged Casey’s eye. She was strapped for cash too, but it wasn’t the same. Her parents would cover her if she came up short.
You retrieved the highchair from the back room and made for Handsome’s table. He always sat in the same booth by the window. His daughter had big, curious eyes, and she gurgled as you came near, wrapping her tiny hand around one of Handsome’s fingers.
You bit back a smile and set up the highchair. Handsome glanced up at you, and something in his gaze softened.
“Thank you,” he said.
You liked the slow way he had of talking. It felt like all of his attention was here, like he never skipped over one thought to try and reach the next.
“No problem,” you said. “Coffee?”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
“It’s brewing. And the banana?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
He always said no, but today he hesitated.
“How come don’t you wear a name tag?” he asked.
What?
“Oh,” you said. “I always forget it. And it’s not like the food tastes any different if you know my name.”
Handsome moved his head, not exactly a yes or a no. He didn’t say anything. Was he asking for your name? Why did he want to know?
He was such a solid man, and up close, it was hard to keep your thoughts in a line. Those eyes of his were too damn warm.
Maybe he was waiting for you to leave. You’d been lingering for way too long, hadn’t you?
You tucked your pen behind your ear.
“I should go get your coffee.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thank –”
“Thank me? You said that already.”
The comment fell out before you could stop it, and you cursed yourself for breaking your customer service mask. Whatever ideas you had about Handsome, they were just that – ideas. He always paid in cash, so you didn’t even know his name, let alone whether he’d share your sense of humor. Chances were he’d decide you were a bitch, and you’d lose your measly $1.10 in tips.
But Handsome didn’t seem to mind. Something playful spread across his face, an expression you’d never seen him wear before.
“Okay,” he said. “I take it back.”
“You what?”
“I take it back. No thank you for you.”
You failed to hold back a surprised grin.
“Ungrateful bastard.”
Handsome lifted an eyebrow. “You talk like that to all of your customers?”
Was he… flirting with you?
You glanced at his hand before you could think better of it. Still married.
Handsome followed your eyes, and his body went rigid. He moved his left hand to his lap and stared at the table.
It wasn’t your problem that he was married. You weren’t going to let yourself feel bad for clocking him, no matter how ashamed he looked at getting caught.
So what if he was hot? The man couldn’t even cut up a banana on his own.
“Coffee will be right out,” you said.
Handsome nodded at the table, and you made for the counter. Casey’s eyebrows were in the sky by the time you got back.
“Don’t look now, but Hot Dad totally watched you walk away,” she said. “What the hell did you say to him?”
“Nothing,” you said.
You glanced up at Handsome. Your eyes met, and his gaze dropped to his phone. He chewed his lip as he typed, like he was guilty about something. Probably texting his wife.
You sighed. You knew it wasn’t that big of a deal – plenty of married guys flirted, and there was nothing necessarily wrong with checking out other women. It wasn’t like Handsome had asked for your number. A few years ago, you would have shrugged all this off.
A few years ago, you hadn’t realized just how many guys were cheaters. You’d liked Handsome more when he was a fantasy, when you could tell yourself he was better than the rest of them.
You untied your apron.
“I’m going to take my fifteen.”
Casey’s brow furrowed.
“Really? We just started.”
“Yeah, I need a minute. Mind covering my table? It’s just the banana and coffee. He takes it black, usually one refill.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
You thanked Casey, grabbed your cigarettes from the break room, and lit up outside. The buzz of nicotine woke you up, and you scolded yourself for taking your break so soon. The evening rush was terrible on Fridays, and now you’d have to marathon through it.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket. A notification from Illicit.
As escort services went, Illicit was bare bones. They didn’t run background checks on their clients. They didn’t schedule your meetups for you. But the cut they took was tiny, and at least they logged the locations of your dates.
You’d signed up as a last resort a few months ago, when a perfect storm of rent increase, car repairs, and an ER bill had cleaned through what little you had set aside for tuition. There was nobody you could have asked for help – you’d followed your ex out to California, and he was long gone now, living with the girl he’d said you were crazy for worrying about.
Stop. You didn’t need to be thinking about him today. The whole thing with Handsome had just gotten under your skin.
The message was from a new client, a guy who’d been reaching out on and off for weeks, without ever scheduling a date. For the last few days, he’d been radio silent. You’d thought he’d changed his mind.
Maybe something had changed it back, because a green check mark had appeared beside the guy’s name. He’d put money into his Illicit account. You clicked on the message.
Clint: I know it’s been a while, but I still want to meet you. Have you got any time tonight?
Clint: 10:00? For two hours?
You hesitated. Your shift ended right at ten.
Clint: I’ll pay double. If we don’t do tonight, I’m going to chicken out again.
Double pay. You couldn’t turn it down. Even if Clint wanted something awful in exchange, it probably wouldn’t be twice as bad as the average.
Angel: Ok. If 11 works, I can make it.
It had been impossible to choose the perfect call girl name, so you’d let the alphabet decide. Angel hadn’t been a bad pick, in the end. It seemed to send the right message.
Clint took a moment to respond.
You knew what was coming. The haggling. Some guys were open about it – asking to pay half now and half later, like you’d try harder if you had to earn it. That wasn’t too common. Most of the time, the men would just ask you to remind them the price, like it wasn’t listed clearly on your profile.
You never backed down, but you hated the implicit challenge – that you couldn’t be really worth what you charged.
Your phone buzzed again.
Clint F. sent you $500.00 – “11 it is.”
Well, fuck. He’d even tipped double – 25% of double.
Clint: Did you get it?
Angel: I did. Thanks. Not a lot of clients pay up front, and I hate having to chase them down about it.
Clint: I get it.
Clint: Is the tip good?
Angel: You’re good. Thank you.
Clint: You said that already.
Clint: I’ll send over my address. I’m near Lake Merritt. I can pick you up from the BART station there.
Illicit only tracked home addresses. Your gut said you could trust Clint, but that wasn’t enough to get you into his car. If your fantasies about Handsome were any sign, you weren’t exactly the best judge of character.
Besides, you didn’t live far from the lake. You’d probably be able to walk.
Angel: That’s okay. I’ll come to you.
Your phone buzzed again, and you checked the address. Sure enough, you and Clint were neighbors. Go figure.
You took a final, long drag of your cigarette. Five hundred dollars, and a client who seemed kind of decent. There had to be some sort of catch.
It was already 10:15 by the time you got back to your studio, and by then you reeked of fry oil. You turned up the shower to scalding and got to work scrubbing away the smell.
When you went out as Angel, you didn’t use your normal shampoo and conditioner. Everything she wore was scented like roses. All you had to do was inhale, and you’d feel like somebody else.
You needed the reminder. Angel was sexy in a way that you weren’t. She was nice. She never forgot to moisturize, and she was always freshly waxed. When she put on lingerie, she didn’t stare at herself in the mirror, finding all the places it dug in too tight and gapped too loose.
It didn’t come easily to you. You’d never really thought of yourself as sexy, or even especially beautiful. Not that you were ugly – with a little bit of effort, and the right makeup, you could make yourself pretty enough. But every girl could do that. You weren’t anything special.
When you first signed up for Illicit, you’d actually thought it would make you more confident. Your body was a commodity. It had to be valuable. But to most of your clients, all women’s bodies were commodities. You felt wanted sometimes, sure, but never desired.
You reached for the rose shampoo.
It was empty. Damn it.
You couldn’t wear mismatched scents – it would drive you crazy. You’d have to use only the everyday stuff. Citrus wasn’t as sexy, but maybe you’d get lucky and Clint would have a tangerine fetish.
You put the empty bottle back – you’d remember to chuck it tomorrow, really – and finished washing up.
It was always chaos getting ready in your studio. The room was tiny, and you’d never really set it up well. You knew you had it in you. You’d kept a good home when you were married. Maybe it was this place – this dark little go-between. It just didn’t feel like home.
Your dresser was jammed up against your bed, and it did double duty as a desk. You found your blow dryer on top of it, the cord half-buried by a stack of lecture notes. You worked it free, then sifted through your lingerie drawer.
Nothing extreme tonight. Exhausted as you were, you wouldn’t have the confidence to pull off a corset. You slid on mesh panties and a matching balconette. The bra was minimal enough to be comfortable, even if it didn’t push your cleavage up in the way your clients liked.
Hair and makeup was next – nothing heavy, the kind of “good girl” look that a man would expect from somebody named Angel.
10:46. You had a little bit of time. Clint had shelled out five hundred dollars. Maybe he deserved the fantasy.
You wriggled into a garter belt and a dark set of thigh-highs. The belt dug into your stomach, and the stockings got runs so fast that you hated wearing them, but they helped you feel a bit more like Angel.
Better. You kept the rest simple. It wouldn’t be on for long. Little black dress with a low-cut neck, and tall, heeled boots.
You looked too obviously like a hooker to walk around like this. You pulled your go-to coverup from your closet – a giant canvas coat, the one your ex had left behind – and threw it on over the dress.
In two and a half hours, you could go back to being you.
Walking up to a date was the part you hated most, and tonight was no exception. What if Clint had friends over? What if he hadn’t read the hard limits section of your profile?
You distracted yourself by studying Clint’s house. It was a two-story Victorian, but according to his instructions, he only lived downstairs. An old blue car sat in the driveway, and you were reminded for a moment of Handsome.
God, this had been a long day.
You stepped onto the porch and checked the time. 11:08. You set a two-hour timer and took off your coat. You rearranged your face into Angel’s. Then you knocked on the door.
It opened at once, and a ringing sound filled your ears.
Handsome stood on the other side.
What?
What was going on? Did you have the wrong house?
Handsome met your eyes, and his face went slack.
Some part of your brain noticed that he looked especially good tonight, in a tight dark sweater that stretched around his chest and arms. His hair was combed back, and he’d done something to his beard to make it all point the same way.
He was dressed up for something. No. Wait. Was he dressed up for you?
Were you the something?
Handsome looked from your face to your dress, and quickly back.
“Angel?” he said. “Are you… are you Angel?”
That voice didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t be saying that name. Static crawled up beneath your skin.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d messaged you while he was still in the diner, hadn’t he? How had he known who you were?
“You are,” he said. “Aren’t you? You’re her?”
Handsome’s eyes were wide. He took a step back, and for a moment he looked as horrified as you were.
The realization cut through to quiet your panic. If Handsome had planned this, he sure wasn’t acting like it. Your pulse began to slow, and you found your voice.
“You didn’t know?”
Handsome gave you an incredulous look.
“Does it seem like I knew?”
It didn’t. It really didn’t. Maybe he was lying, but you remembered how bad he’d been at hiding his ring in the diner. He didn’t seem the type to pull it off. You took in a deep breath. This wasn’t a trick. It was only a bizarre coincidence. You could deal with that.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “How did this happen? How are you her?”
Something about his spiral put you at ease. Clint, if that really was his name, didn’t have the upper hand. That meant it was up for grabs. You got to decide what happened next.
You looked into Clint’s eyes, and finally got a handle on what was happening. Clint was Handsome, and Handsome was a dick. He’d invited a call girl over so he could cheat on his wife. What had he said? It had to happen tonight? Was she out of town or something?
It didn’t really matter. Maybe you could care that Handsome was married, but you’d come here tonight to be Angel. Angel didn’t get to care that Clint was married.
“Everything is going to be fine,” you said. “I’ll never say a word about this. And if you don’t want to see me again, just get your coffee an hour earlier. I don’t clock in until 2.”
Clint nodded slowly. Some of the wildness faded from his eyes, and you thought you saw sorrow there again.
“You know what time I come in?”
“Clint. You come in almost every day, and you have the silliest order of all time. Do you not have coffee and bananas at home? Of course I remember you.”
You were mouthing off way too much – more than Angel would have – but the line was too blurry, and your blood was too hot. You couldn’t think straight if you were also trying to behave.
At least Clint seemed to have a thick skin. The edge of his mouth pulled upward.
“Fair enough,” he said.
He didn’t interrupt further, and you took another breath.
“So you and I are fine, moving forward. The only question left is what to do about tonight. I can go home, and Illicit can find you somebody else. They won’t refund your tip, but…” you had to say it. “But I can send you the extra $100, considering the circumstances.”
“Keep it,” he said. “It only seems fair. I put you out of work tonight, didn’t I?”
“Not necessarily,” you said.
Clint’s brow furrowed, and you hesitated for a moment. If you stopped talking now, you could accept his tip and head home early.
But another $400 sat on the table. You didn’t want to help Clint cheat, but if you left here tonight, that was two more meetups you’d have to do, and those guys wouldn’t be any better.
They definitely wouldn’t be better looking.
No. You couldn’t think like that. This was a job. This wasn’t a chance to get with Handsome. The guy you’d imagined didn’t exist.
“This isn’t what I expected,” you said. “But I don’t actually think it’s a big deal. Yes, we know each other, but not particularly well, and what happens here tonight will stay here. If you want to go through with our original plan, I’m fine with that, too.”
“You are?”
“I am. I’d actually prefer it.”
Clint fell quiet. He braced himself on the doorway and studied your face.
A strange feeling stirred inside your stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Clint was too good-looking. His face was too honest. When you looked back at him, it was hard not to only see Handsome.
Clint took a breath, and for the first time since his panicked once-over, his eyes dipped below your neck. He took in your exposed cleavage, and became very still. His gaze lingered on your hips, where the slinky fabric held close to your curves. His eyes found the bare skin of your thighs, and he made a soft noise. His throat bobbed.
Heat burned beneath your skin. He was such a big man. He’d always seemed so stoic in the diner. But here, tonight, he made no effort to hide all the ways he was affected.
“Okay,” he said quietly. He was still looking at your thighs.
It was hard to breathe when he looked at you like that.
“Okay,” he said again.
He tore his eyes back to your face and seemed to come back to himself.
“Want to come inside?”
You nodded. You were going inside with Handsome, and he still hadn’t taken off his wedding ring. Did that make this more or less fucked up?
He held open the door for you, and he let out a little huff of breath as you stepped in front of him. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze on your ass.
If you had any doubt left that Clint was married, his apartment erased it. The entryway led to an airy living room. A vintage table stood to your left, with brightly colored, mismatched chairs tucked around it. To your right, you found a long, leather sectional, decorated with a big throw made of granny squares. A wind chime dangled in the bay window, and in the lamplight you saw that the curtains around it were pink.
These decorations had not been chosen by a giant, scarred man who only ever drank black coffee. They’d been picked by the wife he was about to cheat on. It was hard not to be angry, especially when you saw signs of neglect around the place. The plants beneath the wind chime drooped yellow with overwatering, and dust had piled up around the moldings and windowsills, in all those hard-to-reach places that men never seemed to notice.
The door closed behind you. Clint held out his hand.
“Let me take your coat.”
You handed it over numbly.
There were a few rectangular patches on the walls where the paint looked a little too bright, as if pictures usually hung there and slowed the color from fading.
Had Clint taken down all the photos of his wife before you got here? But then why had he left on his wedding band?
You felt Clint’s eyes on you. He said nothing, but his body was stiff like it had been in the diner, when you’d first drawn attention to his ring.
There was a bench across from the coat closet. You sat down and unzipped your heeled boots. You expected Clint to watch as you revealed your thigh-highs, but he only stared around the room. His hand closed into a fist, then opened.
You rose to your feet.
“Here? Or the bedroom?”
“Not the bedroom.”
“Okay, then.”
You took a seat on the leather couch. Clint stayed standing.
“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he said.
He opened and closed his hand again. You felt a pang inside your chest. You knew he was being a jerk, but he just didn’t seem like one. He seemed… afraid. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to go through with this.
“We don’t have to do anything,” you said. “You can still change your mind. You paid for my time, but we can spend it however you want.”
He nodded. He took a seat on the far end of the couch. He still couldn’t seem to look at you.
“I want to do this,” he said. “I know this is the right thing to do.”
You bit your lip. You could feel yourself about to mouth off again. Angel would keep quiet, but… you looked at the sad, wilted calathea in the windowsill. Fuck it.
“Is this the right thing to do? I don’t think cheating ever really is.”
Clint’s attention snapped to you.
“Cheating?”
You gestured to his hand.
“Wedding band.” You motioned to yourself. “Hooker. Cheating. Unless you guys are poly, or have some kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement.”
“Oh,” was all Clint said.
He looked down at his wedding band and traced his thumb over the metal. His body seemed to shrink around itself.
“I’m not cheating on my wife,” he said. His voice shook, as if he didn’t quite believe the words. “She died last year. She was murdered.”
Those sad eyes of his. Oh. Fuck. You were such an idiot.
“Oh, fuck,” you said. “I’m such an idiot.”
Clint looked up at you in surprise, and your face burned. Now you were even more of an idiot.
You should say something better. There were things you were supposed to say when someone died, weren’t there? You were sorry for his loss?
You couldn’t say that. It felt completely soulless.
But Clint had wanted company tonight – he’d wanted it badly enough to pay double. You couldn’t fix his pain, but maybe he just needed you to see it.
“I knew there was something,” you said. “I see you every day at the diner, and I knew you were hurting. I’ve thought a hundred times about how I can make it better. And then I come in here and accuse you of cheating.”
Clint gave you a strange look.
“Today,” he said. “In the diner. You disappeared, and your friend took my table. You thought I was trying to step out on my wife?”
“Um. Yes. I’m sorry.”
Clint shook his head. “I should’ve said something earlier.”
“No,” you said. “I jumped to conclusions, and it was unprofessional. I owe you an apology for acting like such a dick.”
Clint made a sound in the shape of a laugh. “That wasn’t a very professional apology.”
“It wasn’t an apology at all, I guess. But I am sorry.”
“I know,” Clint said.
You gave him a small smile. He let out a sigh.
“This isn’t going too well so far,” he said. “Is it?”
You turned to sit facing him on the couch.
“I’m here for you,” you said. “You’re the one who decides what ‘going well’ means.”
“Okay,” he said. He slid his right hand through his left.
“It might’ve been a mistake,” he said. “Trying this.”
A suspicion formed inside your mind.
“Is this the first time you’ve… since…”
“Yeah.”
Oh, God. You never would have pushed to keep tonight’s date if you’d known. Was he just going through with this because he’d spent so much money?
“Do you… Is it too weird, that it’s me? If you really think this is a mistake, we should do the refund.”
“No,” he said. “I have to do this. I have to try. Something needs to change.”
“Okay,” you said. “I’ll stay.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes dropped to his hands, and quiet stretched between you. He didn’t move toward you on the couch.
Your instincts said not to rush him, but you only had so much time. He said he wanted to do this. Maybe you could help him remember why.
“It might help if you start by telling me what you want out of tonight.”
Clint nodded at his hands.
“Alright,” he said. “I thought tonight could be a… first step. I have these moments sometimes, where I’ll get excited to… see somebody. And then it hits me, what I’m doing, that I’m excited about somebody besides Grace, and I just…”
He cut himself off. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He gestured toward his chest.
You felt an urge to wrap your arms around him, but he’d left a couch’s worth of space between you for a reason. You stayed where you were.
“It might just be too soon,” you said. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”
“I need to be ready,” he said. He lifted his head, and you saw that his eyes were wet. He gestured again at his chest. “It needs to not be like this anymore. I need something good that doesn’t hurt. Even if I hate myself for wanting it.”
“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re not wrong for wanting to feel better.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But you do?” you said. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
You were being too glib. You regretted it at once, but Clint’s mouth twitched.
He was in there somewhere, a real person, buried by emotion. If you could draw him out, get him thinking about something else, maybe he could enjoy himself.
“So you want to feel good tonight,” you said. “Is there anything specific that you want to do with me?”
Clint’s gaze dropped to the stripe of thigh between your stockings and skirt. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Sure, he didn’t.
“You don’t know? Or you know, but you feel too guilty to ask?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You can be kind of blunt sometimes.”
Fuck.
“Sorry. I’m not big on half-truths. I usually do a better job of being polite.”
“I didn’t say you should be. But it’s surprising for somebody named Angel.”
You hesitated, and Clint’s eyes flickered with understanding.
“Your name isn’t really Angel, is it?”
You shook your head.
“You just told me you don’t like lying!”
A tiny, incredulous grin had appeared on Clint’s face. There he was.
“This isn’t a lie,” you said. “My name is Angel. Some of the time. Come on, you’re telling me your real name is Clint?”
He blinked. “Is it not supposed to be?”
“Wait really? Your name is Clint?”
“You thought I made it up?”
“Of course I did! Guys always pick the most macho, Old Hollywood names they can think of. Rock, Leroy, Rebel… Titan.”
“You’re lying about Titan.”
“I really wish I was.”
Clint chuckled, and you found yourself smiling. He was gorgeous when he laughed.
“Sorry,” you said. “It’s not good form to talk to you about other clients.”
“I don’t want good form,” he said.
“There you go. Telling me what you want. What else?”
He paused for a moment. “What would you do if you were on a date with one of those other guys right now?”
Most other guys got right down to the main event, but you didn’t think Clint was ready for that.
“Um. Probably a blowjob?”
Clint’s eyes snapped to your lips.
“Yeah?” he said quietly. “You’d take me in your mouth?”
Oh, fuck. He really needed a license for that voice of his.
“Does that sound like something you want?” you asked. “We can go slow at first, maybe just my tongue.”
Clint’s chest swelled, and he adjusted himself inside his pants.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Let’s try that.”
You got to your feet. “Do you want me to take my dress off?”
“Fuck,” Clint murmured. “I… Not yet. Yes, but it feels like too much.”
“Alright,” you said. “Keep telling me when something’s too much, okay?”
“I will.”
You walked over to his end of the couch.
Clint’s fingers pressed indents into armrest of the couch. He didn’t seem to know where to look – your face, your chest, your hands. His eyes darted to the empty wall, then back to you.
You took a step, and Clint’s knees brushed yours.
“Can you make some space?” you asked.
Clint spread his knees. You sank to the ground between them.
He felt so big up close. His bulky thighs seemed to surround you. Your hand reached out of its own accord to trace a swell of his muscle.
Clint inhaled sharply. His eyes were locked on your fingers. Slowly, you trailed your hand up the top of his leg.
“You’re so strong,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”
Clint’s brow creased, and you realized it probably sounded like a line. But it was true. What sort of life gave a man this kind of muscle? Roadwork? Construction?
But that scar on his face… the way he always paid in cash… and his massive hands, like they’d been swollen from years of impact. There was something dangerous about his strength.
Clint shifted in his seat. You let out a breath, then slid your hand farther up his leg.
Pressed on the inside of his thigh, bulging out against the denim, was the outline of his cock.
A whimper fell from your mouth before you could stop it. He was hard, and long, and straining to be released.
You looked to Clint. Was this okay with him? He was still staring at your hand.
“Should I stop?”
Clint hesitated, then shook his head.
You didn’t move.
“You promised to tell me if this was too much.”
Clint shook his head again. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. Something curled inside your stomach, the feeling that always came when you were Angel.
“It isn’t too much,” Clint said. The words were strained. “Please. Keep going.”
You brought your hand to his erection.
Clint shuddered. His cock twitched beneath your touch. The heat of him radiated out through the denim.
You gripped his shaft. Oh, God, he was big – girthy in a way that made you ache between your legs.
You glanced up at Clint. He’d gone very still. You swept your thumb over his tip.
His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.
He closed his eyes, and his mouth made a flat, tense line.
“Clint – ”
He pushed your hand away.
“Stop,” he said. “Stop. No. Please. I can’t have you touching me.”
He dropped your hand, and you brought it to your lap.
Your throat felt tight. Clint still wouldn’t look at you.
His hands shook at his sides, and he opened and closed them into fists. It was such a strange tic of his – like his body wanted to fight something that wasn’t there.
You sat back on your heels, but didn’t say anything. If Clint was anything like you, the panic would need a second to leave his system.
Slowly, his breath evened out. He ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes found yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You forced your voice to stay level.
“Don’t be. This is why you wanted a professional, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose it is.”
He wedged his hands into his pockets, then seemed to think better of it. He took them back out.
“It isn’t you that’s the problem,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“It was just, the second I felt your hands – ”
“It’s okay,” you said. “I understand. It didn’t feel right.”
His brow creased. “I don’t know if it did. I couldn’t pay attention to how it felt. For years, I only ever wanted one person, and I just kept thinking… I don’t deserve to feel this without her.”
“That isn’t true,” you said.
An emotion flickered across Clint’s face. “Maybe it is.”
You could tell he believed what he was saying. There was something getting in his way – something he’d tried and failed to power through. You kept quiet and let him wrestle with it.
“You’ve got to understand,” he said hoarsely. “It was my fault.”
He always spoke slowly, but now the words seemed to weigh him down.
“The kid who shot Grace, he was trying to punish me. And he was right to want me punished. I’m… I was a bad man for a long time.”
So he was some sort of criminal – or had been. Maybe it should have worried you, but you’d known already, hadn’t you? Illicit didn’t background check its users, and it attracted a certain sort of client. Technically, you were a criminal, too.
And Clint just didn’t feel dangerous. Your gut had been right when it refused to believe he was cheating. This time, you decided to trust it.
“I don’t believe you’re a bad person,” you said.
Clint shook his head. His eyes were dark pools.
“It should’ve been me who died,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have this life. What kind of a man would I be if I enjoyed it?”
Understanding washed over you. This was the thought that was strangling him. He didn’t just miss his wife – he owed her. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t even try.
But some part of him wanted to. He’d brought you here, hadn’t he? He needed something from you tonight.
You didn’t know if you could deliver. You didn’t how to make it right. It didn’t even feel okay to hug him.
“Tell me what you want,” you said quietly.
Clint sighed.
“I want you to get up off your knees,” he said. “It feels like you’re praying to me down there.”
This was definitely not the time to crack a joke about his God-tier cock. You kept your mouth shut for once, but maybe your face betrayed you, because Clint raised an eyebrow as you got to your feet.
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “Can we do that?”
“Of course.”
He pushed up off the couch. “Good. Want me to make you a drink?”
You were behind Clint when he stepped into his kitchen, so you saw the way his shoulders relaxed. He seemed easier in here than he had in the living room. Maybe he felt better when he was doing something normal.
And his kitchen was nice – small, but tidy, with bright, warm lights and a U-shaped wraparound counter. A highchair sat at the table, and the dishrack was full of tiny pink utensils. You smiled to yourself.
“Take a seat,” Clint said.
You boosted yourself up and sat on the counter.
Clint raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got chairs.”
“I noticed. I like it up here.”
He shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t complain about the view.”
You glanced down and realized your skirt had ridden up, so the hem only barely skimmed the top of your thighs. You didn’t pull it back down.
“It’ll take me a second to find anything to drink,” Clint said. “These days we’re only an apple juice and coffee household.”
“So you do have coffee at home,” you said. “And are those bananas I see above the fridge? What is it – do we just cut them up better at the diner?”
Clint began to riffle through the cabinets.
“I like to get out of the house,” he said. “You try having only a baby to talk to.”
“I’ve never seen you talk to anyone at the diner,” you said. “Unless you count me taking your order.”
Clint’s neck went pink, and he didn’t respond. He turned and reached up to open the high cabinet above the stove. The hem of his sweater rode up, and his undershirt lifted with it.
“Alright,” he said. “We’ve got whiskey, and we’ve got instant hot chocolate. Guest’s choice.”
Above the waistband of his jeans, his back was golden and ridged with muscle. A thick, pink scar reached down from beneath his shirt.
He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”
“Um. Either is good.”
He grabbed both, then put on the kettle.
While it boiled, he leaned back against the counter. He was on the opposite end of the U, directly across from you. His gaze fell on your thigh-highs, and he didn’t look up.
“We’re supposed to be taking a break,” you said.
“We are,” he said. “But… I want you to take those off.”
“Really?” you asked.
Most guys liked to fuck you while you still had them on.
“You told me to ask for what I want,” Clint said. “I want to see your thighs. All of them.”
“In a taking-a-break way,” you said.
He grinned. “Exactly.”
Something fluttered in your stomach. You unclipped your garters and rolled the stockings down your legs. Being careful not to make new pulls, you folded them into a pile, then set it on the counter beside you.
You felt a silly need to dodge Clint’s gaze. Your stockings were armor. Without them, there was no hiding the cellulite on your legs, and in your rush tonight, you’d left stubble around one of your knees. You didn’t exactly look like you were worth a thousand dollars.
The kettle whistled. Clint didn’t move. His eyes had gone black, and he was staring at your bare skin. You crossed your legs, and his gaze followed the new sliver of thigh you revealed.
Your heart stuttered inside your chest. His focus was so singular – it did something to you. But you knew he wasn’t ready to act on it.
“Clint,” you said.
He stirred and seemed to finally hear the kettle. He switched off the heat and poured two mugs of hot chocolate. He dolloped a healthy pour of whiskey into each.
“Is that any good?” you asked.
“We’ll find out.” Clint said. He picked up both mugs and crossed the kitchen to you. “Do you want the Lakeshore Diner one, or Bluey?”
“Bluey.”
Clint handed you the mug. “Careful. It’s still hot.”
It was, but not so bad you couldn’t hold it.
“It feels good,” you said.
Clint smiled softly. “Good.”
He made space on the counter and pushed himself up to sit beside you, close enough that his leg almost brushed yours. He cradled the mug from the diner, and his hands made it look small.
You nodded to it.
“Did you pay for that, or steal it?”
Clint grinned.
“If I confess, are you gonna to turn me in?”
“I might. But I have three in my apartment, so it’s a bit of a pot/kettle situation.”
“You’re a repeat offender?” he asked. “I knew you had a dark side.”
“Streetwalking isn’t a dark enough side for you?”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually walk the streets?”
“Um. For transportation.”
“Then we’re both streetwalkers,” he said. “You should be paying me for my time.”
“Not if you aren’t putting out, I shouldn’t.”
He let out a surprised laugh. “Fair enough.”
You traced your thumb over the handle of your mug.
“Do you want to talk about it more?” you asked. “The not-putting-out of it all?”
He shook his head. “Not right now.”
He took a sip of hot chocolate, and you followed his lead. The mixture was sweet at first, but it burned as it went down.
“Okay,” you said. “This is not as good as either whiskey or hot chocolate individually.”
“Yeah,” Clint said. “But it ain’t bad.”
You took another swallow, and heat spread out inside you. Clint’s shoulder knocked against yours.
“No,” you agreed. “This isn’t bad at all.”
Clint nodded, and silence fell between you.
You took slow sips of the hot chocolate. Clint probably thought he hadn’t made it very strong, but he was a giant man and you’d skipped dinner. You had to pace yourself.
“You smell nice,” Clint said. “You always do. Like you’re in a commercial for orange juice.”
You’d just taken a mouthful of hot chocolate, and it took all your effort not to spit it back out. You swallowed too fast, and your throat burned as you laughed.
“Is that a thing you look for in a woman? Market appeal?”
Clint had clearly watched your entire doomed swallow. A laugh sparked behind his eyes.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I meant…” he waved his hand. “Happy. Like those big groves of trees they always show, and people pouring really cold glasses for little kids.”
His cheeks were pink, and he seemed to be half laughing at himself. He was kind of a dork, you realized, underneath all his muscle.
“Okay,” you said. “Thank you?”
“Anytime,” Clint said. He leaned back against the cabinets and took another sip of his drink.
He smelled like aftershave, and a bit like mothballs. You wondered when he’d last worn this sweater – you’d never seen him in it at the diner. In the corner of your eye you could see him glancing at your legs.
Your whole body was aware of him, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing. You kept your attention on your mug. Bluey stared back at you.
“Is your daughter even old enough for this show?” you asked.
Clint shrugged.
“Not really. She likes it anyway, though. Little genius. Whenever it comes on, she’ll make this ‘oo’ sound at the TV.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing. Babies make a lot of ‘oo’ sounds, don’t they?”
Clint’s mouth twitched. “It’s a real specific sound. And the ‘b-l’ noise is a hard one for toddlers to make. Something about the way they move their tongues. She’s doing her best to say ‘Bluey’. I know my girl.”
“Does she say anything else?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s got a lot of opinions. You’d like her.”
He’d thought about you two together?
“What kind of opinions?”
Clint pointed at himself. “Da.” He pointed to the door. “Go.” He repeated both gestures. “‘Da go’. And when she means business, it’s ‘Da go go’.”
“She wants you to go away?”
“Nah. She wants me to take her to new places. She’s such a curious little kid – has to pick up every leaf at the park, always reaching for whatever I eat, like she’s gotta try it. I can’t wait until she can tell me what she’s thinking.”
Clint’s voice shimmered with pride, and an absent smile played across his face. He turned and caught your eye, and your heart seemed to tumble over.
For a moment, you wished this was an ordinary date, that you had an ordinary job, that he really was ready to move on, instead of just wanting to be.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
You couldn’t tell him that. You took a sip of hot chocolate.
“Where’s your daughter tonight?”
He pointed upstairs. “Landlords. They spoil the shit out of her. How about you?”
“Do I spoil your kid?”
“No. Have you got any kids of your own?”
You shook your head no.
“Do you think you will?”
The night was starting to veer into confusing territory. You could change the subject, but… would it kill you to play along?
“I’d like to,” you said. “My ex and I wanted to have them, but it was never the right time. Now I think we just weren’t the right people.”
“For kids?” Clint asked.
“For each other.”
Clint opened his mouth, then hesitated.
“What?” you asked.
“I wanna know about you,” he said. “But I don’t know if it’s fair to keep asking. It’s not what you signed up for tonight.”
“You paid good money for this conversation,” you said. “Ask away.”
Clint frowned. “If you don’t want to answer, just tell me.”
“I will.”
“Okay,” he said. “Were you married?”
You nodded. “We were really young.”
“And…uh…”
“What happened?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know, really. I quit school to stay at home, and then he was never there. I picked fights instead of saying I missed him. He, uh, he cheated. In the end. He had been for a while.”
You swirled the dregs of your hot chocolate in your mug. “It’s all a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”
“No,” Clint said quietly.
You glanced up at him. His brow was creased in the middle, and his eyes were dark. It would be all too easy to tip into them.
You busied yourself finishing your drink.
“It ended a while ago. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”
Clint didn’t press the subject, but you could feel him watching you.
“You do homework sometimes,” he said. “At the diner. Are you back in school?”
He’d noticed you doing homework?
“I am. I’m getting a degree in accounting.”
It wasn’t your favorite, but it would always pay the bills.
Clint looked at you sideways. “You don’t have the personality of an accountant.”
“What? I have the personality of a call girl?”
He snorted. “Definitely not. I don’t think call girls are supposed to tell off the guys who might be cheating.”
“I don’t make a habit of it,” you said.
“No?” Clint asked. “I’m special?”
Your face burned.
“I… I knew you before. It’s different.”
You resisted the urge to glance at Clint and focused instead on setting down your mug. “It does suck when the guys are cheating, though. I tell myself they’d just hire another girl if I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t take away the feeling that I’m hurting somebody.”
Clint fell quiet for a moment.
“I get it,” he finally said
He went to take a drink, then seemed to remember his mug was empty. He didn’t say more, and his gaze had turned inward. He traced his thumb over the knuckles of his right hand.
Was he thinking about his previous life – the bad man he claimed he’d been? The way he’d talked about his past felt so at-odds with the man sitting in front of you. But nobody was only one thing.
Clint caught you watching him.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
He hadn’t paid you to pry into his life.
“Come on,” Clint said. “I can tell that you wanna ask me something. If you don’t, I’m gonna feel bad for asking about you.”
“Okay,” you said. “For how long were you… doing other things?”
He nodded. “Almost thirty years.”
“You don’t seem old enough for that to be true.”
“The job chose me,” Clint said. “I was only a kid when I started.”
A tinge of sadness was back in his voice.
“Did you ever go to prison?” you asked.
“Twice. A long time ago.”
He searched your face, as if gauging your reaction. Was he worried about making you nervous?
“You can ask,” he said. “If you want.”
You could ask what he’d done, he meant. You wondered about it, of course. But did it really matter? He was somebody else now – a man who apparently hand-washed his daughter’s sippy cups. You’d already decided to trust him. And he was holding enough guilt as it was.
“Okay,” you said. “Did you get any prison tattoos?”
Clint looked at you in surprise. Then he began to laugh.
“That’s what you want to know?”
You shrugged.
“You’re not still doing… whatever put you in prison,” you said. “But if you got tattoos, you still have them. And you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot out.”
“Do I now?”
Clint was grinning at you, and your body felt warm – from the liquor, and maybe a little from all his attention. You weren’t drunk, not even buzzed, really, but your thoughts felt softer, a little safer.
“Come on,” you said. “Answer the question.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I got a few tattoos in prison. And a few outside.”
“Where are they?”
“The usual places,” he said.
“Like..?”
Clint held your eyes. He brought his hand to the inside of his forearm. Then his bicep. His chest, on the right side, where his sweater strained the most. The top of his thigh.
He hesitated, then touched the side of his stomach, right above his belt, in the place that led down to the vee of his hips.
It suddenly felt like a large portion of your insides had turned into liquid.
“Interesting,” you managed to say.
“Is it?” Clint said. His voice had gone very soft.
“You know,” you said. “I wouldn’t mind… if you wanted to show me. As a good, um, taking-a-break activity.”
Clint swallowed.
“They’ve gotten pretty old,” he said. “The tattoos. They might not be the kind of… tattoos… that you like.”
You held his gaze. “I very much doubt that.”
“Okay,” he said quietly.
He slid down from the counter and gave you a small, self-conscious smile. You felt a flutter of anticipation.
Clint pulled off his shirt, and you forgot how to breathe.
He took up more space like this – all the raw, bare strength of him, his thick middle and thicker chest, covered over by hair and crossed by scars.
And there was a softness to him, in his stomach, where he pushed out over his belt. Was this what he’d been worried about you seeing? It couldn’t be.
He felt so real, and he was so much a man – his body spoke to some animal need in yours.
“You’ve got to remember,” Clint said. “I got most of these more than twenty years ago.”
Right. The tattoos. You could see them in all the places he’d promised – fading blue ink, without color, in that old-school traditional style. A wolf’s head. A burning heart.
You gestured to a large, pinup-style portrait on his forearm. “Is that one the reason you always cover up?”
The girl was barefoot, and she wore only a high-cut swimsuit. She stood up on her toes, posing in a way that showed off a particularly thick set of thighs.
Clint grinned. “Kind of. But I don’t regret it. She’s good company.”
“I like her,” you said. “I like all of them.”
Especially the one inked above his hip – a knife, you thought, but you could only see the hilt of it.
Clint followed your gaze. “My body wasn’t like this when I got that one,” he said. “I was a cocky idiot. Didn’t really think it through.”
“No?” you murmured. You couldn’t stop looking at the knife. You traced it with your eyes until it disappeared beneath his belt.
Clint shifted his weight. “I know,” he said. “It’s –”
“Hot?”
How far did the blade go? If he fucked you tonight, the tattoo would point right to the place your bodies joined. Heat dripped into a pool between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together and forced your breath to steady.
“Fuck,” Clint whispered. “You turned on by it?”
You met his eyes, and the air around you seemed to pulse with static.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yes. You… you look good.”
“Me?” Clint said. “Fuck, gorgeous. Look at you.” He gestured roughly to the top of your legs.
Over the course of the conversation, you’d leaned back against the cabinets. With the hem of your dress rucked up as it was, you realized Clint had a direct line of sight to your panties.
By instinct, you shifted your legs closed.
“I didn’t say to do that,” Clint said. His voice was low and smooth all of a sudden.
You hesitated, then let your legs fall back apart. Clint’s eyes fixed on the place between them.
“Could you…?” he asked quietly.
He wasn’t looking at your face, but you nodded anyway. You took ahold of the hem of your dress and dragged it up until it sat around your hips. You took a breath, and spread your legs wide.
A low sound fell from Clint’s mouth.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Can see your cunt right through those panties.”
Your pussy throbbed with heat.
Without lifting his eyes, Clint moved as if drawn forward and rested his palms on either side of your hips. The long rectangle of his body surrounded you.
The room fell quiet but for his breath and yours. Surely he could see what he was doing to you – the wetness that was sticking to your panties.
“Clint,” you said.
He nodded. His eyes were still glued between your legs.
“Do you want to take a break from your break?”
He nodded again.
“Good,” you said. “That’s… good. Do you know what you want to do instead?”
Maybe he’d be ready to try again with the blowjob – yes, your mouth, on that weighty cock of his.
“You’re so fucking hot,” Clint muttered.
“Um. Thank you. But that’s not exactly an answer to – ”
“I want to watch you cum,” Clint said. “I want you to be my real life porn tonight.”
“Yeah?” you breathed.
Clint nodded. He grazed his thumb along the hem of your dress.
“I want you to take this off,” he said. “And I want to have a good, long look. And then I want you to fuck yourself, and I’m gonna watch.”
Oh. Oh, yes. Arousal flooded through you, and your nipples made stiff peaks against the mesh of your bra.
Clint’s eyes traveled in a line up your body, and a slow smile spread across his face as he took in your reaction. At last he met your eyes.
“Can we do that?” he asked. “I don’t know if I’m ready to touch you.”
You managed to nod.
“We can do that.”
Clint’s mouth twitched. “Good.”
He stepped back, and you slid to the floor.
“Here?” you asked. You turned to face him.
Clint nodded. He leaned his hips the counter.
With shaky fingers, you undid your zipper. You’d taken this dress off dozens of times, but tonight somehow felt like the first.
It was hard to look at Clint again, so you focused on his hands where they held the edge of the counter. You let your dress fall to the floor, and Clint’s knuckles whitened.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
You met his eyes, and his chest rose and fell. His gaze traveled down to your mouth, to your breasts, where the shadow of your nipples pushed against your bra. It trailed over the place between your legs, down the length of your thighs and back up.
You felt a needy flicker in your core.
Clint nodded to your garter belt.
“Take that off.”
You undid the belt, and it dropped on top of your crumpled-up dress.
“Better,” Clint murmured. “You’re so fucking pretty.”
Maybe it was just that honest voice of his, but it was easy to believe that he meant what he said. For a moment you felt a strange clutch of sadness.
Clint brought a broad hand to his crotch and began to palm himself over his jeans. Oh, fuck.
“Show me your tits,” he said. “Play with them for me.”
You took off your bra, and Clint groaned when your breasts spilled free. Was he always this expressive?
You slid your hands up over your stomach – it was prickled with goosebumps – and cupped your own breasts.
Clint took in a heavy breath.
You kept your eyes on him and rolled your thumbs over your nipples. It wasn’t much, but your body was wound tight, and you shuddered at the bolt of pleasure.
“Yeah,” Clint murmured. “That’s it.”
He was stroking his erection now, and you could see it, swollen and taut against the front of his jeans.
A whimper drifted from your mouth.
Clint followed your eyes, and a knowing look spread over his face.
“You like him, huh?”
“Just… just a suggestion,” you said. “You wanted real-life porn. If you were watching porn, wouldn’t you be...”
“Go on.”
“I mean, you wanted to feel good tonight, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” Clint said. He was grinning now.
“So you shouldn’t… hold back… from that.”
Clint’s grin widened, and he brought his hands to his belt.
“Okay, gorgeous,” he said. “You want a better view?”
“Please?”
“You gonna keep giving me what I want?”
“Clint,” you moaned. “That’s literally my job. Please.”
A laugh spilled from his mouth, and he began to unbuckle his belt. Anticipation pooled between your legs.
Clint shucked off his jeans, and his bare thighs slid into view. They were corded over with muscle, and some big animal was inked onto one of them. A panther, maybe, or a bear?
You didn’t look long enough to tell. You couldn’t, because Clint was wearing dark gray briefs that hugged tight to his hips. They were made of a soft, stretchy material, and the outline of his erection strained pornographically against it.
Oh, God, he was big. Even beside his massive hand. And at his tip, oh fuck, the fabric was stained dark. He was leaking already for you.
The ache between your legs was almost painful now. You acted without thinking, and slid your fingers down to relieve it.
Clint sucked in a breath. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Oh, fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
You shot a glance at his hard-on. You had some idea.
Clint seemed to follow your thoughts, and his eyes sparked with amusement.
“Yeah, okay,” he admitted. “Little tease.”
Something warm curled up inside your stomach. A small smile played around Clint’s mouth.
“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough of that. Next time you play with her, I want a better view.”
Reluctantly, you slid your fingers from your panties.
“Clean them off,” Clint said. His hand dipped into the waistband of his briefs and began to move along the outline of his cock
You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Desire throbbed in your throat, and thoughts slipped from your mind like water.
Every time Clint stroked his fist, the veins in his forearms rippled.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Put your fingers in your mouth. You can pretend it’s him if you want.”
You did as he said, tasting your own slick, and Clint made a low, approving noise. The sound seemed to shiver through your body.
Clint gestured with his chin. “Turn around for me now.”
As soon as you did, Clint let out a loud groan.
“Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect body. Even hotter than I thought you’d be.”
You heard him push up from the counter. He stepped so close you could feel the heat of him, his hand hovering behind your ass. The cadence of his breath had grown heavy.
You squirmed with the need to do something, to jump forward to the main event.
You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your panties.
“Do you want me to take these off?”
“Not yet,” Clint said. “Not here. Go lie down on the couch.”
He walked behind you the whole way into the living room, then had you lie down on your stomach, with a pillow beneath your hips. The leather was cool against your skin, and the pillow tilted your pelvis up, so your soaked-through panties were on full display. You rested your cheek on your hands, and kept your eyes on Clint.
Maybe you were imagining it, but he seemed to be unraveling. He’d stopped stroking himself, and his voice was ragged now, more rasp and need than substance. His eyes slid over the length of your body.
You scanned him for any of the warning signs you’d seen before – for the tic he had with his fists. You didn’t find it, but that didn’t mean he was okay.
“This isn’t too much?” you asked. “We can stop anytime.”
You weren’t actually sure if you could stop – your core pulsed so needily that you were half-convinced you were dying – but you’d figure out how, if you had to.
Clint looked you in the eye, and shook his head no.
“Not too much,” he rasped. “Ain’t nearly enough.”
He walked up to the middle of the couch. It was hard to see him properly from this angle, so you felt the heat of him first, and then the brush of cotton. There was something firm beneath it – his erection, grazing against your hip.
It was nothing. The smallest amount of contact, and he’d probably done it on accident. But your hips still twitched, rocking up and back against nothing.
Clint grew very still.
And then you felt his hand. His touch was warm – finally, he was touching you – and he didn’t bother to be gentle. His hand slid up around your leg, and he squeezed a fistful of your thigh.
“Fuck,” he growled. “Can’t fucking help myself anymore.”
He reached up to manhandle your ass, then lifted his hand and spanked you - a hard, fast slap on each of your cheeks. His palm came down again, and this time it landed squarely between your legs, smacking you hard over the damp patch on your panties.
A hot shock of pleasure sang through your pussy, and a moan dribbled out of your mouth.
You spread your legs apart and waited for more, but Clint only stepped back. He seemed to be catching his breath.
You whined, and Clint met your eyes.
“Was that okay, gorgeous?”
You nodded. “Until you stopped.”
Clint smiled. “Yeah?”
“You realize… you realize you’re torturing me, right?”
Clint’s gaze softened. “I don’t wanna be,” he said. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now.”
“Fuck,” you mumbled. “The torture continues.”
“Poor girl,” Clint murmured. He walked to your end of the couch and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
Something was melting inside you, something important, some structural part of your mind that knew all of this was a job. You held Clint’s eye and tried to cling onto the remains of it.
“I… I understand,” you managed to say. “I only want you to do what feels good.”
“Yeah?” he said quietly. “That’s the only thing you want?”
You hesitated. He was close to you now, and his briefs were at eye-level. You were only human, after all.
Clint looked at you knowingly and took ahold of his erection.
“You wanna meet him?” he asked.
“Oh god,” you mumbled. “Please.”
Clint freed his cock, and your brain dissolved.
He had a man’s cock – long and veiny, and thick enough to split you in two. Precum leaked from its tip, and when you whimpered, it twitched in response.
“Fuck,” Clint muttered. “He likes you.”
Oh, hell, were you in trouble. There was a reason Clint wasn’t going to fuck you tonight. There was definitely a reason. Wasn’t there? Was it a good one?
Clint wrapped a hand around his shaft and began to work himself in slow, long strokes.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
You obeyed at once.
He was so girthy that you didn’t know if you’d be able to take him, especially like this, with your head crooked to the side. But fuck, you were down to try.
Clint stepped toward you. He was close now, close enough that you could lean forward if you wanted to and run your tongue over him. Your tongue slipped from your mouth, and you looked up at him, pleading.
He took a slow breath. Some emotion crossed his face, and he groaned in frustration. He reached out with his free hand and dragged his thumb over your bottom lip.
“Your mouth looks so fucking soft, gorgeous. I bet it feels even softer.”
“Please,” you whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”
“Yeah?” Clint said. “Want my cock in your mouth that bad? Or you just want your holes to be filled?”
He pushed his first two fingers between your lips. Then he added a third.
You could feel yourself leaking through your panties now, making a slick mess on your thighs.
Clint’s fingers were thick, and long, and they felt huge compared to your own. You swirled your tongue around them, and a soft noise vibrated up from your throat.
“This okay?” Clint asked.
You managed a nod. It wasn’t his cock, but it was more than you’d hoped for. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him.
Clint began to finger your mouth. He stroked himself with the other hand, and could almost imagine it was his shaft sliding over your tongue.
You looked from Clint’s cock to his face, and felt a rush of warmth. Despite his words, despite the crude way he was touching you, his eyes were soft, full of something like admiration.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Giving me just what I need.”
You flushed at his praise. He slid his fingers from your mouth and brought his cock to hover right beneath your mouth.
“Spit on him, baby.”
You did as he said, and he moaned softly, fisting his cock tight as he smeared your saliva along his shaft. The tip of him was angry and red, and leaking all over his fingers.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Clint. Just for a minute.”
He hesitated, then tapped the tip of his cock against your lips. You opened your mouth and licked up a salty drop of precum.
Clint inhaled sharply.
“Oh, fuck,” he said. “He likes you so much, baby. He’s gonna like your cunt even more.”
He stepped away, and you ached at the loss. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Clint walked back down to stand behind your hips. You craned around to watch. His thick fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties. He hesitated, and you realized he was taking in the mess on your thighs.
“Look at that,” Clint murmured. “She’s getting jealous, huh? All hot for me, and I ain’t even taken a good look.”
Desperation coiled tight inside you. You arched your hips up from the pillow, and Clint dragged your panties down. For a moment, the mesh clung to your slick. Then cool air hit your aching pussy.
You were bare before Clint. He let out a moan.
“Oh sweet girl,” he muttered. “Fuck, is she pretty.”
He pulled your panties all the way off, then got onto the couch and kneeled in between your thighs. His bare legs brushed warmth into yours.
His cock glistened between his legs. That slutty knife tattoo pointed right to his base, where Clint was wrapping his hand at this very moment. He slid his fist over his shaft and stared at your pussy.
“I want you to spread her open.”
You did as he asked and reached your arms back. The angle was awkward, and you had to face forward to do it, so you couldn’t watch Clint’s face as you pulled your folds wide for him to see.
It was enough only to hear him – the heavy groan that tore from him, and the lewd, slick rhythm of his fist on his shaft, his strokes becoming ever more frantic. A fresh wave of arousal leaked from your entrance, and Clint sucked in a breath.
“Wettest little cunt,” he said. “You been like this for me all night?”
You’d never in your life been turned on like this. Your body felt so hot, so frayed with passion, that it was all you could do to breathe. Your clit pulsed sharply, and your entrance clenched around nothing.
“Oh yeah, she wants him. That needy little hole, just needs to be fucked, huh?”
“Clint,” you gasped. “Please. I need it.”
“Turn over,” Clint gasped. “Roll over, baby. I wanna see your face.”
With some maneuvering, you adjusted to lie on your back, the pillow still propping up your hips. Clint settled back between your legs, and your whole body ached at the sight of him – broad and bare, his mouth parted and his eyes dark, and his fist working over his length.
“Oh, God,” you mumbled. “You look so good right there.”
Clint grinned. “I look good? You look fucking perfect.”
Warmth pooled inside your chest, and you felt a hazy urge to sit up, or, no, to pull Clint down, to feel the press of his body over yours. You blinked it away.
“Tell me what you want,” you said.
He answered at once.
“Touch yourself, baby. Anything you want. Make yourself cum for me.”
“I want your cock,” you complained. “Want you to give it to me.”
Clint closed his eyes for a long moment, and a breath slid out of him. His fist slowed, and you realized with a surge of arousal that he was trying not to finish.
His stomach tensed, and veins stood out in his forearms. He was close, and you felt drunk on it – this huge, gorgeous man, coming undone at only the sight of you. He made you feel perfect.
You brought both your hands to the slick between your legs, and gasped. You were so sensitive now that the slightest brush of your clit sent a ripple through your body.
Clint opened his eyes, and they flashed with appreciation.
You drew a tender circle around your clit and sighed with relief. For easier access, you spread your legs wide, hinging an ankle on the back of the couch. The pose was obscene, but you were too far gone to care – and yeah, you wanted Clint to see.
Clint let out a strangled grunt. You were spread-eagle now, your pussy just one thrust away from his cock. That tattoo on his hip quivered with tension, and you ached to trace it with your fingers, to take ahold of Clint’s base and guide him into you.
A bright knot of pleasure began to tighten inside you. You knew what you liked, and you knew you’d finish fast tonight.
Clint stared, trancelike, at your pussy. He was jerking himself even more slowly now, his fist hardly moving, and you realized he was waiting for you to catch up. It felt a little sweet, and more than a little filthy – like he needed to see what he’d done to you.
“You feel good?” he asked. “Tell me how good you feel, baby.”
“Yes,” you panted. “And no. I’d feel better with your cock inside me.”
Clint shuddered. His fist sped up again, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.
“Yeah, gorgeous? He’s a lot bigger than that needy cunt of yours. She’d have to stretch real big for him.”
“I can take it,” you breathed. You worked your fingers faster over your clit.
“That – fuck – how you like it, baby? Like your holes stretched all the way open? Want my cock so deep you can’t even breathe?”
Oh, fuck. Your legs shook with pleasure, and you slowed your fingers.
You closed your eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet.
“Don’t stop,” Clint begged. “Wanna see you.”
You held his eyes and resumed your pace on your clit. He was breathtaking, really – all tense muscle and rippling blue ink, panting now, and jerking himself fast.
“God,” you mumbled. “I wish you could cum inside me tonight.”
Clint shuddered. He grabbed one of your thighs and held on tight enough to hurt.
“Fuck,” he panted. “Oh, fuck. If you – nngh – keep talking like that, I’m gonna fucking cum.”
“Yeah?”
Clint nodded. His jaw clenched.
“Yes,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. I wanna – fuck – I want –”
“Tell me.”
“I wanna cum on your cunt,” Clint gasped.
Holy fuck. Oh, God.
“Yes,” you said. “Yes. Oh, fuck, please. Please.”
Clint’s hand sped up, and the slapping of his fist filled the room. His whole body was shaking now, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it seemed he had to strain for the words.
“Yeah? You want my cum all over her?”
He was so goddamn hot like this. You angled yourself so your pussy was right beneath him and held yourself open with your fingers.
Clint’s fingers tightened on your thigh. His chest heaved. He let out a final strangled moan, and then you felt the hot spatter of his release.
He came for a long time. His cum coated not only your pussy, but your inner thighs and low belly. It dripped down your center and ran up onto your stomach.
Clint’s breath evened out, and he looked up, dazed, at the mess that he’d made.
“Oh, yeah,” he panted. “Look at her.”
Need fogged over all your senses. You slid your fingers back between your legs, and smeared Clint’s cum over your clit.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Your cunt was made to take my cum, huh? I wanna –”
He cut himself off.
“What?” you asked. “Tell me.”
He met your eyes. “I want to take a picture,” he said. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”
An image popped into your mind of Clint, home alone, jerking himself off to a picture of your pussy – to a picture of what he’d done to your pussy.
“Fuck,” you gasped. “Do it.”
Clint stilled. “Yeah?”
“Please,” you said. “I – fuck, I’m close – I want you to. Just don’t get my face.”
“Good thing I didn’t cum there, huh?”
You moaned. “Stop – stop putting ideas in my head.”
Clint grinned. He leaned over to the end table and grabbed his phone, then aimed the camera in between your legs.
He stared at the screen, and his eyes darkened.
“Goddamn is she pretty.”
The shutter clicked, and you whimpered. You worked your clit frantically, and felt your orgasm mounting. Your hips twitched on the pillow.
Then Clint touched you. He reached out with two broad fingers, and spread your pussy open.
“There I am,” he muttered. “Dripping right into your cunt, ain’t I?”
He held the camera close, and it clicked again. Your body began to shake.
Clint trailed his fingers through the mess on your thighs, gathering up his cum on his fingers.
“Gonna put this all where it belongs,” he said. “Okay, baby? Can I give you my cum?”
Oh, fuck. Did he mean –
“Wanna fuck you with my hand,” Clint said. “Fill up this hole like she needs.”
White spots flickered on the edges of your vision.
“Please.”
Clint rumbled in approval and pushed a single, impossibly thick finger inside you. The stretch seared through you, deep and perfect.
“So soft,” Clint murmured. “So fucking tight. She’s taking it so good.”
He curled his finger upward and the pad of it found that sensitive place. He began to stroke you, pleasuring you from the inside, keeping time with your own rhythm on your clit. Tension coiled between your legs.
Clint worked in a second finger, then, without waiting, a third. He felt huge inside you – so thick it would have hurt, if you weren’t so wet.
Your toes curled. Your back arched up off the couch.
Clint held up his phone once again and centered the camera on your entrance.
“Oh, fuck, baby. Your cunt is pretty when she’s full.”
The shutter clicked, and the tension inside you snapped.
You came all at once, a thousand nerve endings dissolving into pleasure. Your thoughts fuzzed, your blood blazed, and a broken whine fell from your throat. For a moment, you thought you might be crying.
Your orgasm burnt itself out, and you collapsed, breathless on the leather. Clint slid his hand from your pussy, and you took long swallows of air as your pulse steadied. Your face was wet. You really had cried.
The strange sadness you’d felt earlier had somehow worked its way into your chest. You looked around for Clint.
He gazed back at you from the other side of the couch, his phone forgotten and his eyes soft. He leaned back in his seat, and you realized he was caught in between your legs.
He didn’t seem to mind. You’d stretched out one leg across his lap at some point, and his hand rested just beneath your knee.
“God,” you said. “You made me cum so fucking hard.”
“I saw. You looked real good doing it.”
“You… you looked real good doing it, too.”
Clint let out a low chuckle, and you felt his chest vibrate between your legs.
“I hope… I hope you’re not too attached to this pillow,” you said.
Clint grinned. “Hated it.”
You laughed. Clint’s hand slid gently down your leg.
Since when was he touching you? And since when did it feel normal?
You sighed. Your body felt so heavy now, and Clint’s hand was so very warm.
“Are you sleepy?” Clint asked, and you realized your eyes had closed.
“A little. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You should rest for a minute.”
You shook your head. “Can’t. Unprofessional.”
“I won’t tell,” Clint murmured. “You’re doing what I want tonight, and I want you to feel good. Take a break, baby.”
Baby. It felt different, hearing him say it like this, outside the heat of the moment. Good, and a little painful, right in the center of your chest.
You’d think about it later. Clint was touching you with both hands now, drawing warm lines up the side of your body.
“Okay,” you mumbled. “You win this time.”
You closed your eyes again. Then something occurred to you.
“Clint. Was this an okay first step?”
You felt his laugh more than you heard it this time.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This was okay.”
You sank back onto the soft leather and let your mind float. The lulls between your thoughts grew longer and longer. You could feel the steady rhythm of Clint’s breath.
A sound blared from somewhere. An alarm. Your alarm?
The glow slipped from your mind, and you remembered where you were – a client’s house, and you’d burned through all the time he’d paid for.
You opened your eyes and pushed yourself up to a seat. Clint met your gaze, and his brow creased.
“My phone,” you said.
“Is it in your coat?” he asked. “I got it.”
He began pushing to his feet, untangling himself from in between your legs. Your body felt cold in all the places he’d been.
You were being ridiculous. You had to get up.
“It’s okay,” you said. “Let me.”
Clint didn’t argue. You followed the ringing to the closet and fished your phone from the pocket of your coat. You stared at the time. 1:08 AM.
“Everything good?” Clint asked.
You closed the closet door, clutching your phone in your hand. “Yeah. It’s my alarm. I’ve been here for two hours.”
Clint nodded. He glanced at your hand, then directed his words at a lamp on the end table.
“Right. We’ll get you out of here fast.”
“Okay,” you said. “Yeah.”
“There’s a bathroom down the hall where you can wash up. Towels are in the cabinet.”
“I don’t have to. You’re not a dick if you send me home like this.”
“Yeah, well. Agree to disagree.”
You had a routine for the end of your dates. Settle up, get dressed, get home, get showered. It didn’t involve going deeper into your client’s homes, and it definitely didn’t involve caring whether or not they met your eyes.
But a moment alone would be good. You could get your head on straight. You made your way down the hall, and Clint stood in silence behind you.
Beside Clint’s bathtub, there was a box of tiny rubber toys – about a million of them. You saw a pair of pastel duckies and imagined Clint, elbow-deep in suds, swimming them around for his daughter.
He hadn’t told you her name, you realized. Or his last name. He didn’t even know your first.
You looked at your reflection and understood why he’d insisted you clean up. Makeup ran in streaks down your face, and there was dried cum all over your stomach and legs.
You found a towel in the cabinet like he’d said. You ran the edge of it under the faucet, then began to wipe the mess away. Maybe he’d meant for you to take a shower, but it felt way too intimate to do that here. Not in that bathtub, not when you were already staying past your welcome.
A sharp feeling pressed up inside your chest.
You knew what this was. You felt vulnerable after sex sometimes – especially after you came. This was only hormones, and it was to be expected. You’d be perfectly fine in the morning.
The hollow feeling clutched suddenly tight inside you, and maybe you knew where it came from, but it wouldn’t go away. Tears burned behind your eyes, and your face twisted. A hoarse noise pushed up from your throat. And then the sobs came, silent and open-mouthed, each one shaking your chest.
You curled your naked body around the towel and waited it out, praying that Clint wouldn’t hear you.
This would pass. Your body was just confused.
You were fine. You were always fine, in the end.
Tonight wasn’t any exception. You rode out the surge and regained control of your body. You checked your reflection, and it was impossible to tell which tears were new. Clint wouldn’t know anything had happened. You ran fresh water over the towel and scrubbed off your face as best you could.
When you emerged from the bathroom, the living room was empty. The pillow you’d defiled was gone from the couch, and your dress and lingerie sat folded in a pile on the coffee table.
A stack of bills had been set on top of your bra. You counted them out. Fifty dollars.
What the hell? Clint had already paid double. You didn’t need more of his money.
You set the cash aside and put on your clothes, minus the garter belt and your ruined panties. The sound of a faucet running came from the kitchen. You followed it and found Clint washing out your mugs.
His back was to the door, and he seemed not to hear you enter. A pair of pajama pants hung from his hips, and he’d thrown on a thin white t-shirt. Muscles shifted beneath it as he scrubbed, and steam drifted up from the faucet.
Why was he scrubbing? You’d only had hot chocolate.
He washed the same mug for a long time without stopping. It wasn’t until you said his name that he switched off the water.
Clint placed the mug back in the sink. He dried his hands off on his pants and brought them to his face for a moment before he turned.
“Hey,” he said.
His voice sounded strange. You opened your mouth to point out the dish towel he could’ve used. Then you saw that his eyes were red.
“Hi,” you said. You walked over to lean on the counter beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Clint shook his head. “Can’t really afford another conversation.”
It had the cadence of a joke, but neither of you laughed. You set the fifty dollars on the counter.
“Then why did you give me this?”
“12.5%,” Clint said. “Double. It’s almost 1:30 already. I kept you here too long.”
“Don’t be stupid,” you said. “I’ve been cleaning up for the last fifteen minutes, and I fully fell asleep before then. I can’t charge you for that.”
“I took pictures,” Clint said.
“I begged you to take them.”
“I came all over you.”
“I begged for that, too.”
“But that’s your job. I know you charge extra for shit like that.”
You did, actually, but not as much as he’d paid. And it wasn’t the point.
“I’m not charging you,” you said.
“Then call it a tip.”
“Clint. Why are you trying so hard to give me your money?”
He paused, and his eyes found yours.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I had a good time tonight.”
“So did I.”
Clint gave you a sad smile. "You don’t need to say that.”
“No,” you said. “Really. Do you seriously think Iwould bother lying to you? If I’d had a bad time, I’d be home by now. And there wouldn’t be pictures on your phone.”
“Do you want me to delete them? You weren’t in your right mind when you agreed.”
“Not unless you want to. And it’s fine if you do. I know photos go against our whole ‘what happens here stays here’ agreement.”
“Right,” Clint said.
He fell quiet. His hands were pink from the water. He still wore his ring – he hadn’t even taken it off to do the dishes.
He’d lost his wife only a year ago.
You were standing here too long, weren’t you? You’d done your job.
“I’m going to leave,” you said.
Clint nodded. Then he reached for your hand.
His skin was warm and damp from the faucet. He swept his thumb over your knuckles, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“What if I don’t want you to go?”
Your throat felt tight.
“I also don’t want me to go,” you admitted. “But… I don’t think you want me to stay.”
Clint’s brows pulled together. He dropped his eyes and nodded slowly.
“Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t know.”
You squeezed his hand.
“We could do this again? If there’s a first step, there’s got to be a second, right?”
“I don’t know if I can afford that anytime soon.”
You’d meant you could do it for free. You opened your mouth to say as much, and a web of questions tangled around you. What were you going to do, half-date Clint while he was still in the throes of his grief? While you were making a living as a call girl? When there was a little kid involved?
Each one of you was kind of a mess. Together, right now, you’d be a disaster.
You swallowed a heavy feeling.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” you said. “When we got started tonight, you told me there was somebody new in your life, right? Somebody who made you want to take this first step. Maybe the second step can be with her.”
Clint looked at you strangely. He was quiet for a long time.
“Right,” he said finally. “That’s right.”
“Good,” you managed to say. “Thank you, then. For tonight.”
Clint didn’t let go of your hand. With single long motion, he pulled you into his chest.
The warmth of him surrounded you. He smelled like clean laundry, and his body was solid. You melted against him with a sigh.
He slid one hand around your waist. The other cupped the back of your head, and he held you close. You tightened your arms and clutched two fistfuls of his shirt.
You stayed like that longer than you should, the drum of Clint’s heart sounding low beneath your cheek.
Saturday afternoon was close enough to Saturday morning that the diner still bustled with the breakfast rush. Bacon sizzled on the grill and hashbrowns flew from the kitchen. A ton of hashbrowns, really. You guessed that most of the patrons were hungover.
A newborn wailed somewhere in Casey’s section, and nobody was happy about it. Two red-eyed teenagers had already migrated over to your tables, and you didn’t think they’d be the only ones.
Every booth by the window was filled, including Clint’s. But the family who’d taken it was almost done – their plates were empty, and when you offered to refill their coffees, all they wanted was the check.
Not that it mattered. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t get your hopes up. Last night had been confusing, and Clint might not want to come back to the diner. You had to be okay with that.
And, yeah, on your way out the door today, maybe you’d made one little decision, one thing you thought he might like.
But you’d be fine if he didn’t show.
You grabbed the family’s check and took a look at the clock. 2:10.
This was about to be the only open booth in your section, and it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
Fuck it. You set a Reserved sign on the table.
Casey greeted you with a knowing look when you came back behind the counter.
“We don’t take reservations on weekends.”
“It’s a one-time thing.”
“Uh-huh. A one-time thing that drives a blue Chevy?”
You stacked up an armful of menus. “It’s good business to look after our regulars.”
Casey nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I’m sure that banana revenue is make-or-break.”
“Shut up,” you muttered.
Casey laughed. “I’m not judging. Hot Dad is hot enough that you’re only being a little insane right now.”
You were being a lot insane, but you didn’t want to dwell on it. You got to work taking the teenagers’ orders. Short stack, eggs, double hashbrowns.
The bell over the door rang, and you spun your head around. It wasn’t him – just the three ladies from the nail salon around the corner. It was only 2:13.
By 2:20, Clint still hadn’t come. Your section clattered with conversation, and Casey’s was starting to fill up too. She looked at the empty table by the window, then back at you.
You’d brewed fresh coffee at the start of your shift, but the pot was already empty. You put on another.
2:28. You were being stupid now. Clint lived so close that he couldn’t be stuck in traffic. You needed the tips from his table, and your manager would start asking questions if he noticed the sign.
At 2:35, you opened up the table. Three men in Warriors colors claimed it at once.
You got the kitchen working on their burgers. You weren’t going to think about the pit in your stomach.
“He’ll come by tomorrow,” Casey said.
You nodded, but you felt certain he wouldn’t. He’d probably come and gone already before your shift.
It was easier this way. In a few days, when you’d gotten a little more sleep, the crush would be out of your system.
You considered taking your fifteen, but you didn’t want to strand Casey with the diner as packed as it was. Instead, you kept yourself busy. You double-checked every order as it came in. You refilled the ketchup bottles. You kept the coffee brewing and cleared empty plates before the busboys could get to them. When the punk kids once again paid with coins, you sorted each one out into the register.
You were sliding the last nickel into place when Casey closed the drawer for you.
“I need your help,” she said. “Hot Dad is here and he won’t take a seat in my section.”
You whipped your head up. There he was, taking up an absurd amount of space behind the hostess stand. His daughter squirmed in his arms and grabbed at his collar with chubby little hands. He didn’t seem to notice. He met your eyes, and his mouth lifted into a smile.
He’d come. He was late as hell, and he was getting in the way of the customers, but he was here.
You left Casey at the register and set off across the diner. Customers tried to catch your attention, but you only barely heard. A busboy swerved out of your path. The long row of booths passed behind you, and you came to a stop at the hostess stand.
This close to Clint, everything else faded. He was back in his usual flannel. His chest rose and fell beneath it when you met his eyes.
“Hey.” His voice was a low, warm rumble. You felt it in your stomach.
“Hi,” you said. “I heard a rumor that you’ve rejected some of our finest tables.”
“I don’t like those tables,” Clint said. “They’re not my table.”
“Yeah, well. Your table is full.”
“I noticed. Can’t believe you gave it away.”
“I gave it away half an hour ago. I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Somebody threw a temper tantrum on our way out the door. Sugar crash thanks to her babysitter.”
His daughter chose that moment to snuggle up against him, smushing her tiny cheek into his chest. She looked up at you with big, dark eyes. Oh God, they ran in the family.
“I don’t know,” you said. “She looks pretty innocent to me.”
As if to prove your point, her mouth stretched into a yawn.
“Don’t fall for it,” Clint said. “She had me on the ropes ten minutes ago.” He looked down at her. “Hey, Emily,” he said softly. “Tell the nice lady what you did.”
She blinked sleepily. “Da.”
“She’s trying to say she screamed out a lung.”
“Oh, obviously,” you said. “But it’s a hard sound for toddlers to make, right?”
Clint grinned. “Exactly.”
He looked back up to you, then caught sight of something on your uniform. He froze.
You felt a nervous little rush in your chest.
“Hey,” Clint said. “You remembered your name tag.”
“I… yeah. I thought maybe… some customers… would want to know.”
“That’s good,” Clint said quietly. “I’m happy for… them.”
There was no reason for the giddy feeling inside you. Nothing had changed since your conversation with Clint last night. Nothing had really changed since yesterday.
You let out a shaky breath.
“Okay,” you said. “Well. Can I get you set up at one of the other tables?”
Clint looked over to Casey’s side of the diner, where two booths were still free. The newborn had finally stopped crying, but it was taking the crowd a moment to reset.
“Those tables aren’t in your section.”
“No. But it’s the same banana you’d get from me.”
“That’s alright,” Clint said. “I’ll stick with my normal spot. I don’t want any other, uh, table.”
He held your eyes carefully. A warm feeling bloomed inside your chest.
“That table isn’t ready,” you said. “It’s going to be a long time before it’s ready. And you might not be ready. To, uh, sit at it.”
A smile played at the edges of Clint’s mouth.
“I know,” he said. “But I want to stick around. I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be worth the wait.”
If you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖💖
end notes: If you liked the way Clint ordered reader around, I did something similar in part 3 of my completed series what you can't have. Cameraman!Joel is a similar pining-y, flannel-clad dad, so you may like that one.
