#richkid!tomfic

[duskholland]

Taunt (Richkid!Tom Smut)

summary ↠ your relationship with tom is like playing a game of cat and mouse. he’s certain it’ll end with the two of you getting together, you aren’t so sure. — richkids au. warnings ↠ rich people shenanigans, golf, alcohol, jealousy, harry holland is used as a plot device, a fwb arrangement that becomes more, y/n has commitment issues but she is loved, angst with a happy end, hard smut. this fic is nsfw—minors do not interact !! extended smut warnings below the cut. word count ↠ 14.8k. a/n ↠ this was inspired by two amazing golf!tom fics I read last year— a golf lesson by @hollandcrush​ and the game by @allegra-writes​ :) both of those fics were exceptional and I have not been able to stop thinking about them since, so please go read both of those! thank you mabel and allegra for introducing me to the sinful side of golf... :) + some ppl get their friends birthday cards, but my gift to the lovely @sinisterspidey​ for her birthday is this golf!tom smutfic lmfao. chloe !! you have probably forgotten, but when I first conceptualised this (,,in december,,,) you were really helpful with some golf tips. sooo, thank you a) for helping me write this, b) for showing me the beautiful and hot world that is golf!tom, and c) for being a wonderful friend <3  ++ I had the idea for the smut section and constructed this whole elaborate plot just so I could enable myself... worth it? idk lmfao but it was fun !! please pay attention to the warnings !!

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smut warnings ↠ unprotected sex including: dom!tom (incl soft + mean), y/n is a brat and gets punished for it, minor sir kink, public sex (unseen + uninterrupted: anxious readers do not fear), a highly inappropriate use of a golf club (incl stimulation but no penetration), degradation, choking, finger sucking, biting, spitting, fingering, oral (both receiving), edging and orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, squirting, cumshot. please practice safe sex irl! condoms protect against STIs as well as unplanned pregnancy !!!

✧ *:･ﾟTaunt･ﾟ:*✧

Tom’s mouth is warm against you, his persistent lips meeting with yours over and over again until all you can think about is him; all you care about is him.

“God….” he murmurs, deep voice vibrating against your lips. He brings a hand to cup the side of your face, and you feel yourself gasp as the cool metal of his signet rings brushes up against your cheek. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, darling. Even when you’ve pissed me off beyond belief.”

A smirk flickers out across your face. You disconnect from the heated embrace of Tom’s lips and sit back, your posture straightening as you take in the breathtaking sight before you.

Tom looks very handsome today, even when his eyes carry nothing but frustration. Wrapped in a tight black t-shirt and a pair of green slacks, his outfit is accompanied by the bright silver pop of his Rolex, rings and chain. There’s a glow to his cheeks that goes beyond the angered flush—he’s almost sparkling with the type of freshness only achievable by a good workout regime and an abundance of free wealth. His poise is further emphasised by the determined way his hair is styled from his face, his messy curls tamed into solemn waves.  He is gorgeous, even more so than you, and you think his beauty far eclipses anything that’s expected from a country club brunch.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say finally, teasingly running your fingers through his hair. Tom rolls his eyes and reaches up to quickly catch your hands.

“Don’t mess up my hair,” he mutters, squeezing your fingers in his, “do you know how long it took me to get it all flat at the back?”

You manage a shrug. “It looks cute when it’s loose, though,” you whine. He looks softer with his chestnut curls bouncing over his forehead—with it all slicked back, he seems hard, brittle. And Tom isn’t brittle—even if the facade says otherwise.

Tom’s jaw twitches minutely. “I like it loose too,” he says, “but it doesn’t really fit in here, does it?” He tosses a hand into the air, gesturing at the decadent room around you. “Business casual at the club, darling.”

A small snort slips past your lips.

Forest Hills Country Club is the most desirable club in London, and anyone who’s anyone finds themselves a regular at the sprawling estate. You’re currently attending the Saturday morning brunch—though you and Tom have escaped the party and stowed away in an empty secondary living room distant from the party. Even several rooms away, you’re able to hear the celebrations—ears catching the popping of bottles, the light music of the string quartet, and the warbling laughs of the elite clientele. You aren’t upset that you’re missing it. You always go to brunch, but you don’t often get the opportunity to hang around Tom so discreetly. When he’d stalked across the room and pried you off the arm of your date, you’d been pleased.

You’d only come with someone else to get his attention. It’d worked, like always, and now you have exactly what you want: Tom, feeding you attention, cradling your face and kissing your lips.

“God,” Tom mutters. He glides his hands around your waist, briefly skimming his warm palms against the swell of your breasts before moving them back to your face. “You’re so bloody hot…”

You’re sitting on a cabinet, and as Tom nuzzles his face against the column of your neck, the hands on your hips jerk you closer to the edge. Your thighs fall open, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as your hand reaches up to bury in the chestnut mane. Tom steps closer to you, briefly pausing the kisses to your neck as he groans very softly when contact is made between the hard outline of his cock and the front of your crotch. Your dress has risen up in the ten minutes you’ve spent making out with the man, but it works to your advantage as it means you’re able to grind closer to Tom and receive the lightest, most tantalising amount of pleasure to your aching cunt.

“Tom,” you whimper, voice twisting as you feel him suckle on the sensitive part of your neck.

“Hmm?”

“Are you— are you going to fuck me?”

Tom chuckles against your neck. “I don’t know…” he teases. “In here, with the party down the hall? Seems a little risky, darling.”

“I like risk,” you say, “we’ve done worse. Do you remember the sauna?

There’s a brief intermission as Tom laps his tongue across the base of your neck. “I suppose,” he drawls, employing the deep, husky tones of his lower register. His voice has you squirming against the counter he’d so unscrupulously tossed you up against when he’d tugged you into the room. “We’d have to be very quiet, though…”

“I can do that,” you say immediately. Everything feels so hot— so tender, so wet. There’s a tightness in the pit of your stomach, pulsing, teasing, pulsing. “C’mon, Tom… live a little.”

He flexes a neat brow. “Well, if you put it that way…” Tom’s eyes drift away from your face, tilting down to the other side of your neck. You feel a sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach as his expression drops. “Wait— what the fuck is that?” Tom pulls back suddenly, his face immediately clouding over. Whatever atmosphere of suspense you’d been constructing shatters easily. He jabs with his index finger, the angry fingertip digging into the spot where your right collarbone joins with your neck. He’s highlighting a hickey, straining obviously against your skin. A hickey left by another man. “Are you taking the piss right now?”

When you’d thought about the possibility of Tom finding the mark, part of you had leaned into it whilst the other had tried to run. It isn’t the first time he—nor you—have been met with such a visible reminder that nothing between you is exclusive. You’ve peeled off his shirt before to find scratches running the length of his back. Part of you feels like a dick for instructing the guy to suck right there, in a spot so prominent it was only a matter of time before Tom found it, but another part… Well, you will admit that it feels sort of good to have him staring at you so viciously. In a muddled, fucked-up way, it’s quite nice to know that he cares.

You try to bite back the smile of victory as you see him flare up at you, his eyebrows pulling together as his eyes simmer with anger.

“That’s a hickey, Tom,” you say annoyingly.

“I know what it bloody is.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Then what’s the issue?”

“You told me you were done with him,” he mutters. “What was his name, fucking… Jack?”

Your tongue skims across your lower lip. “I am done with Jack. Haven’t seen him in months.”

Tom growls. Again, he presses his thumb to the site of the bruised hickey. Your skin is still sensitive, and you hiss as you inhale.

“You are such a brat,” he states. “Who was it, then?”

You shrug. “Don’t know,” you say, craning your neck as you watch Tom continue to press his thumb over the mark. He’s quick with it, almost as if he’s trying to rub it away.

“Can’t have been a good shag then.” Tom glances up at you, raising a brow. “Was it?” You hesitate. The silence tells Tom all he has to hear. “I knew it. Why do you keep doing this?”

“Doing what…?”

His stare hardens. Tom’s hands move away from your hips as he steps back, placing enough distance between you so he’s able to cross his arms across his chest. As he settles in a position he seems comfortable in, you can’t stop your eyes from flittering between the bright glinting of his watch and the bulges of his biceps.

“Fucking around with men who can’t satisfy you.”

You have to bite your lip. Tom sets himself up so easily it’s almost cruel. “See, I would stop, but you quite enjoy my company, Tom, and I’d feel mean denying you my presence.”

Tom stills. You watch his cheeks bloom with frustration, catch the way he flexes his fingers. A beautifully irritated groan slips past his lips, then he’s moving towards you.

“I am nothing like those pathetic men you entertain yourself with, darling, and you know that as well as I do.”

He’s right. He’s right, and both of you know it. Tom truly is nothing like the men you keep falling back to, keep chasing in the hopes that they’ll glut the deep vacancy his absence causes during the times you’re apart.

When nobody else does, he cares. Tom cares that you’re wasting your nights with people who know your family name instead of your own, understands that the self-destructive tendencies you construct are there because you’re scared, paralysed, terrified of allowing yourself to love someone. He knows that he’s the only person who’s ever come close to breaking you open. He knows you’re fond of him, and you know that he returns the sentiments of fear and adoration you feel every time you look at him.

And you… You just don’t know how to process that. You’ve been burnt by love before, have let people in only to watch as they’ve broken promises and left your trust in tatters. It’s been a long time since you’ve indulged in anything beyond a light dalliance, being selective with who you let touch your heart. It isn’t that you don’t want to be loved. You do. You want to be adored, to be cherished—sometimes yearn for it so badly your chest aches. Yet, it’s easier to keep those thoughts to yourself. Your heart is a delicate ware, and you hide it behind layers of snark and nonchalance. Only someone truly persistent would be able to reach it, which brings you to the root of your problem…

Tom’s hands wrap around your waist again, heavy and firm. As his fingers dig into the skin above your hips, he jerks you closer, so you’re standing just in front of him. His lips move over yours, hot and heavy, parting open when you slip your tongue into his mouth and moan at the taste of bubbly champagne.

“You piss me off so much,” he spits, his voice hard against your lips. “It’s like you make every decision with the intention of trying to annoy me.”

You do.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, “I’m this annoying with everyone.”

Tom suddenly pulls away from your lips, leaving them wetter than before. Both of his hands go to your cheeks, and the rings wrapped around his middle and pinky fingers sting against your skin. He’s so close to you that the tip of his nose strains against yours.

“You are not annoying,” he says seriously. “You are spectacular.” He kisses you again, this time softer. His lips linger over yours as he adds, “and so bloody hot, even when you’re acting like a nightmare.”

Your lips fade into a smile. He softens you. He makes your passion melt and malleable and then reshapes it into something more manageable—something gentler, pink instead of red, warm instead of boiling.

“You always try so hard,” you say. You lift your hands to the collar of his shirt, letting your fingertips slip beneath the stiff fabric and coast behind his neck. “Doesn’t it ever get tiring, being so persistent?”

Tom chuckles. “Sometimes,” he admits. His fingers stroke over your hair before he drops his head, nuzzling his face against the side of your neck. As his lips and tongue pulse across the side of your throat, he continues to speak, “it’ll be worth it, though. Eventually.”

The gelled strands of his hair are stiff beneath your fingers. You enjoy unpicking them, coaxing the softer curls of his chestnut strands away from the hardness.

“How come?”

Tom sighs. His hot breath bursts across your neck.

“You push, and push, and push. It’s like you want to see how far you can go before I decide I’ve had enough,” he mutters. His teeth are cold against your neck, the sharp tips teasing at your skin. “Guess what, darling?” You stay quiet, distracted by the lingering pressure of his mouth. Tom tuts, then digs his teeth into the column of your neck. The sharp bite of pain brings a wave of pleasure to the primal heat between your legs. “I said, guess what, sweetheart?”

Your voice catches. “What?”

Tom smoothes his tongue across the site of the bite. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “I’m not. I know you only do this because you’re scared, because you want to pretend that this is a game that you can quit at any moment. And it is a game… it is.” He pauses to press a gentle kiss over the love bite. “But we both know that the only way this ends is with you and me, getting together. It ends with us being in love and being happy. But, and I’ll be honest here, Y/N: I’m getting pretty fucking pissed that you keep stringing this out, darling. So please— please—knock it off. I’m tired.”

He sees straight through you. You can’t decide if it’s horrifying or thrilling. When he looks up at you with eyes so understanding, it’s as if he can read your heart, you settle on terrifying.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tom sighs. He takes a few steps back, and you notice that your skin feels cold without him.

“I’m going back to the party,” he comments, murmuring in a way that draws a shiver down your spine. “You should ditch your date. He’s a twat.”

You rub your fingertips over your arms, trying to draw a flame to the loneliness that unfurls over your skin. “You barely know him,” you murmur.

Tom rolls his eyes. “I know you, Y/N,” he adds. “He’s not right for you.”

You spin a ring around your finger as you avoid his gaze. “Okay.”

He clasps his hands together. “I need to go,” he says, “I have to find my date.”

Your eyes snap up to Tom’s. “Your date?”

He nods. You watch as he tucks his hands into the deep pockets of his suit trousers, his shoulders dropping. “You’re not the only one who needs a partner for these things,” he mutters. Tom pauses to reach for his half-drunk glass of champagne, and you observe the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the rest of the pearlescent liquid. His pink tongue coasts his lips directly afterwards. “And, seeing as you have a habit of declining my invitations, I made my own arrangement.” He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. “Is that okay, darling?”

Well, you can’t exactly admit how distastefully his revelation lies in your chest without exposing yourself as a hypocrite, can you?

“Do whatever you want, Tom. I know I do.”

Something like pain flashes across his face, but it’s quickly smoothed away when he reaches up to tuck an unruly strand of hair back into place.

“Alright,” Tom says curtly. “Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Bye, Tom.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to approach you again; has that far-away haze resting in his eyes that usually prefaces vulnerability. He doesn’t, though. You stay still as Tom retreats to the end of the room, your heart seizing as he doesn’t try to look back.

With the heavy close of the door, Tom leaves you alone. At your sides, your hands curl into fists. It’s undeniable that the emotion hanging in your chest is nothing short of misery.

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You don’t see him for a while. It’s nothing unfamiliar.

There are only a few times that you usually meet with Tom. Despite being busy people, your paths routinely cross during tennis practice on Tuesdays, brunches on Saturdays, and a plethora of other, semi-frequent activities at various points during the week. The next to hit your calendar is the fortnightly golf expedition that brings together your family with his. Usually, you’d skip it, but you decide you want to go this week.

After loading your car with a set of golf clubs that barely get to see the light of day, you shoot off a text to your cousin, letting him know that you’re on your way. You go golfing with him and your uncle, accompanying Tom, his twin brothers and his father on the course. Sometimes other friends tag along, but you tend to stick close to Tom or his brother Harry. Harry’s usually very funny. He gets flustered whenever you’re around.

Whilst you’re a competent golfer, you aren’t really keen on it. Maybe you should be better, given the hours you’ve sunk into wandering the course, but you’ve always preferred things that are more immediate, more thrilling. Nothing sounds attractive about chasing a ball around a field for several hours—the only thing that attracts you is the lure of the company.

One of the reasons you’ve decided to tag along today is because you’re restless. Even as you drive through London’s outskirts, you’re unable to sit still in your seat. Your fingernails drum over the leather of the steering wheel, tapping persistently until you drive yourself mad.

Nothing has felt right since last weekend’s brunch—nothing has felt right since Tom swept from the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Stuck alone in that room, you’d found yourself pondering the events until you’d become overwhelmed and had to ditch the party. By the time you’d next checked your phone, it was to a peeved text from your date and two concerned messages from Tom. Both had made you feel worse.  

Utterly unrelated to anything that had happened, you’d spent the rest of the day severing every hookup arrangement you’d constructed with other men. Your decision had definitely had nothing to do with the sudden, sickening realisation that each one of your lovers wore a bed of brown curls… You just… You just didn’t find them interesting anymore. You couldn’t ever focus when you were with anyone else, couldn’t find the soaring highs of pleasure you get when you’re with him. They didn’t touch your lips with the same consideration as Tom, didn’t roll their hips with the right amount of gusto. They weren't him.

Fine. Fine. Tom had gotten under your skin. He always does.

Maybe he has a point, anyway. Maybe you are destined to end up together—or, at the very least, are supposed to bridge this gap between infuriating acquaintances and something more.

You’ve long since thought you’re two sides of the same coin. The evidence presents itself everywhere: in the way you have the same favourite type of champagne, and your ability to act as an unbeatable set of doubles during tennis. The way he’s hot when you’re cold, and vice versa. He’s snarky and brash, and so are you, but it fits in a way that’s soft. Nothing about your relationship is abrasive, even when it’s so obviously clear that both of you are sharp. Tom softens you…

…But he also infuriates you. Your annoyance swells to a peak as you make the turning into the country club, your fingers flexing around the leather of the steering wheel.

Who does he think he is, calling you out like that? Speaking about your future? Implying you’ll end up together despite the way your actions suggest anything but?

Tom thinks that he knows everything, thinks he has you nailed down because he’s taken the time to learn the intricate workings of your brain. He has some nerve acting like he understands you—regardless of whether or not he’s aware of how scarily close he seems to know you.

Now, are you sincerely furious? No, perhaps not. But if you think about your last encounter for long enough, it gives you an edge worth pursuing. You love infuriating Tom, thrive off the way the vein in his neck strains against the reddening patches of his skin when you get under his skin. The way his jaw firms as his eyes harden makes you shudder, ignites a heat in the pit of your stomach that demands attention. You crave the fierce placement of his hands on your hips, the spat words of degradation that he laces with equal parts affection and spite. When you push him far enough, he slips into a dominant headspace so obscene you find the memories following you into dreams.

You concoct a plan—a way to push Tom, just a little further, just to see if he can take it. You pull stunts all the time, but nothing as brazen as the scheme you draw up as you drive to the golf course. You tell yourself it’s to get back at him for questioning your judgement, but maybe it’s to see—to check—to disprove the other things he’d said. To challenge his assertion that he’ll still be waiting for you to throw in the towel and let him— what? Love you?

Your chest tightens.

Running on auto-pilot, you find yourself pulling into the car park of the country club, just a few minutes late for the game. Still mulling things over, you’re a little dazed as you clamber from your car, stretching out the tired muscles in your arms and shoulders as your feet make contact with the gravel. The air is plump with the sweet scent of honeysuckle, and you enjoy letting your eyes flutter around the light flowers and deep bushes that line the perimeter of the car park.

Amidst the buzzing bees and crunching gravel, you hear someone call out your name.

“Alright, Y/N?”

Your eyes lift, and as an eager smile spreads across your lips, you find yourself ruffling your hair. It’s Harry, Tom’s younger brother. Dressed in a pair of grey golf shorts and a white polo shirt, his cheeks are a violent shade of red. His flush contrasts the dark, rusted shade of his hair.

“Hi, Harry,” you return. You reach back into your car and haul out your golf clubs. As you stand up and lock your car, you find the boy standing a lot closer to you than he had been before. Your smile becomes perplexed. “Are you okay?”

Harry nods his head quickly. He holds out his hands, an eager grin strapped across his face.

“Can I help you with those?” he asks, tilting his head towards your golf clubs.

“Sure,” you reply. Your back feels a thousand times lighter as he reaches out and shoulders your heavy bag of clubs. Stepping forward, you press a hand to his shoulder as you peck his cheek. “Thanks, Harry.”

The man emits a broken noise, husked suspiciously low. “No— no problem, love.”

Part of you feels bad for writing Harry into your ploy, but he’s just so easy. It’s obvious how flustered he is already as you agree to walk with him to the golf course, his cheeks continuing to burn a bright, visceral red. You try to ease his nerves by making light conversation, asking about his week, learning that he’s been busy working with Tom. The two of them own and run a film studio just on the outskirts of London.

By the time you join the rest of your group, the tension between you has eased, and your mood has brightened. It’s a beautiful day out on the course, with the slopes of the green doused in that wonderfully bright, early-July glow. It’s hot beneath the sun, and you find yourself grateful that you’d opted for a short black skort and a small white t-shirt. Accessorising even in the face of sport, you have a pair of sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose and a gold necklace hanging from around your neck.

“Ahh… The stragglers are finally here. Thanks for joining us at last, Y/N, Harry.”

You scowl playfully as you look at Sam, Harry’s twin. He’s resting back against a golf bag, wearing a pair of chequered trousers and a flat cap. He flashes you a smile before pushing forward, his hand briefly skating over your waist as his lips meet with your cheek.

“Piss off, Sam,” Harry mutters. He high fives his brother with enough force to have the clash ringing through the air.

You find yourself looking around the group. There’s a few of you, mostly men, but your cousin Theo has brought his girlfriend, Annabeth. It’s whilst you’re reacquainting yourself with both of them that you feel Tom’s presence behind you, his shadow enveloping you before you feel him. His hands slip around your waist as you’re talking with Theo and Annabeth, and you lean into his side as he steps up behind you.

“Ahh, Tom,” Theo says, eyeing the man at your side with intrigue in his eyes, “nice seeing you again, chap.”

Tom hums. He rests his chin on your shoulder as he steps a little closer to you. “Pleasure as always,” he murmurs. After pausing for a moment, he moves away from you, allowing you to turn and finally look at him. You feel your breath leave your lungs as you take in the sight of him, glistening beneath the sun.

There are a few things you’ve learnt about Tom in the year that you’ve known him. He likes dogs, he likes the colour red, he has a secret tattoo printed to the bottom of his foot. But by far the most prominent aspect of his personality, and the one hobby he seems to fall back to, over and over again, is his affinity for golf. If he isn’t playing it, you can almost guarantee he’s thinking about it, and his dedication to the art of the swinging club is reflected in how seriously he takes the game. He isn’t superstitious about much, but you’ve come to learn that he never performs as well if he isn’t wearing his lucky outfit: cap—light grey, white writing—long slacks, blue shirt, golf glove, and Rolex.

Somehow, as he stands before you in an outfit you’ve seen a thousand times before, it feels refreshing. There’s a softness in your chest that’s unfamiliar. It makes it hard to breathe.

“Hi,” you blurt out, finding yourself on the receiving end of his deep, inquisitive eyes.

Tom’s eyebrows twitch. “Hey,” he says, an edge of mirth in his voice. “You alright? I didn’t think you liked golf.”

You laugh softly. “I don’t,” you say, “but I thought it was a nice day to try and learn.” Peering around, you raise a hand over your forehead and block out the shine of the sunbeams. “Harry?” you call out, “are you still good for teaching me a thing or two?”

Still with Sam, the other twin turns around quickly. The nod of his head is so enthusiastic it draws laughs from your cousin and Annabeth.

“Harry?” Tom questions. You look back at him, noting his expression has smoothed over, the friendliness gone.

“Yes,” you reply. “I was telling him how I needed some help, and he generously volunteered to teach me.”

“Ah.” Tom’s jaw tenses. “That was nice of him.”

You tilt your head to the side. “It was.”

Annabeth interjects. “He’s a nice boy,” she compliments, “it’s so obvious he’s sweet on you, Y/N.”

You scrunch up the tip of your nose, feigning bashfulness. “I don’t know,” you drawl, maintaining eye contact with Tom, “I think he’s scared of me. I wouldn’t say it’s a crush.”

“I don’t think so,” Annabeth teases. She smiles before nudging your cousin. “Theo, can you show me the clubs again…”

Left alone with Tom, the man steps forward. You have to bite back a grunt when his hand wraps around your upper arm, and he drops his voice.

“What are you planning, eh?” he murmurs, words charged with intrigue. “You seem… different today.”

“Different?”

“Yes.” Tom nods, and using his free hand, reaches up to ruffle up his curls. The white golfing glove wrapped around his palm looks delightful as it contrasts the smooth metal of his watch. “There’s this… sparkle to you. A glow.” He narrows his eyes. “I know you’re plotting something, so I’ll come out with it now, Y/N.” He moves nearer, the tips of his teeth glinting dangerously. “Do not distract me from my game, or I won’t hesitate to make you regret it.”

A snort slips past your lips before you can stop it. “What, are you going to punish me?” you tease. “Out here, with our families around? Okay, Tom.” You smirk petulantly as you cross your arms over your chest. “I’d like to see you try.”

You love goading Tom, thrive off the way his jaw tenses as his cheeks flush. “Such a bloody brat,” he mutters. “I hope you get me to snap, darling. You’ve been frustrating me so much recently, I’d love to put you in your place.”

It’s almost unnerving how similar your wavelengths are—how quickly Tom seemed to jump onto the devious plan you’ve been concocting. It’s as if he can read your mind. Your sex life has always been fluid, usually characterised by him taking charge and muscling you into scenarios equal parts scandalous and seductive, and you suppose it’s just a testament to how strongly you’ve bonded that he can read you so well. It’s almost flattering how eager he is to oblige you, to play the role of dominant partner when your skin crawls with brattiness.

He fits with you so well it scares you. You’re trying to lean into the fear.

“Okay, Tom,” you say, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible as you shrug. “I’m just here to have a good time.” You glance behind you, noting your group has congregated around the start of the course. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Harry’s waiting for me.”

Tom releases your arm as you brush him off. The imprints of his fingers stay throbbing against your skin, even as you begin to work your way around the course.

Golf is… okay. You appreciate that Harry lingers behind with you. He offers you a few helpful pointers, and you try to take them on board. If you’re being honest, though, your attention is on his older brother.

You are very good at riling Tom up. You find it easy. All it takes is pushing your sunglasses to sit above your forehead and bending over to pick up a few golf balls, and you have him on a leash. You’re wearing your skort high on your hips, and Tom’s cheeks darken every single time you stretch over or fiddle with the hem. His eyes are equally poisonous—rippling with intense ferocity each time you brush your hand over Harry’s upper arm or lean a little bit closer to the boy. It knocks Tom off his game, to the point where he’s having to crack jokes and excuse his lack of performance with comments about a headache.

You aren’t cruel with anything that you’re doing. You know Harry’s got a soft spot for you, so you try your best not to do anything to seriously harm him. You just lean into him a bit, let him reposition your hips as he guides your swing. There’s a point where he ends up behind you, arms around you, hands resting over yours as he guides you through the swing. There’s a decent amount of space between you, but from Tom’s angle, you’re sure it looks a lot closer than it is. If the way his cheeks flame as he smashes his next shot is any indication, it does.

After about eight holes, you find yourself growing tired. As far as you’ve been pushing Tom, he’s refused to engage in the way you’ve wanted. All that’s happened is he’s ruffled up his hair, grown a little taller, and developed a stiff jaw. All that’s happened is he’s made you horny.

And you really can’t be the one on the back foot, so you change your angle. Moving your attention away from Harry, you excuse yourself and decide to partner up with Tom.

“Tom,” you whisper, leaning close to him. You’re lagging at the end of the group, everyone else waiting to take the first shot on the next hole. Tom’s crouching on the ground as he rummages through his golf bag, the metallic clubs clinking. “Tommy.”

Very slowly, he looks up at you. From beneath his lashes, Tom stares up at you. “What?” The bite to his voice makes you shudder.

“I need you,” you whine. You reach up to tug at the sleeve of his shirt. “Now.”

You watch as he bites at the inside of his cheek. He stands up, a new club in his hand. “I’m playing golf, Y/N,” he mutters, skimming his thumb over the crown of the club. “I’m busy trying to win.”

You lick your lips, letting your fingers go for a walk along his shoulder. “You’re not doing so well, though,” you taunt. Blinking innocently, you sweep your hair away from your face and subtly extend your neck. “Don’t you want to go and do something with a guarantee of success?”

Tom rolls his eyes. He’s called up to tee, but leans closer to spit into your ear before he goes. “Just because you’re an easy lay doesn’t mean I can get all the satisfaction I need from you.”

You exhale quickly, surprised by how he’s let his snarling remarks slip into public. “Shit,” you mutter, “are you actually angry?”

He raises a brow. “This is the worst performance I’ve put in all season,” he says, “it’ll ruin my average. Yes, darling. I’m mad.” Tom lets his teeth close around your earlobe as he bites. You whimper at the sharp ache. “Knock it off.”

Always the slippery charmer, Tom decides to couple his hard words with a soft kiss on your cheek. As he walks up to take his shot, you’re left aching.

Things are more desperate now—you’re more desperate. More reckless, more needy. Your earlobe throbs, and you find yourself clinging to Tom’s side.

Working slowly, you build up your teasing. It’s all very subtle—a few stray touches to Tom’s shoulders and his arms, a few light comments about his form. You change your posture so you’re taller, let your laughs roll freer. Tom always likes it when you smile, so you try your best to keep up with the group and toss in a few jovial comments. As you entertain your company, you’re constantly touching him, constantly teasing him, constantly clinging to him. You hope you’re overwhelming him as much as the scent of his cologne is overwhelming you.

With your eyes on the prize, you throw everything you have into teasing Tom until he breaks. You want a hole in one—it just isn’t the type that everyone else around you is striving for—and, eventually, you win. It’s hard to tell what it is that finally pushes him over the edge, but somewhere between reapplying your lipstick and letting your fingers tug at the curls sprouting from the root of his neck, Tom finally bends.

When he steps up to take a shot at the 11th hole, Tom smacks the ball with so much force the air around you lights up with the shocking sound of metal on plastic. You gasp slightly from the suddenness of it. The flex of his bulging biceps is obscene, but that pales in comparison to the stunned realisation that Tom’s hit the ball in the wrong direction entirely. You watch the white object soar through the air, careening to the far left of the course before becoming lost in the thicket of trees and bushes that line the route. There’s no doubt in your mind that it was purposeful.

“Oh no,” Tom mutters monotonously. “That was so far out.” He pauses, voice flat as he turns to look at you. His eyes are aflame. “Y/N,” he calls out, loud enough for everyone to hear, “could you please come with me? I think I’ll need another set of eyes to find that ball… It’s gone right into the shrubbery.”

A soft pout sprawls across your lips. “Ahh,” you say. “That’s a shame, Tom. You’re usually so good at golf.”

His lips press into a firm line. “Well, I’ve been a little bit off my game today.”

You nod understandingly. “I’m sure you’ll be better next time.”

Tom’s mouth twitches. Before he can snarl out whatever remark he has curled on the tip of his tongue, his father interjects. “Tom, just leave it. We have a hundred balls here.”

Tom shakes his head. “That was my lucky ball,” he reasons, “I need it. You lot can keep going around the course… We’ll rejoin when we’ve found it. It just might take us a while to find it…”

A round of hums and agreements flies around the group. No one seems to find anything suspicious, not even when Tom hurriedly tosses his golf bag over his shoulder and grabs your hand. You have just enough time to give Harry your bag before you’re being pulled behind Tom, his actions pointed, forceful. He leads you up the nearest hill, towards the thicket of trees that line the course.

“You’ve done it now, Y/N,” he mutters. His hand is so hot against yours. “Congratulations. You’ve bloody won.”

Relief swells in your chest. “What did I win?” you ask.

Tom is striding ahead so quickly that you find yourself almost tripping over your feet as you try to keep up with him. “My full and undivided attention,” he spits. His eyes are almost black as he twists around to look at you. “I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, “I think that’s exactly what I wanted.”

Exhaling, Tom continues to lead the way. He’s quiet for a while, silent as he drags you up the hill, only slowing when he nears the top. He stops suddenly, releasing an unsteady sound as you crash into him. “Sorry, love,” he mutters. His voice is softer, and as he glances back at you, the fire in his eyes dampens. “You are in a rough mood today, right?” he checks. He’s open, willing to listen to the boundaries that both of you know have to be set before you engage in any sort of intimate activity.

“Yes,” you plead, “you can do whatever you want to me.”

Tom slips both of his hands into yours, thumbs brushing over the back of your hands. “Anything?”

You nod. “Anything.”

“Come up here, then,” he murmurs, continuing to lead you up the hill. “You owe me for absolutely decimating my average. I got— fucking bogeys. God.” Tom shudders. “I’m almost as bad as Harry.”

You reach the top of the slope and step closer to kiss his cheek. You’re equal parts guilty and endeared that you’d had such an effect on him. “Let me make it up to you?”

Tom just scoffs. “Unless you can pretend to be me and somehow complete the rest of the holes with an eagle or two, that’s bloody impossible,” he says, spouting more golf jargon that makes your head hurt. “No,” he adds, “but I know what you can do. It’s the least you can do, actually, for teasing me like a little attention whore all day.” When you suck in a breath, he nods. “Yeah, princess. I know what you are.”

You swallow dryly. You feel hot, pulsing with energy as neediness tingles in the tips of your fingers. “I couldn’t help it,” you whine, “you looked so good, Tom.”

“Get down,” he mutters. “Get on your knees, Y/N.”

Flames roar across you. “W- What?”

Tom flexes a brow. “You heard me.” He steps closer. “Get. On. Your. Knees.”

“...Right here?”

He surveys the course. “Over there,” he clarifies.

Tom leads you to an abandoned sand bunker. You’ve merged with the practice course, separated from the main holes by a thick line of trees and bushes. The practice holes are closed today, and there isn’t another soul around. Even if the course wasn’t deserted, the bunker is angled in such a way that you could be on your knees in front of Tom and you’d be completely hidden from view. The only angle anyone could see you from is if they’re approaching from behind, but you trust Tom enough to keep an eye out.

With this knowledge under your belt, you find yourself smirking.

“And what if I don’t want to, Tom?” You cross your arms over your chest as you rock back on your feet. “Who said I wanted to do anything for you, hm?”

He reaches out towards you without a second thought, and his gloved hand wraps around your throat. You can just about make out the glint of his Rolex, wrapped around tan skin before you become distracted by the way his fingers squeeze the sides of your neck. The pressure is delicious.

“Do you really want to keep this up?” he challenges. “Really?”

The contact on your throat makes your cunt tingle, and you absently release a high whine. You would push back, but Tom’s already red, already grunting. You’ve already gone as far as you can go.

You shake your head. He hums.

“I didn’t think so.” Suddenly, he releases your throat and moves his hands to your shoulders, pushing you until your knees yield. You sink into the sandy bunker, grunting when grains of sand dig into the sensitive bumps of your knees. “Shit.” Tom’s hand shifts to your cheek, and he tilts your head up so you can meet his eyes. “You look so fucking pretty down there, on your knees for me, where you should be. Where I know you love to be. That’s right, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve been acting out. Because you’ve missed me.”

You tilt your head to the side, chasing the curve of Tom’s thumb. When you envelop his fingertip with your lips, he’s quick to plug your mouth with it.

“Yeah,” he mutters. He gently starts to thrust his finger into your mouth, slow, controlled. “You fucking missed me.”

He stops his movements and drags his finger from your mouth, wiping it dry on the side of your cheek. Before you can complain, Tom’s unbuckling the front of his trousers and tugging on his boxers, replacing the emptiness in your mouth with his cock, full-mast and weeping. You’ve barely got enough time to part your lips before he’s fucking past your lips. Roughly, Tom pushes his crown then his sheath all the way into the hot heat of your mouth until you have the curls of his pubes brushing up against the tip of your nose.

You moan softly, drawing a hearty moan from the man above you. With both of his hands moving to grab the back of your head, he starts to guide you, harshly pulling you back and forth along his shaft. He’s messy with it, rough, persevering even when you gag. He knows you like it rough.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Take it. There you go. Oh, fuck yeah.”

With shaky hands, you reach up and rest your palms on his thighs. You can feel the thick muscles flexing and shaking every time you go deeper, responding when you slow, when you pick up speed. When you teasingly pull back and kitten-lick across his tip, Tom’s legs tense again, only to relax when he pushes your head back down and fills your mouth completely.

“Don’t fucking test me,” he says, voice gruff. “You think you have any space left to bargain after the stunt you pulled out there? God.” He’s flushed, fingers jagged in your hair. “Prancing around in that ridiculous skirt, doing everything you could to drive me up the bloody wall.” Tom tugs at your hair until you whine. “Shit, you looked so good…” He pauses, giving you an up and down glance. “You look better now, though. On your knees, in the middle of this golf course where anyone could see you, sucking my cock like the greedy little slut you are.”

He thrusts into your mouth particularly harshly, and you find yourself pulling back, desperate for air. Tom lets you slip back, watches through amused, half-closed eyes as you pant for breath, your chin slick with spit, lips inflamed. You run your tongue around your lips, failing to clean up the mess, and Tom smoothes both of his hands around to the front of your face, his glove stiff like leather, his other palm soft.

“Open,” he says, drumming his thumbs across your lower lip. He wrenches your mouth open, bending over until his face is suspended above yours. When he purses his lips, you open your mouth wider, extending your tongue in time for him to spit into your open mouth. As his spittle seeps across your tongue, you try to stop yourself from melting. It’s warm and wet, tastes of mint and him.

Tom raises a brow.

“Thank you,” you say immediately, voice hoarse, throat scratchy. “Thank you, sir.”

He moans softly before guiding himself back into your mouth. “Good girl… Pretty girl.” Hands back in your hair, Tom pushes you quickly, thrusting with more purpose. “Oh fuck,” he mutters. “Shit. Such a hot mouth, ‘m gonna blow it if you keep that up.”

You hum around his shaft. Just when Tom’s starting to buck against you, you loosen your jaw and go deeper, and then, he peaks.

Looking above you, the moment Tom spins into climax is a sight that sticks in your memory. He looks so majestic as he unravels, his mouth falling open as his head falls back. Whilst his hands fist at your hair, he continues to thrust into your mouth, his cock pulsing as he cums across your tongue. You swallow around him, continuing to suck, even as it gets messy, drawing it out for him until he moans and pulls away.

“Oh fuck, “ Tom pants. “Christ.” His eyes are bright, glassy. He blinks as if he’s dazed, then gazes down at you adoringly.

“Good?” you ask, slowly becoming aware of the numbness in your knees.

“Fucking spectacular,” Tom corrects. His hand skims over the side of your face. “Get up,” he asks, then gives your cheek a light tap before stepping back and providing you with some space to rise to your feet. A soft grunt slips past your lips as you stand up, your legs aching. There are grains of hot sand straining against the tender skin of your kneecaps, gritty and pulsing, their imprints aching even after you dust them off.

“Ow,” you mutter, staring down at the dimples pressed into your knees.

Tom reaches out and wraps a heavy hand around the top of your arm. When you look back at him, you see that he’s tucked his cock back into his trousers. The tips of his teeth flash as he reels you closer.

“Gimme a kiss, darling,” he coos. When he’s lingering in front of you, he puckers up his lips dramatically, staring at you insistently until you step forward to plant a kiss on his mouth. Tom hums against your lips, and you let his tongue slip into your mouth when you feel the wet tip press up against your lips. He groans as your tongue mingle, and you find your fingers weaving into his hair.

“Can you taste yourself on me?” you whisper against his lips. When Tom moans, you feel him kiss you with more strength. With one hand resting on your cheek, the other grabs at your waist, fingers squeezing at your skin until you whimper.

“Shit,” Tom moans. He pulls back from you to pant against your mouth. There’s a beautifully bright flush resting over his cheeks, and he looks exceptionally gorgeous doused in the light from the sun. “Come with me, right now…”

His hand is strong as he weaves it in yours and starts to jerk you across the course, pausing only to reach down and grab his sets of clubs. The heavy bag jingles over Tom’s back, brushing up against your side as he tugs you over the green.

“Ow,” you say again, feeling the heavy bag colliding with your side.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, glancing back to shoot you an inquiring smirk. He raises a brow. “Actually, I don’t know why I’m apologising,” he adds. “I know you like getting knocked around.”

The velvet tones to his voice bring on a fresh wave of heat, and you feel the space between your legs pulse as you stumble after him. “Shut up, Tom,” you whine.

He glances back at you. “Am I wrong?”

The bite of your lip is all the confirmation that he needs.

Tom takes you across the course, away from the groups of people dotted around the green. You can’t see anyone you recognise and conclude that your group must have moved on to a few holes up. You briefly wonder if they’ll find your absence strange, but that thought fades as the man holding your arm pulls you into a small golf shack.

It’s just a storage shed, made up of white painted planks and housing a few cabinets and a lawnmower. The door is rickety and creaks as Tom slams it shut behind you. You barely get a second to take in the lack of decoration before he’s holding your waist and pushing you up to sit on top of the cabinet, your thighs falling open around his waist as he slots his lips against yours again.

He makes out hungrily with you for a while, the coarse leather of his glove brushing up around the side of your face as he holds you in place. Tom’s lips are hard, bruising and fierce as they devour your mouth. His hold on your face isn’t as angry as it’d been as he’d thrust his cock down your throat, but his actions are still riddled with frustration so prevalent it makes you squirm. By the time he pulls away, you’re panting, soft whimpers slipping past your lips every time he squeezes your waist particularly harshly.

“Shit,” Tom murmurs. One of his hands slips down to rest against your thigh. “I can feel you shaking, baby…” He looks up to meet your eyes, a cocky dominance pooling in his gaze as he smirks. “Whining like a little bitch in heat.”

Your eyes widen. A stark pang of humiliation rolls down your spine, curling uncomfortably between your legs and manifesting itself as arousal.

“Tommy,” you complain, voice cracking slightly, “don’t say that.”

He shifts his hand up to press against the crotch of your skort. Even with the layer of material, the pressure of his fingers nudging up against your slit makes you moan. He catches the eager sound with his lips as he kisses you again.

“What?” he murmurs, “are you telling me if I take a look between your legs right now, I won’t find you wet?” Tom’s teeth catch at the curve of your lower lip. “I don’t think that’d be right, princess.” He continues to gently pad his fingers across the front of your centre. “I think I know you a lot better than you think.”

You can’t stop the soft moans from pouring past your lips, especially when Tom moves the hand away from your thigh and tucks it beneath the top of your skirt. He wriggles his fingers down, clumsily working against the silky fabric before he manages to cup your cunt, bare against his palm, hot, pulsing, tender.

“Tom, oh my— shit,” you splutter, trying not to let your moans split into your words. Your skort doesn’t give much room to work, but Tom’s able to curl his fingers down to your entrance, dip the tips in the pool of your arousal, then spread your heat to your clit. He’s moaning against your neck as he teases your bud with his fingers.

“Aww.” Tom separates from your neck to kiss the bottom of your jaw. “You’re so wet, lovie. Still shaking. You’re so silly.”

He’s teasing you, fingertips light, skimming away from your centre when you try to buck down against them. “Please don’t tease me,” you whimper.

Tom laughs easily. “You underestimate me,” he coos, “do you really think I’m going to give you anything you want after the stunt you pulled out there? Thought you’d have learnt some fucking manners when I fucked your throat raw back where anyone could see you... I guess not.” Finally, his fingers connect with your clit properly, hot and eager as they stroke across the bud. It’s engorged and sensitive, and the stimulation has you grabbing handfuls of his back as you scramble to get a hold of yourself. “No, baby. You don’t get to cum. I don’t even think I’ll fuck you.”

Your breath hitches. “No,” you whine, “please, Tom.”

He’s still stroking your clit, still coaxing you closer to an edge that now feels so far away.

“No.” When Tom adds his lips to your neck, it drives you mad. Your arousal drips from your hole, your cunt fluttering around nothing. You curl your hands around Tom’s biceps, continuing to moan as you feel him toy with your clit, fingers unceasingly trailing over your lips and your bud, stimulating you just how you like it.

“Tom,” you add, feeling the heat suddenly twist, “‘m gonna cum.”

He stills his fingers. The whine you emit draws a chuckle past his lips.

“Finish the job yourself, then, if you want it so badly,” he purrs. Tom keeps his fingertips by your clit, pulling back to look at you questioningly. “Go on,” he urges, “get yourself off on my fingers like the needy little slut you are.”

Part of you wants to argue with him, but you find your brattiness fading as your hips instinctively buck down against his fingertips. “Oh, fuck,” you whimper.

It’s humiliating to sit them, grinding down on his fingers, on the receiving end of a very hard stare from Tom who watches you like you’re some kind of spectacle. It takes a while for you to build up to the edge again—Tom wasn’t messing around when he said you’d be working solo. He’s there only as a passive observer, his fingers drenched in your juices and providing you with the perfect board to rut down against. He spits degrading comments into your ear as you hump against his hand, only seems to shy away from actually touching you. If you thought you were good at teasing, he’s truly something else.

Eventually, you find the edge, but when you vocalise that you’re close, he’s quick to pull his hand away completely. Tom pushes his fingers into your mouth before you can complain, eager to plug your desperate pleads as you shift from side to side, craving contact with your bud.

“There you are,” he murmurs, “suck my fingers. That’s it. It’s okay.” His other hand strokes below your eye, and you wonder what he thinks of the desperate tears that pool in your orbs. “I haven’t even done anything, baby.” He moves the hand from your cheek and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. “Shit,” he adds. “You’re burning up.”

Tom looks away from you for a moment. The devious smirk he has on his face makes you shudder.

“Stay still,” he continues, “I have an idea.”

When he pulls away from you, leaving your mouth empty, you struggle to pant for breath. “Tommy,” you say quickly, “I’m sorry. I— I shouldn’t have teased you. I’m sorry. Please… Please don’t leave me like this. Don’t you… Don’t you want to fuck me?” You watch through heavy eyes as Tom crouches and starts to rummage through his golf bag.

“Should’ve thought about the consequences of your actions before you decided to throw my game,” he returns, voice light, teasing. The sounds of the clinking golf clubs make you shudder. “I do want to fuck you,” he adds, “but you’re barking mad if you think I’m giving you anything you want right now. I’m not pleasing you, I’m playing with you. I’m punishing you.”

You emit a light moan. Your legs are shaking, arousal hot and thick as it lines your slit. You bite at your lips as you try to regain your composure. “How are you going to do that when we’re out in the middle of nowhere?” Usually, punishment with Tom involves handcuffs and blindfolds. All you have in the shed is a lawnmower and a bunch of rusty tools.

This fact doesn’t seem to perturb Tom—he just smirks as he glances back at you. “Modern problems involve creative solutions,” he mutters. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll have a good time. You’ll probably enjoy it too. It’s just about as deranged as I know you usually enjoy.”

A fond smile twists across your lips. “Did you know that you can be really elusive sometimes?”

Tom hums. “Just adds to the charm.”

“Makes sense. You are a very charming man.”

You can only see the side of his face from where you’re sitting, but you’re fairly sure his cheeks develop a rosy flush. You catch him biting at his lip until it’s faded, and the cuteness of the interaction brings a smile to your face.

Tom clears his throat. “Here we go…” He pulls a long club from the top of his bag. As the handle extends, revealing inch after inch of glistening metal, you find your eyes widening.

Are they always that long…?

“Don’t look so panicked,” Tom adds, expression softening. He stands up and moves over to you, gloved hand skimming across the thin metal handle. He pauses, tauntingly pressing the bulbous head of the club up against your cheek. It’s an iron, so one side is slightly curved, the other flat. You whimper at the sensation of cool metal to your skin. “It’s new,” he explains. “Never touched anything, never even seen daylight.” The expression that webs itself across his face is so scandalous it makes you squirm. “It still needs to be broken in.”

You find yourself gulping. You look between the club and Tom before letting your lips settle into a confused pout. “If you think for even one second you’re going to put that in me—”

Tom dissolves into a barking laugh before you can finish your sentence. “No, no, no, sweetheart. No. Don’t be silly.” He brings the head of the iron to your lips, silencing you with the heavy metal. Tom smirks as the tip wobbles your lower lip. “I wouldn’t ever put anything in you… I’m just going to have some fun. Is that okay?”

When he moves the head away from your lips, you glance down at the metal, then look back up to inspect the dark expression hanging over Tom’s face. He looks so handsome, with his jaw sharp and his eyes focused.

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly. “That’s okay.”

“Mhmm? Are you sure?” Tom reaches up to cup your cheek, peering into your eyes inquiringly. “Tell me what our system is again, yeah?”

It’s hard to maintain your focus, especially when he moves the head of the iron to roll up and down your thigh. “Green means keep going, orange means take a break, red means stop.”

“Good job, darling.” Tom looks between your legs. His hands press your thighs apart, and he gently guides the club until the head is nestled against your crotch. You cry out at the pressure. You’re sensitive from the edge, your clit still throbbing, and even the sensation of cold metal against your covered bud makes you shiver. “You’re so sensitive, aren’t you?” he teases. “I wonder how long you’ll last before you lose it.”

You’re breathing heavily. “Not long.”

Tom gently grinds the club against you, and you can’t stop yourself from bucking down against the pressure. It isn’t comfortable—it’s hard, cold. But it’s something, and you find yourself chasing the stimulation no matter how blunt the contact is.

“Tell me what it feels like.”

You swallow to line your throat. “Cold,” you say, “I’m really— really hot, and it feels so cold. So good. Like ice.”

Tom hums. He surprises you by suddenly pushing the club into your hand. His deft fingers move between your legs, separating your thighs even further before he grabs the front of your skort. With a quick tug, he manages to rip through the silky material, parting the shorts and revealing the fact that you’d opted against panties. As the cool air of the shed wafts across your flushed centre, you have to bite your lip to stifle a moan.

“That’s so much better,” he announces. Tom continues to widen the slit until you’re fully on display, and he pushes the material away from your slit completely.

“Tom,” you manage, “that was my favourite skort.”

He very quickly presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll get you a new one,” he promises, “sorry.”

You melt. “It’s— okay.” You find yourself distracted as he plucks the club from your shaking hand, then watch through heady eyes as he shamelessly admires the sight of your cunt, open and hot, undoubtedly wet and lined with arousal that he’d drawn from you.

“Keep these apart,” he instructs, tapping at your inner thigh with a hand. He meets your eyes and raises a brow. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Good, love. Good…” He squeezes your thigh. “If you’re good for me, maybe I’ll rethink fucking you…”

You nod your head quickly. You feel hot, everywhere, arousal crawling over your skin. It’s wet between your legs, fuzzy in your chest, fervent in your brain.

“Please, please—” Your breath hitches, words failing as Tom separates your pussy lips with two of his fingers. You shuffle so your legs are wider, only getting an inkling of what he intends to do when he’s halfway through the action. With wide eyes, you watch as he brings the flat side of the iron up to nestle between your folds, resting it gently over the front of your cunt, head pressing against your clit.

It’s so cold. The metal is harsh, bites up against your tender skin. The contact draws a loud, whimpering whine from your mouth, and that makes Tom coo.

“Fuck,” he mutters, looking at the spot between your legs. His eyes are dark as he testingly shifts the club from side to side, gently, gently teasing your bud with aching pressure. It’s so metallic and so chilly that a part of you wonders if the temperature is enough to riddle you completely numb to all sensations. Luckily for you, Tom brings it away from your centre after only about ten seconds, your slick sticking to the bottom of the club. “You made it messy, princess. Clean it up for me, yeah?” Tom brings it up towards your face. When you stick out your tongue, he nudges it forward.

“Careful,” you warn, moving back slightly when he comes in a little too strong. “Please don’t knock my teeth out.”

A gentle blush tickles at his cheeks. “Sorry,” he mutters, voice dipping and becoming slightly bashful. “I’ll be careful.”

“Thank you.”

With the hand not holding the golf club, Tom reaches to your thigh and gives your skin a gentle tap. It’s soft enough to remind you that he’s still Tom, he still cares for you, he still prioritises your well-being. You don’t hesitate to lean forward and wrap your lips around the wide head of the metal.

It’s a tight fit. The club isn’t too large, but it’s heavy, and the shape is awkward. It becomes a lot easier when Tom passes you the handle, and you’re able to angle it in a way that works. After a few attempts, the head fits completely into your mouth, and you moan as the tang of metal rubs up against your tongue.

“There you go,” he soothes. “I know how much you enjoy having something in your mouth, baby. Doing so good for me, princess. So good…” Tom steps back. He tugs at your hips and coaxes you down from the cabinet, hands supporting your shaky legs as you struggle to stand. “Stay right there,” he adds, “I want to have some fun.”

It turns out fun involves Tom’s hands and mouth roaming around your cunt, driving you closer to the edge, over and over again, just to pull away when you’re squirming. On his knees, he edges you repeatedly, alternating between fucking your cunt with his tongue and swirling the tip of it around your clit. When he decides to change things up, he crooks his fingers into you, starting with his one, then moving to two, then three, curling up against your g-spot and stroking until it feels like you’re gushing arousal.

As he pulls you apart, you’re forced to stay still against the counter, holding the club in your mouth. It acts almost like a ball gag, allowing spit to pool around the bulbous head before it drips down your chin. The burn of humiliation only spurs you on, encourages you to grind down against Tom’s fingers with more fervour, even when the tactic only ends up backfiring as he jerks the orgasm away from you before you’re able to spill into it.

It feels endless, uncontrollable. You lose count of the number of times Tom pushes you to the edge only to teasingly jerk it away from you. He dangles the precipice of pleasure in front of you so cruelly that it brings you to tears. They flow down your cheeks, muddying your mascara, leaving your face a convoluted mess of tears, spit, and sweat.

“Shit,” Tom whispers, looking up at you from beneath his lashes, “you’re so beautiful.”

After what must be at least twenty minutes, he finally pulls away from you, standing up but keeping three of his fingers wedged inside your entrance. They’re still, and you find yourself clenching desperately around them. Tom smirks as he reaches up and gently removes the club from your mouth, releasing your lips from the stretch and causing you to exhale. His eyes are dark as he stares at its head.

“You got it nice and wet for me, baby, well done.” The praise has your ears perking, hopefulness flooding the cavity in your chest. Tom tilts his head to the side. “And… I suppose you took your punishment well enough. Maybe I will let you cum, or maybe I’ll fuck you. What do you want more?”

Numbly aware that it’s a trick question, you find yourself relying on your gut instinct.

“I want you to fuck me,” you say, words desperately falling together. “Need you to fill me up, Tommy.” You find your cunt clenching around his fingers. “I need you so badly.”

And he smiles, then redirects his hands to his trousers. “Well,” Tom says, glancing back at you, “I can’t ever really say no to you.”

When he steps forward and finally sheaths himself inside you, part of your soul ascends heavenwards. Tom’s quick to spin you around and take you from behind as your hands sprawl out across the countertop, fingers curling into fists. He fucks you hard and fast, both hands on your hips as he pulls you back to meet his thrusts. The feeling of him pressing you open is indescribably good, only growing better when he angles himself right and knocks the tip of his cock against your g-spot.

Your composure is quick to slip. It doesn’t take long until you’re squirming against the counter, tears flowing down your cheeks as you fail to comprehend how good it feels to finally have him buried to the hilt. Things only get better when he starts to instruct you.

“Reach down and touch your clit for me, darling… That’s it. Shit.” He breaks off to chuckle. “You just got so tight for me. Such a wet, tight cocksleeve.” His voice is thick, hanging heavy with lust. “You’re such a gorgeous sight right now, such a wreck for me… I think I want to feel you cumming around me.”

You sob with relief. “Please,” you beg. Your fingers are light over your clit, trying desperately to avoid pushing yourself over the edge too soon. It’s so hard to keep yourself controlled when he’s pounding into you so well. “Please, Tommy, please.”

“Okay,” he groans, “you can cum. C’mon, good girl. Let go.”

You spin into it before you can get a proper hold on yourself, cumming with a broken cry of his name. Your fingertips catch at your palms, squeezing hard, but not even that can stop you from dissolving. Pleasure pours over you in unforeseen waves, pulling you down into the darkness as you curse and repeatedly spit his name. Tom does a good job of holding you in place and keeping your hips against the cabinet, but even he finds himself slipping.

You’re still climaxing when you feel him release too, shooting his load into your pulsing passage with an exhalation of your name. His desperation spurs you on, has you continuing to play with your bud even as it starts to ache, even when Tom pulls out from you. You’ve still got your hand on your cunt as Tom spins you around and kisses you messily. His arm curls between you, and he replaces your hand with his own, fingertips coarse against the sensitive rise of your bud.

“Still needy?” he murmurs, voice dark, rich.

You nod your head. You feel insatiable. Even with his cum beginning to drip from your clenching hole, you need more. “Not enough,” you ramble. Your lips are so sore from the biting, but the ache puts you further on edge. “More, Tom. Please.”

Tom nods. “Stay still,” he says, and pushes you back against the counter. This time you’re facing him, able to watch as he sinks to a kneel between your legs and pushes your thighs aside. “I’ll give you enough.”

He doesn’t give you any warning before burying his face in your centre, barely giving himself enough time to part your lips with his fingers before his tongue is clumsily knocking against your clit. You cry out loudly, your hands squeezing around the side of the cabinet as Tom curls his fingers back inside you. Your cunt is wet from arousal and his cum, and the noises he draws from you as he pistons the slender curves of his digits into you are nothing short of obscene.

“Oh my— fuck,” you whimper, words tumbling together. You can barely stay still, have to rely on Tom’s sharp elbows jabbing your thighs apart to stop your legs from clamping around his head. “Holy shit, Tom. It’s— it’s so much.”

He moans into your front, vibrations curling across every part of you. The contrast in textures against your clit drives you crazy—to go from his fingers, to the club, to the warm, wet expanse of his tongue has your eyes rolling—but it’s nowhere near as sensitive as your walls feel now, still recovering from the earth-shattering orgasm a few moments prior. As he continues to stroke three fingers up against your back wall, he suckles and teases your clit, sloppily enveloping the bud and toying with it.

You just can’t keep still. Your legs feel like jelly, your hands hot and slippery. You’re hot and cold, taut and relaxed, merely floating behind him as Tom tugs you towards the precipice of a high so blinding you can see it from a mile off. Everything is so slick, and you’re certain both his hand and his face must be drenched from your heat..

“C’mon, princess,” he urges, mouth briefly disconnecting from your heat. He stares up at you, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide. “Let go f’me, pretty girl. I know you want to spill. I can feel you fucking trembling. Don’t hold back. Cum.”

His mouth is back on your bud, just in time with a particularly powerful stroke of his fingers, and you feel everything go rigid. Time stops, and the tightening of the coil in your stomach syncs with the overwhelming sensation of something building. Overwhelmed and panting, you toss your head back, your knuckles losing blood as you squeeze at the handle of the club and cum—hard.

Everything blurs out—sight, scent, audio. Nothing matters but the stroke of his fingers and the warmth of his mouth, and you let the pleasure roll over you until you’re numb to it. Amidst the frenzy, you feel something release, something wet, plentiful. You can’t find the drive to think about it, too focused on grinding down against Tom, but when it clears and he pulls away with an unfamiliar expression on his face, you find yourself wondering what just happened.

“Holy— shit,” Tom mutters. You watch him sit back, then take in the way his hands seem to glisten. He looks at his fingers as he parts his index and middle, watching your arousal stick between them. “That was probably the hottest thing you’ve ever done.”

“What— what did I do..?” you pant, dazed, spinning. You feel like you’re floating, have to move both hands back to grip the side of the counter as you struggle to recover.

Tom stands up. He briefly sucks off his fingers before wrapping his arms around your waist, supporting you effortlessly as he hums.

“You squirted,” he says, voice curving around the word. As your eyes widen, he chuckles. “Took me by surprise.”

“Oh my god,” you say. You feel hot again, but for an entirely different reason. “I’m sorry—”

His eyes widen. “No, no, no.” Tom shakes his head, coy smile on his face. “It was so hot. Don’t apologise.” He nudges his lips against the tip of your nose.

A relieved laugh slips past your lips. The guilt softens. “Okay,” you say, “if you say so…”

Tom nods. He very gently peels away from you, excusing himself only to crouch by his bag and rummage through it before pulling out a small packet of tissues. Sheepishly, he offers them to you.

“For you,” he adds.

“Thank you.”

Smiling shyly, you start to shakily clean yourself up, your body humming with unrivalled bliss. The warmth only multiplies when Tom comes nearer and wraps you in another hug, his hands gentle, his golf glove gone. His shoulders are soft against your face, and you bask in the closeness. You feel good, you feel grounded. You feel safe.

“I’ll take you home, darling,” Tom whispers, a few minutes into your hug.

Slowly, you peel yourself away from his shoulder, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. “But— what about the rest of the game?”

He looks you up and down, a mischievous look on his face. “I don’t think you’ll be able to walk straight, let alone drive, Y/N,” he points out. “It would be irresponsible for me to leave you unattended.”

You chuckle as you finally muster up enough strength to stand tall. You run your hands across the front of your outfit, smoothing out the creases. Your skort feels strange with the tear down the front of it, and you find yourself thankful that the wind is calm today.

“That makes me sound like I’m a child,” you say, dodging the suggestion with a smile. “I can look after myself.”

Tom falters. He moves his hands to your shoulders and squeezes gently. “I know, love,” he says, voice softer, a lot more careful. “I just think it might be nice if you let me look after you this time. That was… a lot, and you deserve to come down from it properly. I can pour you a bath, make you some food. Get you anything you need.” Tom chews on his lower lip as he adds, “and, shit, I know you don’t like it when I overwhelm you, but I really want to be here for you this time—”

His eyes are so pretty.

“Okay,” you say suddenly. “I… I would really like that, Tom.” It slips out before you can challenge it, but you can’t force yourself to be mad about it. Maybe it’s just because your legs are so weak you fear you’ll need him to carry you, or perhaps it’s the softness to his smile that convinces you. Either way, you know it’s what’s right. You know his arms are what you need.

“Oh.” Tom blinks a few times before his face splits into a smile so genuine it almost knocks you off your feet. “Oh. Okay, then.”

“Is that okay?” you check, unsteadily following Tom as he walks across the shed to grab his golf bag. He offers you a hand that you gratefully accept, and with his golf bag slung around his shoulders, he lets you lean into his side.

“Yeah. Of course it is,” he mutters. Tom pauses to kiss the side of your head. “I just didn’t think you’d say yes.”

You hum. “Neither did I,” you admit. You stay still as Tom drops your fingers and pulls open the shed door. Ahead of you, he walks out onto the course and waits for you, his hand stretched towards you again.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises. His eyes are lighter than usual, glowing almost gold.

“You don’t need to,” you say, voice catching. “You just need to be you, and that’ll be enough.”

His lips fold into a soft smile. “You’re glowing again,” he mumbles. “Like earlier. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You chuckle softly. “Yeah,” you say. You reach out and take Tom’s hand. “I’m great.”

“Huh.” Tom rubs his thumb over the back of your palm. “You’re adorable.”

You scrunch up the tip of your nose, shying away from the smile on his face. “Stop,” you whine, “I’ll melt.”

Tom squeezes your hand. “What if I want you to melt?”

You pause. “Then you’ll probably get exactly what you want.”

He smiles. He glows. He tugs you from the shed and into the sun, then kisses you very softly. “Good,” he mutters, warm against your lips. “I’d like that very much.”

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A week later, you find yourself drifting across the lower level of the country club, an elegant gown twirling around your feet. You’re at a soirée, attached to a few of your friends as you enjoy cocktails out on the terrace. As the light evening breeze curls around your face, you find yourself shifting from side to side, unable to focus, eager eyes scouring the patio and the surrounding area.

You haven’t seen him yet, but you know that Tom’s here. He’d whispered it to you last week as you’d parted, then followed up the fact with a kiss. Just thinking about the encounter draws a warmth to your face and has you biting at your lip as you recall the events from after the course.

True to his word, Tom had taken you home. He’d cuddled you. Played with your hair. Brought you refreshments and tucked you into bed with a kiss on your forehead. When you’d invited him in beside you, Tom had wrapped himself around you and coaxed you to sleep.

It’d shown you a new side to him—one you’d known was sure to exist, but you’d never had the pleasure of meeting before. You’ve discovered that Tom is really good at being domestic—has already memorised the way you take your tea and the layout of the cupboards in your kitchen. He looks just as good in sweats as he does in a suit, and being casual draws out his silly sense of humour. You’ve learned that Tom likes to kiss your forehead, enjoys snuggling his face into the crook of your neck. He’s cute, and he’s generous, and he’s considerate, and—

He’s standing across the terrace right now, arm wrapped around the shoulder of somebody else. The sadness that pools in your stomach is so overwhelming that you almost burst into tears, right in the middle of the soirée.

Is this… Is this how it felt for him to see you in the arms of another?

Is it conceited to assume he feels even half the things for you that you find yourself feeling towards him?

Why does it hurt so much?

You know why it hurts.

Your breath catches in the back of your throat.

The game isn’t fun anymore.

Putting your glass down on a nearby table, you make a sharp turn and begin to walk towards the exit of the event. Your heart hurts. It shatters and it breaks, and small shards seem to twist further into your chest until it hurts so much it’s almost overwhelming.

The worst part is that the ache is all your own making. You’re the one who constantly shies away from defining your relationship—you’re the one who insists you aren’t official. You’re the one who has kept Tom so far removed from your heart that you’ve now managed to tangle yourself up in such a heartbreaking predicament. Tom is not the problem—Tom has never been the problem. You are.

“Y/N— Y/N!”

You falter as you hear him. He catches up to you easily, dodging the crowd that had slowed you down. When his hand connects with your arm, you go still. Tom almost crashes into your back.

“Oh— shit,” he mutters. “Careful.”

You bite at your lower lip so hard it brings tears to your eyes. “Sorry,” you say. You shake off his arm. “I need to go, Tom, can you— can you please move?”

He walks around you instead, reaching out as if to shield you with an arm around your shoulder. You duck away, trying to dodge his eyes and failing.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice confused. “Did something happen?”

Your breath hitches. You manage a hapless shrug. “I guess,” you say, “it doesn’t matter. I’m just… being stupid. It’s fine.”

Tom frowns. He takes a moment to look at you, then at the scene around you both. His expression shifts.

“Wait— was it—?” He falls quiet. He looks at you, waiting, and you manage a small nod. You can’t vocalise the problem without acknowledging your change of heart, but he seems to understand enough. Tom’s expression shatters. “I— I forgot she was coming with me,” he explains. “We made the plans after the brunch last week, and I forgot to cancel them. She only reminded me this morning, by which point it would’ve been really unfair for me to let her down.” His voice is strained, honest. When he reaches out and takes your hands, there’s honesty in the contact too. “I’m sorry, Y/N. It doesn’t mean anything… It was just a favour for a friend.”

You exhale. You feel better, but even that relief comes with guilt that tells you that you shouldn’t, because, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You can take whoever you want to events, Tom.” You manage a brittle smile. “Go back to the party. It’s fine. I don’t… I don’t care.”

His expression morphs into one of disbelieving sadness. “Come with me,” he pleads, “come dance with me.”

You shake your head. “Enjoy yourself,” you say, then you drop his hands. You turn and slip away again, and this time, you’re able to lose him in the crowd.

Wandering listlessly, you end up on the golf course again. There’s a steep hill right at the crown of the course, and you find yourself returning to the slope whenever you need to clear your head. You manage to climb all the way up, even shrouded in silk and heels and enough jewellery to sink a small boat. When you reach the top, you lie down in the grass, relaxing into the cool blades, thinking, unravelling.

You’re alone in your thoughts for only five minutes before you’re joined. Tom drops to the ground beside you, sitting cross-legged, then offers you a soft smile and an arm.

“C’mere,” he coaxes.

The dam breaks. Exhausted, you crawl into his lap. With your face buried in his neck, Tom rubs his hand over your back, soothing you as tears stream down the side of his skin, only to be absorbed by the crisp collar of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” you say, hushed against his neck. Tom kisses at the top of your head. “I’m sorry for being so stupid.”

He cradles you closer. “Y/N,” he coos, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You squeeze your eyes closed. Forcing yourself away from the easy home you’d found in his neck, you bring your eyes up to Tom’s. There’s quiet acceptance in the brown shade, a patient understanding.

“You… have never been anything other than nice to me,” you mutter, “and all I’ve ever done is run away from you.”

He brings a hand to your cheek. “To be fair,” he reasons, “you were always honest about what you wanted.”

“Still.” You pull a face. “It’s just stupid. I’m… I’m tired, Tom.” You glance down, eyes attaching to his tie. “You deserve more than someone who makes you jump through a thousand hoops because they’re scared of opening up.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, his thumb padding over your cheek in circles.

“Did you ever consider that I like jumping through hoops? Love it, even?” Tom manages a lopsided smile. It stretches wider when you stare up at him, wide-eyed. “Everyone I meet is boring, Y/N. You’re the only person I know that challenges me. Vexes me, inspires me. And I know… I know who you are, and I like who you are. I appreciate your concern, I do, but I can make my own decisions.” His eyes soften. “What I want is you, in any way, shape or form you’re willing to share with me. You’re the kind of person worth waiting for.”

And shit. Shit. How are you supposed to guard your heart when he’s saying things like that?

You tilt your head to the side, eyes falling over the side of Tom’s face. It’s chiselled beneath the moonlight, the sharp line of his nose and jaw dusted in bright silver. His eyes are ghostly, light brown, but warm.

“I’m scared,” you admit, eyes dropping to the bump of his chin. His eyes are too prying, too honest, too much. Small steps. You need to take things in small steps. “I want to be with you, Tom,” you utter, “but what if I’m a bad girlfriend? What if we stop playing the game and you realise I’m boring, or you hate me, or—”

He presses his lips to yours very lightly, halting your words.

“—I haven’t done this in a long time,” you finish, and then you can breathe.

Tom stretches up to you, using his free hand to take your chin between two fingers and tilt your face towards him. He coaxes your eyes back to his, padding his thumb over the side of your jaw when your gaze locks.

“Neither have I,” he admits. “I’m scared as well.” Tom licks his lips. His mouth glimmers beneath the moon. “I think that it’ll be worth it, though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We fit together so well it’s startling.” Tom’s voice drops, and you see the rosy blush coast across his cheeks before he even adds, “you do know, right? You know how much I adore you?”

Your heart feels weak. You feel weak. You try not to run from it.

You take a breath. “I know that I love you,” you whisper, “and I hope you feel the same way.”

Tom’s lips twitch. He leans forward and kisses you, drawing a hand to your hip and letting his warm palm envelop your waist as he draws you closer, his other hand steady on your face. With your bodies connecting as your lips unite, you feel something in your heart shift. He has you, you know that now—has his hand on your face, the other on your waist, and his heart, wrapped so snugly around yours that it’s hard to tell where his ends and yours starts. It’s a passionate mess of aching, burgeoning love, and it’s beautiful.

His lips fall away. The tip of Tom’s nose nuzzles up against yours.

“I do,” he says, voice gentle. “I love you, and I want to make you happy for a very long time. Will you let me?”

Your lips move before you can think, before you can allow fear to cloud your decisions.

“I would love that,” you reply.

Tom hums. He kisses you again, then again, then again. And it’s perfect.

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