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Lover’s Grip

Pairing: Rocco Gauthier x Veterinarian!Fem!Reader!

Summary: While working an overnight shift, a mysterious rain soaked man comes into your emergency veterinary clinic with an injured turtle in his hands asking you for help.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Mentions of Animal Injuries, Mentions of Medical Procedures, Rocco is just a softie in this (and y’all know how much I love writing soft guys), I’m not a veterinarian but for plot I’m doing a few things that probably wouldn’t happen in normal situations like this!

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Oral Sex (female and male receiving), Fingering, Face Grinding, Hair Pulling, Dirty Talking, Dry Humping, Gagging, Swallowing, Spit/Drool, Use of Good Girl, Rocco talks a lot during sex ™️, Aftercare!

Author’s Note: Rocco (my beloved) is finally here and ahhhh, I’m so glad. I loved Rocco in Riff Raff and I’ve been wanting to write for him for so long! Now it’s finally here :D Hope y’all enjoy <3 (P.S. The amount of times I rewatched certain scenes from Riff Raff to try and get every detail right is insane and it should be studied lol)

Word Count: 22,050

The storm was merciless. The rain didn’t just fall–it came down in torrents, a solid wall of water hammering the city until everything blurred into streaks of light and shadow. Streetlamps shone like dying stars through the downpour, their glow refracted in puddles that spread wide over the sidewalk, slick as mirrors. Neon bled red and blue into the wet pavement, streaking like a giant mix of watercolors. The gutters roared like open veins, carrying cigarette buttes, oil-slick rainbows, and scraps of paper away into storm drains that gurgle with the effort of a dehydrated man.

Rocco was soaked through. Head to toe. His leather jacket clung to his white t-shirt like a second skin, heavy, dragging at his shoulders with every step. The water had long since found its way past the covering, sliding over his chest and down his spine until his shirt was stuck against his skin. His black jeans were saturated, clinging sodden around his legs, cold and stiff with weight. Every step made his boots squelch, his socks sloshing like wet sponges.

The air pressed in close and hot, thick with humid. Much to Rocco’s disgust, he could feel himself sweating beneath it all, his own heat trapped under his wet clothes, adding to his misery. Each inhale filled his lungs with heavy air that smelled of ozone, bitter gasoline, metallic tang from the rusted street signs, and that earthy mineral stink of dampened concrete.

His light brown hair–usually pushed back carelessly from his face–was plastered flat to his skull, strands slick against his forehead and temples. Droplets streamed from it constantly, sliding down his neck, dripping beneath his collar and crawling down the line of his back until it felt like fingers trailing there. His face was bathed in water, running into his eyes, slipping into his mouth, dripping steadily from the scruff along his jaw. It was like walking through a shower that had no end, he was soaked through and through, and was raw from the chill of it.

He cursed under his breath, every step heavier than the last. Fifteen minutes…That was how long the walk should’ve been. A quick trek back after a few drinks. He had chosen caution over convenience, leaving his car in the bar’s parking lot rather than risk letting the whiskey in his blood settle in behind the wheel. It seemed like a smart idea at the time, but only two minutes into the walk, when the sky had cracked wide open and the storm started, he had regretted it bitterly, because he could’ve been home already. Dry in the comfort of his own bed.

Then he saw it.

At first, it was just a shape on the slick sidewalk ahead, blurred by reflections from the neon diner sign across the street. He might’ve walked past–chalking it up to just some trash, a lump of something that had washed up from the gutter–if it hadn’t twitched. It was a stubborn, deliberate movement, fighting against the flood that flowed towards it which ruined its progress.

Rocco stopped dead in his tracks.

The fat raindrops clung stubbornly to his lashes, each blink clearing one bead of water only for two more to fall into its place. He squinted through the veil of rain, vision sharpening just enough to catch the weak, stubborn twitch of life crawling across the sidewalk.

”What the hell…” He muttered, voice muffled by the roar of the storm. He slogged closer, his boots sucking at the pavement with each step, water splashing high against his calves. The lump moved again, dragged backward by the current sluicing toward the gutter before stubbornly fighting forward. Rocco crouched down, his knees popping in protest, damp denim stretching tight over his thighs. His hands reached forward, fingers trembling from the cold, and when he lifted the small, solid mass into his palms, his breath caught.

A box turtle.

It wasn’t tiny, not a delicate thing fit for a glass tank–this one had weight to it. Substantial and alive. It’s domed shell fit snugly between both his hands, larger than he expected but not unwieldy, slick with rain that slid down in thin rivulets. The turtle squirmed weakly, its small claws scratching against Rocco’s calloused skin, the scrapes dulled by the wrinkles that soaked his palms. The motions were feeble, like paddles trying to push it free from his hold, more instinct than strength.

”What’re you doing out here, buddy?” He asked, the tenderness of the question slipping out before he could stop it.

Then his eyes caught on it.

The crack.

A jagged fissure ran across the shell, splitting the patterned mosaic in a crooked, unnatural line. The edges were sharp, splintered like broken pottery, and rainwater streamed through it mercilessly, like it was carrying a makeshift river on its back. Blood welled faintly in the split, a dark bead that thinned to pink as the storm diluted it, slipping down over Rocco’s skin before vanishing into the deluge.

His stomach turned at the sight, jaw clenching until his molars ground together, and for a moment his breath stuck in his throat.

”Aw, man…Your shell…” He said, words rough with distress.

He stared down at the little creature in his hands, chest aching with something sharp and heavy. How long have you been crawling like this? How far have you dragged yourself through this storm, cracked open and bleeding? The thoughts hit one after the other, each one worse than the last. What happened? Car tire? Bicycle wheel? Some asshole who didn’t even stop to check on what cracked beneath their feet? His chest hollowed out at the images, and anger flickered underneath, hot and protective.

He was hoping–pleading silently–that the turtle wasn’t in too much pain. But looking at the split, at the jagged line where its natural armour had been fractured, he knew the thought was a useless one. The wound was bad enough that even he–a man with no veterinary training–could see the risk written all over it.

Rocco angled it closer, studying its face. The small head had retreated partially into the shell, as though embarrassed by its own fragility. Rainwater traced over its patterned skin, a rough mix of greenish-brown and pale yellow markings that swirled like tiny brushstrokes. Its eyes–beady, glassy, shining black as wet pebbles–blinked once, quick and uncertain. The beak-like curve of its mouth jutted forward, stern and ancient, and for some reason that made Rocco’s throat ache. A creature this small shouldn’t look so old and so dignified even when bleeding.

”I know…” He murmured, his voice catching, pushing by the lump that was forming, “I must look pretty scary to you, huh? I’m gonna help you though…” The turtle’s head tucked a little deeper, but not all the way in–as if it didn’t quite have the strength or maybe…As if it trusted him just enough. That thought hollowed Rocco out and filled him all at once, a dizzying ache that clenched at his chest.

Adjusting carefully, he slid one hand beneath its belly and pulled it against him, cradling the domed body against his chest where his t-shirt was stuck to his skin. He was mindful not to press on the crack, every movement delicate despite the way the rain hammered down like fists against him. The turtle’s claws scratched faintly at the cotton, weak but persistent.

“I got you buddy…” He whispered, bending his head slightly so his dripping hair shielded the turtle from the rain. His light brown strands clung heavy and slick against his temples, as drops ran down his jawline and onto the creature’s shell in slow, steady taps.

He pushed forward through the curtain of rain until he spotted an alcove ahead–an old convenience store, long abandoned, its shutters half-rolled and rusted with neglect. The doorway was deep enough to cut off the downpour, and Rocco ducked into it with relief, leaning his back against the cold corrugated steel.

The air inside the little space was stale, a cocktail of mold, dust, and old cardboard, but it was dry at least. He shifted the turtle in one arm and dug his other hand into the tight pocket of his jeans, tugging out his phone. The denim clung so stubbornly it felt like trying to peel away tape, and when he finally pried the device free, water splashed against its screen from the rain streaming down his face. Droplets plopped onto the glass in fat beads, distorting his reflection into a blur.

He swiped at the screen with the heel of his palm, smudging the drops, the motion clumsy, while his hand trembled with urgency. The turtle moved again, claws scraping lightly at his shirt again as if reminding him to hurry.

”Yeah, yeah, hang tight, buddy. I’m trying here…” He muttered. Quickly he unlocked his phone and opened Safari, his thumb moving in careful strokes: 24 hour emergency vets near me. The letters blurred a little–some from the droplets dripping from his lashes, some from the strain in his eyes–but he forced his focus tight.

The search results spun for a heartbeat before settling into a list. Relief surged like a pulse through his veins when he found one, an emergency clinic, ten minutes on foot. He memorized the street names, the cross-intersections, running them against the mental map of the city that was etched into him from years of wandering it on foot. Then he shoved the phone back into his pocket, water squelching at the fabric, and shifted his arms again to secure the turtle.

”Alright,” He whispered, lowering his chin to glance at the faint gleam of those black little eyes that were now peeking up at him, “We’re gonna get you some professional help…Then you’ll be good as new–hopefully.” He added, stepping back out into the storm. The rain battered him mercilessly, drumming on his leather jacket, soaking through to his skin, but he forced himself to ignore the heaviness that dragged at his limbs. He tightened his grip against the turtle cradled to his chest, careful not to jostle it, whispering low assurances every few blocks.

“Almost there, buddy. Just hang in there…”

The city seemed half-asleep around him. Closed storefronts hunched under the rain, their awnings sagging with water, their neon signs flickering dimly as if even electricity couldn’t be bothered to fight the storm. Bars still open gave off muffled laughter and the faint thrum of music, their doorways glowing warm with yellow light, but each time Rocco passed one he pushed faster, his boots splashing through wide puddles that swallowed the sidewalks. The turtle shifted occasionally against his shirt, and each faint scrape of its claws against the cotton reminded him to keep moving.

By the time he spotted the building, he almost thought his eyes were playing tricks. The clinic was small and squat, barely distinguishable from the row of darkened businesses beside it. The only thing that set it apart was the bright red 24 HOUR sign mounted above the entrance. It blazed like a beacon through the storm, its glow refracted into blurry halos by the curtain of water. If not for that sign, he would’ve already been fumbling for his phone again, thinking it was closed and there was no use trying the door.

Rocco slowed as he approached, his boots dragging water into the shallow dip of the doorway. Through the rain-smeared window he could see a waiting room–barren, empty chairs lined against pale walls. Only one overhead light was on, far back near a desk, casting the place in an uneven half-gloom. It felt quiet, hushed, almost fragile in its stillness compared to the roar of the storm pressing against the glass. Night shift’s gotta be slow, he thought. Maybe even lonely.

He shifted the turtle carefully in his arms and reached for the door. The handle was slick under his palm, and when he pulled it open, a tinny chime rang out–a soft, old-fashioned bell that echoed through the empty room.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.

The air inside was cool, crisp with faint notes of disinfectant and lavender hand soap. It bit at his damp clothes, sending a shiver down his spine. Droplets fell steadily from his hair, from the hem of his jacket, from the cuffs of his jeans, pooling onto the wooden floor beneath him with quiet plops that seemed to echo in the silence. His breath came out ragged, the sound loud in the absence of other noise.

From somewhere deeper inside the clinic, a voice called out.

“I’m coming, just give me one second!”

Rocco’s head lifted, his ears almost straining toward the sound. The voice was smooth, warm, and it was carrying a calmness that cut through the nerves that wound tight in his chest. He shifted his stance, adjusting the turtle carefully, his eyes locked on the glow of that back room.

He could hear the small pattering of footsteps and the creaking of the floorboards. Then you appeared.

You stepped out into the half-light, wiping your hands with a paper towel. The sight of you almost startled him–you looked put together in a way that contrasted sharply with his own sodden mess. A fitted navy-blue scrub top hugged your figure, the sleeves rolled neatly to your elbows, tucked into jogger scrub pants that were cinched at the waist. The laces that were tied tight emphasized the curve of your hips, the lines of your frame and a pair of freshly cleaned running shoes finished the outfit, practical but sleek.

Rocco’s mouth went dry at the sight. His eyes traced you in an instant before he caught himself, but the image stuck–the clean professionalism, the warmth radiating off you despite the hour. He realized, distantly, that his own appearance was pitiful by comparison. His jacket clung dark and heavy to his shoulders, his white shirt transparent in patches where it plastered against his skin, revealing the outline of his chest beneath. Water dripped steadily from the ends of his soaked light-brown hair, streaming down over his jaw and neck. His jeans sagged with their own weight, cuffs dark and swollen around his boots–if he wasn’t wearing a belt there was a big chance the denim would’ve fallen to the floor from the water that was soaked in the material. He must’ve looked like the storm had chewed him up and spit him out.

You gave him a small smile anyway, gentle, unbothered.

“Sorry about that, sir,” You said, voice lilting and kind. “I’m the only one on shift and I was just doing a bit of cleaning.”

Rocco cleared his throat, a low rasp that came out rougher than he meant. He gave a small nod, trying to shake the self-consciousness prickling at him.

“It’s okay…I, uh–” He lifted his arms slightly, drawing your gaze down to the reptile pressed against him. “I found this little guy on the street. He’s got a broken shell.” Your gaze softened the second it dropped to the turtle nestled against Rocco’s chest. The tough set of your mouth eased, and the warmth that touched your features hit him like a small flood. You stepped closer, your steps unhurried but certain, eyes fixed on the poor animal as though the rest of the world had slipped away.

Rocco straightened instinctively, shoulders tightening, spine pulling taut. His body betrayed him–it was a reflex he didn’t control, it was as if some part of him wanted to look steadier, taller, and worthier beneath your attention. And when you drew near enough that the storm’s chill couldn’t mask your presence, he felt it–the faint heat radiating from your skin, a glow against the cool air-conditioning that bit into his wet clothes.

Then there was the scent. At first he thought he was imagining it because it was so light it almost slipped past him beneath the smell of soaked leather and rain clinging to his own body. But it was there: soft, delicate, and sweet. A milky warmth, like marshmallows roasted too long over an open fire, browned at the edges, then melted into silk. The fragrance wound into his chest, clung to his lung, and settled there. Even though it was barely there, it was unforgettable.

You clicked your tongue softly, the sound gentle but weighted with sympathy.

”Aw, man…Poor little guy. Let me have a look.” Rocco carefully adjusted the turtle in his palms, lifting it toward you. The reptile squirmed faintly, its claws brushing weakly against his shirt, before his hands shifted the fragile body into yours. For a fleeting moment, his cold, rough fingers brushed your warm ones. The contrast startled him–the softness of your touch, impossibly smooth, like cashmere warmed against skin, against the battered callouses and raw chill of his own.

The turtle looked bigger in your hands, its domed shell stark in contrast to the curve of your fingers. You tilted it gently, turning it so the light could spill across the jagged crack in its shell. Your brows furrowed, lips pressing together as your eyes studied the damage.

”He’s definitely banged up,” You said, keeping your voice steady, “But it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.” The words washed over Rocco with a relief that was so sudden his knees felt weak, as a small tremor rippled up his frame. He crossed his arm, hugging himself against the sharp bite of the cool air on his rain-slick shirt.

”Is he gonna be alright?” He asked. You lifted your eyes to him, and the smile that tugged at your mouth was small but potent, almost devastating in its simplicity. Sweet. Kind. It cut straight through the storm still clinging to him. He felt warmth bloom in his stomach like an ember catching flame.

“Oh yeah,” You assured, “He’ll be just fine. Luckily you brought him in, though. I’ve seen plenty of people take these little guys home and try to tape their shells up, only for them to get infections and pass away,” You shook your head, “Glad you made the right decision.” Rocco’s throat bobbed as he lifted one hand, dragging damp fingers across the back of his neck. Droplets of rain slid down between his knuckles, dripping into the collar of his shirt. His eyes flicked down to the turtle in your hands.

”I couldn’t trust myself doing something like that anyway…I’d rather a professional help him, y’know?” You let out a small laugh.

”Well, you definitely came to the right place.” You said, stepping back and turning slightly, keeping the turtle steady in your hands, “You can follow me if you’d like. I’ll get you a towel so you can dry off…I think we even have a pair of scrubs you can change into. Better than freezing your butt off in those clothes.”

A thunderous rumble rolled overhead, rattling the quiet clinic, vibrating faintly through the floorboards. The storm pressed its weight against the windows, trying to claw its way in. Rocco gave it a moment to pass, shoulders tense, before murmuring, “That sounds great. Thank you.”

He followed as you led the way, trailing a step behind. He gave you enough space so that he wasn’t crowding you, but he stayed close enough so that he could watch the subtle sway of your hips in the low light. It was indulgent–selfish even–but he couldn’t help himself. Something about the contrast between your composure and his drenched disarray made him feel unmoored.

The hall narrowed, dim shadows spilling across the floor until you triggered the motion sensor of the next room. Amber light flickered on overhead, softening the edges of the sterile space.

Rocco blinked, his eyes adjusting. The procedure room was crisp and clean, the air laced with the sharp bite of disinfectant and faint traces of latex gloves. A steel table dominated the center, gleaming faintly. Chairs lined the walls, waiting in silence, and the cabinets stood tall, their opaque glass fronts hiding the array of medical tools inside. The hum of fluorescent bulbs buzzed faintly overhead, a backdrop to the soft mews of cats somewhere deeper in the clinic.

You set a plastic box on the table and unfolded a small towel inside, then gently lowered the turtle in. Its claws tapped faintly against the sides of the plastic, scratching with each hesitant shift as though it were pacing in its own miniature way.

“Just going to leave him here for a moment while I grab you the scrubs and towel,” You said, glancing at him once more. The amber light struck his face as he looked at you, highlighting the shock of blue in his eyes. Clear, steady, shimmering even in exhaustion. For a second, your breath stalled–his gaze holding yours for one beat too long before you turned quickly, and slipped past him.

Rocco swallowed hard, the taste of rain thick in his throat. His eyes dropped back to the turtle, leaning over the table to watch its small body shift. Each tiny patter of its claws against the box was quiet but insistent, the sound threading into the silence.

Meanwhile, you padded down the hall, opening a storage closet with a quiet creak. The air inside was cooler, dry, carrying the faint must of cardboard and fabric softener. Rows of supplies lined the shelves in neat stacks, and you scanned them until your gaze landed on a pile of pale green scrubs, stacked fresh from the laundry.

You sifted through them, fingers brushing the clean cotton, until you found the largest set–an extra-large. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better to grab something loose than clingy. You hoped he wouldn’t take it as anything but practicality. Then you reached for towels, thick and still faintly warm from the dryer earlier in the evening. You pressed two to your chest, their softness radiating a muted heat against your forearms, a small luxury against the chill of the air.

When you returned, you found the man where you had left him: bent over the table, shoulders sloped forward, the lines of his frame haloed by the amber light overhead. The turtle shifted restlessly in its plastic bin, claws ticking like a soft metronome against the sides, the sound faint but insistent in the hush of the clinic.

You tapped lightly on the doorframe, the sound sharp in the sterile quiet, and his head turned. Those blue eyes snapped to you, quick, alert, before softening.

“You can use the room across the hall to change and dry off,” you said, holding the folded bundle of pale-green scrubs and towels out in front of you. “Once you’re done, I can throw your clothes in the dryer so they’ll be good as new.” For a moment he just looked at you, as if weighing the simple kindness of the offer. Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at his mouth–tentative, shy in its way, but it struck like sunlight breaking through stormclouds. He pushed himself away from the table and stepped toward you, his boots squeaking faintly against the floor. When he reached out to take the bundle, the brush of his fingers against yours was warm now, stripped of the clammy chill from before.

“It’s really appreciated,” He murmured, his voice still carrying that rasp the storm had left behind. He gestured down at himself, at the sodden denim clinging heavy to his legs, the translucent shirt plastered to his chest. “Can’t tell you how good it’s gonna feel to get out of these…” You gave him a little smile, tilting your head.

“Yeah, I could imagine that it doesn't feel too comfortable.” A low, humorless chuckle escaped him. He shook his head, droplets flicking loose from the ends of his light brown hair.

”Far from it.” He moved past you then, shoulders brushing the air where your warmth lingered, and disappeared into the room across the hall. The overhead light flicked on at his entry, bright and sterile, before the door shut behind him.

You let out a quiet breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, turning back toward the table. The turtle dragged one claw against the towel you’d set in the bottom of the box, the faint rasp oddly grounding. You reached for a fresh pair of gloves, the latex snapping lightly against your wrists, and crossed to the cabinet, grabbing a vial of pain medication that was cool when you picked it up, and clinked softly against the tray you set it on. You unwrapped a sterile syringe, slid the needle through the stopper, and pulled back the plunger with slow precision. The liquid climbed the barrel, pale and clear, and you recapped the needle with practiced care, setting it aside. You wouldn’t begin without him. Not when his protectiveness was written in the way he carried the little creature through a storm.

Peeling the gloves off, you dropped them into the bin with a muted snap. At the sink, the water hissed cold across your fingers, the lavender soap foaming pale and sharp, clinging to your skin even after you rinsed. You dried your hands slowly, listening to the storm grumble faintly outside, the building creaking beneath its weight.

Then there was a knock on the doorframe again, low but sure.

He was back.

Rocco stepped into the room, his soaked clothes bundled in one hand, the other clutching a towel loose around his shoulders. The scrubs hung a bit baggy over his torso, but they framed his body in ways that drew the eye regardless: the short sleeves left his forearms bare, lean muscle taut beneath clammy skin, veins raised faintly along their length. The damp light-brown strands of his hair were towel-tousled now, no longer dripping but curling slightly as they dried, framing his face with a rugged softness.

“Here, I’ll take those,” You said, stepping forward with your hands outstretched.

He handed you the bundle without hesitation, and as he did, something subtle drifted between you–clean and sharp, sage and citrus, warmed faintly by the storm still clinging to his skin. It was masculine, but soft at the edges, the kind of scent that could linger on a pillow, that could belong to anyone and still feel intimate. It curled in your nose, slipped into your chest, and you found yourself holding your breath for a beat longer than necessary.

“I’ll be right back,” You informed, quickly shifting past him before you betrayed yourself in your stillness, making your way to the laundry nook, where you fed his clothes into the dryer, and turned the dial to quick dry, pressing the button soon after. The machine roared to life with a groan, shaking faintly on its hinges as heat began to build inside. A wave of fabric-softener sweetness seeped into the air, warm and clean, cutting through the faint antiseptic tang of the clinic.

When you slipped back into the procedure room he was already standing by the plastic bin again, leaning over the turtle, and you could see his face softening as he watched.

”I didn’t catch your name, by the way,” You said gently. He startled slightly, head jerking up as though he hadn’t heard you return. His cheeks flushed faintly, pale skin warming just enough to betray him.

“It’s Rocco,” He replied after a beat, voice low, his eyes holding yours, “How about you?”

“Y/N.” Your lips curved softly around the syllables, before turning back toward the cabinets, the hinges groaning faintly as you swung them open. Inside, the shelves were lined in meticulous rows–boxes of gauze stacked like bricks, labeled bottles of disinfectant, sterile packs of cotton swabs sealed in their paper wrappers. The air that drifted out was cool and faintly metallic, edged with the lingering tang of antiseptic and faint starch from laundered linens.

You plucked a few pairs of gloves from a box, their powdery latex snapping cool against your fingertips as you tucked them under your arm. Next came the small vial of veterinary-grade super glue–its sharp, acrid scent pricking at your nose even through the sealed cap. You gathered reinforcement gauze packets, their sterile paper crinkling faintly in your grip, and slid a pair of surgical scissors from their slot, their steel tips catching the amber light overhead with a fleeting gleam. Finally, you reached for a bottle of disinfectant and a handful of cotton swabs, the weight of all the items stacking until your arms were full.

Turning back, you carried everything carefully to the table, your shoes whispering against the linoleum as you moved. You placed the tools down one by one in an orderly row beside the turtle’s container, the clinks and soft rustles almost ceremonial in the hush of the room. The turtle shifted faintly at the sound, claws scraping at the towel like a soft protest.

From across the steel table, Rocco’s voice rumbled low, almost absentminded, as though the words slipped from him without thought.

“You have a very nice name…” The comment caught you off guard. You paused mid-motion, eyes flicking up to his. His gaze wasn’t teasing–it was steady, softened, and achingly earnest. A warmth bloomed in your chest, quick and unexpected, and you found yourself smiling before you could stop it.

“Thank you,” You murmured, the simple reply carrying more weight than it should.

You tugged on a fresh pair of gloves, the latex hugging your fingers snugly with a faint snap. The faint powder dusted your skin, cool beneath the stretch. From the tray, you lifted the syringe you’d prepared earlier, its needle still capped. With practiced ease, you uncapped it, the tiny hiss of air against steel slicing the silence.

“Alright, buddy,” You said softly, reaching into the container to cradle the turtle in one hand. His shell felt slick under the latex, heavier than you remembered, his claws feebly brushing against your palm as if objecting to the sudden lift. You turned him gently, angling his body so that the base of his tail was exposed. “It’s gonna be a little poke, but then you won’t feel anything while I work.” The needle slipped in with a swift precision, the smallest prick of resistance giving way beneath the pressure. The turtle hissed–a thin, strained sound, more exhale than voice. You hummed, rocking him faintly in your palm like you would comfort a child.

“I know, bud…I’m sorry. But now you won’t be in any pain…” You withdrew the needle, recapped it with a firm click, and dropped it into the sharps container with a muted thunk. The sound echoed strangely final in the quiet. Carefully, you set the turtle back down onto the folded towel, adjusting him so he could rest with minimal strain. His movements were already growing languid, the medication working its way through his small body, pulling him toward a soft, merciful haze.

Across the table, Rocco’s voice cut in again, tinged with amusement though his eyes were gentler than his tone.

“You always talk to the animals?” You smirked faintly, stripping your gloves off with a snap and tossing them into the bin before pulling on a fresh pair.

“Well, it’s just good bedside manner,” You quipped, tone light, though the truth sat beneath it. “Besides, if there’s someone else in the room, I get to pretend I’m not talking to an animal who doesn’t understand a single word I’m saying.” A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, warm enough to ripple across the sterile air between you. He dragged his fingers across the scruff at his jaw, nails rasping faintly against the coarse stubble.

“Touché, I guess.” Your lips twitched, but you turned your attention back to the tools. You set the small tube of super glue against the turtle’s container so it wouldn’t roll, its sharp scent already faintly stinging your nose. Then you tore open one of the gauze packets, the sterile folds snapping crisp as you laid them flat on the tray. The scissors whispered sharply as you slid the blades through the gauze, cutting them into thin, precise strips and stacking them like pale ribbons at the ready.

“So…” You began, your voice quieter now, your eyes flicking up briefly to meet his through the fan of your lashes, “What were you doing walking around in a rainstorm?” Rocco leaned heavier into the edge of the table, the towel around his shoulders shifting as he crossed his arms. The fabric of the scrubs pulled faintly over the line of his chest, his damp hair curling loose at the ends where it brushed against his forehead. His eyes stayed on you, though, watching as your hands moved with care over the setup.

“Well,” He started, his voice rough but steady, “I went to a bar, had a few drinks. Didn’t really think it was a good idea to drive home, so I decided to walk. Then it started raining.” He shrugged, the motion slow, deliberate, like the weight of it pressed into his shoulders. “So I didn’t get caught out there by choice, if that’s what you’re thinking.” You hummed softly in reply, nodding as you lined another strip of gauze across the tray. The scissors clicked quietly, the sound delicate in the hush.

“I see…That’s very mindful of you.” You commented.

He rolled one broad shoulder, dismissive in the gesture though his tone carried something steadier. “I know my limits.” You felt his eyes still on you, the weight of his gaze like a tangible warmth against your skin. You didn’t glance up this time, instead letting your words fall gently between you as you worked.

“That’s always a good thing,” You said, your voice even, but faintly touched by approval. Rocco didn’t want the silence to reclaim the room, didn’t want the storm outside to be the only voice filling the air. His gaze lingered on the neat arrangement of tools on the tray before flicking back to you.

“Do you always work the overnight shift here?” His tone was curious, softer than before, as though he was looking for any excuse to keep you talking. You turned slightly, reaching for a shallow stainless-steel container. It was cool beneath your gloves, the metal catching a faint reflection of the amber light above.

“No, no,” You replied, shaking your head gently as you uncapped the disinfectant and angled it to the side. The liquid poured in a smooth ribbon, glugging faintly as it filled the dish. A sharp, sterile tang cut through the softer background of lavender soap and fabric softener that still clung faintly in the air. “I’m usually the morning shift. Had to cover for someone tonight–family emergency.” You capped the bottle with a firm twist before setting it aside, turning back to him. Rocco hummed low, the sound rolling out of his chest like distant thunder, grounding in the quiet.

“Is this your first patient of the night?” You looked up at him through your lashes, and a small laugh slipped past before you could help it. The sound was warm, light, and it loosened something tight in his chest.

“Well, we do have some animals in the back that are staying overnight–cats, a couple of rabbits–that I need to check on every so often. But apart from that…” You tilted your head toward the little reptile resting in his makeshift enclosure. “Yeah, this little guy is my first official patient.” The corners of Rocco’s mouth curved into a faint smirk, his blue eyes catching the light as though amused by some private thought.

“Glad I could do you the honors of being the first of the night then.” You tried to tamp down the answering tug at your lips, but it was useless–the smile came anyway, small and wry.

“Hopefully this doesn’t trigger more turtle-related emergencies,” You murmured. Rocco’s laugh came low and unhurried, a sound that wrapped around the sterile space and made it feel less clinical.

“I don’t think there’ll be more stray reptiles roaming the streets this late at night,” He said, shaking his head as though the image amused him. Droplets clung stubbornly to the ends of his damp strands of hair, catching faint glimmers from the overhead light. “I think you’ll be okay.” You gave a small shrug, dipping the end of a cotton swab into the disinfectant. The tip darkened instantly, glistening wet.

“You never know. Where there’s one, there’s probably more.”

“That’s true,” He admitted with a faint hum, his gaze still resting heavy on you. There was weight in it–not uncomfortable, but noticeable, like he couldn’t quite look away. “Is it often that you get a turtle with a broken shell coming in here?” You shook your head slowly as you lowered the swab, your hands steady and practiced.

“I’ve gotten a few here and there over the years,” You said, voice even, though your brows pinched faintly at the sight of the blood welling again in the crack. “But it’s definitely a rare sight.” Rocco pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, the gesture tugging at the muscle along his jaw.

“Guess I got lucky finding this little dude then.” He smirked again, not as sharp this time, more relaxed. “I can be one of your memorable visitors.” Your stomach dipped unexpectedly at the smoothness of his tone, the natural way the words rolled off him like he wasn’t even trying. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, forcing your focus back on the turtle.

“Should take your picture,” You murmured, half under your breath but audible in the hush of the room. “Put it up on the wall of fame. You could be the first one on there.” Rocco chuckled, the sound low and rough, catching somewhere between amusement and disbelief. It broke over you like warmth cutting through the storm’s chill still pressing against the walls.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” He replied, voice carrying that same quiet rasp, softened by something you couldn’t quite name. You leaned closer to the table, gloved hands steady as you guided the soaked cotton swab across the jagged fissure. The turtle flinched faintly at the touch, claws scraping weakly against the folded towel, but the pain medication dulled his reaction to little more than a twitch. The diluted blood smeared in thin ribbons, dark red seeping into the gauze before fading into pale pink streaks as you blotted again and again, until the wound was clean enough that the sharp edges of broken keratin gleamed under the light.

Rocco hovered across from you, leaning his weight into the table with forearms braced against the cold steel edge. He didn’t look away–not once. His blue eyes tracked every motion, from the way you pinched the swab with careful fingers to the soft circles you dabbed across the shell. He breathed heavier than the moment called for, his chest rising and falling beneath the borrowed scrubs.

“So what happens now?” He asked, voice low.

“Now,” you murmured, setting the spent swab aside with a faint snap against the tray, “We make sure his shell holds together long enough to heal.” You lifted the small tube of veterinary-grade super glue, the acrid scent spiking the air between you instantly, sharp enough to sting your nose. A thin needle tip gleamed as you angled it toward the crack.

Rocco straightened unconsciously, his damp hair brushing forward as though pulled by some invisible tether. His eyes followed the tiny bead of glue as it welled at the tip and dropped onto the fissure in a perfect, glassy dome. You worked slowly, deliberately, letting the adhesive bead in small globs, filling the fracture without drowning it.

“Think of it like patching pottery,” You explained softly, your voice filling the silence as much for him as for yourself. “The shell will knit over time, but this keeps everything stable so he doesn’t risk further damage while it heals.” Rocco hummed, the sound rough and thoughtful, like distant thunder pressed tight against his chest.

“How long does it usually take?”

“Months sometimes” You admitted, angling the turtle carefully to let gravity spread the glue along the fissure. “Sometimes longer, depending on their health. He’ll need the reinforcement for now though.” You set the vial aside and reached for the gauze strips you’d cut earlier. You pressed one across the shell, aligning it carefully over the glossy line of adhesive, then smoothed it down with the flat press of your gloved fingers. The fabric clung almost instantly, the glue seeping into its fibers and hardening against the fracture. Rocco shifted closer, his forearm brushing the table as he leaned in, the faint scent of sage and citrus clinging to him–cleaner now that the storm had begun to dry on his skin.

“So you’re basically…Bandaging a rock,” He said, the smirk audible even if his mouth barely curved. You huffed a laugh, pressing down another strip.

“A living rock, yes. One with a stubborn streak, judging by how much he’s wiggling about here.” You commented.

“Guess I’ve got a soft spot for stubborn fighters.” His words were aimed at the turtle, but his gaze flicked to you, sharp and fleeting, before returning to the shell. You kept your hands steady, though your chest tightened faintly at the weight of it.

“If he keeps that streak, he’ll heal up just fine.” You informed.

As you layered another strip of gauze, Rocco’s voice dropped quieter, almost hesitant. “Would I be able to…Take him home with me and care for him while he heals?” The question made you pause, your gloved hand hovering over the turtle’s shell. You lifted your gaze to him, brows pinching faintly.

“That would be a bit of a feat,” you said honestly, though your tone was gentler than the words. “He’ll need space–something larger than that plastic bin. And a heat lamp, at the very least. You’d need to be diligent with his care.” Rocco’s mouth quirked, more determined than daunted.

“I’ve got space. More than enough, actually. If all it takes is a lamp, attention and some room, I can do that.” His blue eyes locked on yours, steady and unblinking, as if daring you to question his resolve. You studied him for a long beat, then nodded, smoothing the final strip of gauze into place

“Alright then. If you’re serious, it’s doable, I could grab you some brochures and stuff for caring for reptiles and such after this. He’ll have a better chance if he’s somewhere stable anyways…” Rocco leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. Relief cut through his posture, loosening the line of his shoulders.

”Perfect…Then it’s settled.” His voice carried a finality, a quiet claim that made something stir low in your stomach. You peeled your gloves off, the snap echoing in the sterile hush. As you reached for a fresh pair to tidy the tools, Rocco’s voice came again, smoother this time, carrying a thread of something more deliberate.

“Would you mind giving me your number? Just in case I’ve got questions about his care.” Your hands hesitated mid-motion. The implication hung in the space between you–practical on the surface, but colored by a weight that had nothing to do with reptiles. His gaze held yours when you looked up, steady and unflinching, and the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. You could feel your pulse catch in your throat, and you coughed it out of your way.

“Of course,” You said, the words softer than you intended. You tugged one glove free, reached for a notepad tucked against the back wall, and scribbled your number down in quick, looping ink. When you tore the slip free and held it out to him, your fingertips brushed his as he took it–warmth against warmth this time. His thumb smoothed over the corner of the paper, as though memorizing the texture, before he slipped it into the pocket of the scrubs. His eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary, blue burning steady in the amber light.

“Thanks,” he murmured, the rasp of his voice carrying something unspoken with it.

You only nodded, turning back to the turtle, though your heart thudded heavier than it should have for such a simple exchange.

———————

The weeks that followed slipped by in a rhythm you hadn’t realized you were craving until you were in the middle of it. What began as a simple exchange of numbers quickly grew into something that rooted itself into your daily life.

Every morning, without fail, your phone buzzed with a message from Rocco. At first, it was strictly updates about the turtle: a blurry photo of him nestled beneath the glow of his new heat lamp, the faint shimmer of glue and gauze visible along his shell. Can you tell if he’s healing right? His words were plain, cautious, carrying the weight of someone who didn’t want to get it wrong. You always answered, sometimes circling his pictures with digital ink, sending back reassurance: Looks good. The edges are knitting the way they should. Keep the lamp at this height.

The photos kept coming. And slowly, the captions grew less clinical, more personal. A snapshot of the turtle with his head poking out curiously from his shell, claws pressed against his makeshift terrarium. Caught him trying to make a break for it. Think he’s definitely getting better. Another image–the turtle sprawled lazily in the warmth of the lamp, his eyes closed captioned with: Can’t blame him. Wish I could nap like that.

You smiled every time, sometimes letting out a small laugh. The conversations branched out to a bunch of different topics; music, movies, hobbies, work. Sometimes, the messages came late at night. He’d send a grainy photo of the turtle’s shell under lamplight, then linger after your reassurance, spinning into casual questions: What’s the weirdest patient you’ve treated? Was it busy today? You could tell through the messages that his tone was always soft and curious, never really pushing too far, but the undercurrent was there–like a thread stretched taut between you, waiting to be pulled.

By the third week, the texts had evolved into calls. The first time, you’d been caught off guard, your phone buzzing against your thigh while you washed dishes. His name flashing on the screen with a tiny turtle emoji you had added beside it. You’d answered hesitantly, but the moment you heard his voice, the hesitation evaporated.

Rocco sounded different over the phone. Lower, smoother, like the rasp had settled into something intimate just for you. You could hear the soft rustle of him moving on the other end, the distant hum of city noise muted through his window. He asked questions that came easy, and you answered without overthinking, surprised at how natural it felt to tell him about your day, your patients, your odd habits of double washing your dishes before using the dishwasher. He told you about what he did with his days, looking after his newfound pet, and keeping tabs on him throughout the day as he worked.

You talked for two hours that night. Three the next time. By the fourth call, it was closer to dawn than midnight when you finally forced yourself to hang up, your cheeks aching from smiling, your body buzzing as though you’d downed three cups of coffee.

There was banter, too. Flirty, but subtle–like a game he was careful not to ruin by pushing too far. He’d make offhand comments that lingered. Didn’t realize vets had such nice voices. You sound like you’re smiling when you talk to me. Or, you should switch to treating people instead, because I would fake a few injuries just to get checked-up on by you. You’d roll your eyes at your phone, but your chest would bloom warm all the same, heat settling under your skin.

By the sixth week, it had become a fixture of your day–the anticipation of his name lighting your screen, the quiet pull of his voice in your ear. That was when the question came.

It was late, and you were curled on your couch, blanket tangled at your waist, the faint smell of chamomile tea steeping from a mug gone cold on the table. Rocco’s voice crackled softly through your speaker, the turtle rustling faintly in the background of his line. You’d gotten up from your seat and started talking about weekend plans, about how busy the clinic was with an influx of springtime strays. There was a pause, a comfortable silence–then his voice shifted, lighter, tinged with a smile you could hear.

“So…Do you ever do house calls?”

You blinked, laughter slipping out before you could stop it.

“House calls?” You questioned, stopping midstep. You had been pacing your apartment, knowing that it was the only thing you could do as you were talking to him just to keep your heart rate down.

“Yeah,” He confirmed, amusement weaving through his tone, “You know…In case the patient can’t make the trip…Strictly professional, of course.” You leaned your head back, looking up at your stuccoed ceiling, biting your lip, feeling your pulse kicking higher in pace. For a second you debated playing it safe, but then you remembered how long it had been since you had seen him, and how you felt in his presence. If you weren’t at work that night and he was trying to pick you up at a bar you would’ve gone home with him so truly what would the difference be if you decided to take your chances now.

“…Well…I only do house calls if there’s some dinner involved in the visit,” You commented, tone airy but laced with something suggestive beneath. The silence that followed was short but electric, heavy with what might come next. Then his laugh broke it, low and rough and certain.

”I can arrange that for sure…How about this Friday?” The speaker’s tiny mesh rattled faintly with the depth of his voice, as though it wasn’t quite built to carry a sound like that. Each word vibrated through the quiet of your apartment, so low it felt like it brushed your bones, buzzing faintly against your palm where your phone rested.

“Yeah, sounds good to me,” You said at last, your voice warmer than you meant it to be, betraying the grin pulling at your mouth. “Should I bring anything?” There was the faintest shift on his end–the creak of old springs, the sigh of fabric. You imagined him sinking deeper into his couch, one arm sprawled over the backrest, phone balanced in his palm. His answer came after a heartbeat, the hum before it low enough to roll through you.

“Maybe your favorite wine…” His tone lingered, thick with suggestion, each syllable a brush of velvet through static. Then, smoother still: “And yourself, of course.” You smirked at his tone, “Oh–and obviously any of your veterinary equipment,” he added, humor roughening the edges of his voice, “Just to keep the illusion you’re coming over for a house call.” The laugh slipped out of you before you could smother it, bright and light in the quiet room. You dragged a hand over your face, pressing your knuckles against your lips as though that could tamp down the way your cheeks ached from smiling.

“Solid plan,” You teased, circling back toward the couch. You dragged your fingertips absently across the spine of a book on the end table, grounding yourself. “Just send me your address and I’ll be there at…” You trailed off, deliberately dangling the silence like bait, pulse quickening in your throat. He didn’t leave you waiting long.

“Seven,” He responded, the number low, certain, like it was already etched into stone.

“Seven,” You repeated, softer, tasting the word like a secret.

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty–it was charged, alive with the sound of your breath against his. Neither of you broke the silence quickly. The weight of his presence–filtered through speaker, through static–was steady, and you found yourself wanting to stay suspended in it, like the world beyond your walls could wait.

Then his voice came again, softer this time, the rasp catching faintly as if it wasn’t meant to be spoken aloud: “Looking forward to it.” You smiled again–helplessly, hopelessly–pressing the heel of your hand to your sternum as though that might quiet the sudden thrum of your heart.

“Me too,” You whispered, the words escaping before you could shape them into something more casual.

——————

The week dragged like honey from a spoon–slow, thick, every day stretching longer than it had a right to. Every text from Rocco lit your phone like a match, every call hummed through your chest like low thunder, and the promise of Friday grew heavier until it was all you could think about.

By the time the day arrived, the anticipation coiled tight in your stomach, the whole city seeming to move in deliberate cruelty just to test your patience.

When you got home from your shift that evening, the air of your apartment felt different–brighter, restless, like it was holding its breath along with you. You dropped your bag by the door and went straight to the bathroom, steam soon curling thick against the mirror as the shower hissed to life. The hot water drummed against your skin, sluicing away the day’s fatigue and replacing it with a feverish energy. You lingered longer than usual, running a sugar scrub along your arms and legs until your skin gleamed, the faint scent of vanilla and citrus trailing after you when you finally shut off the spray.

Wrapped in a towel, you padded back into your bedroom, bare feet whispering against the hardwood. Your bedspread was already scattered with the casual chaos of preparation: dresses laid out in careful consideration, jewelry glinting in the lamplight, shoes in a mismatched line.

You’d told yourself not to overthink it, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering higher as your eyes settled on the dress you’d chosen–a soft lilac number, simple at first glance, but flattering in ways that made your breath catch. The fabric was light, supple, with the faintest sheen that caught the glow of your lamp. The neckline dipped just enough to hint at the curve of your breasts which was accentuated by the white lace bra that you wore beneath, and the hem skimmed mid-thigh, brushing the tops of your legs when you shifted it against your skin. The way it hugged your waist and flared slightly at the hips made it feel subtle and effortless, but undeniably feminine.

You had fixed your hair just right, coaxing it into a style that wasn’t too messy, but fit the look just right, before brushing some sheer gloss onto your lips until they looked soft and bitten. When you leaned back slightly, you caught yourself smiling at your reflection–bright and nervous, but radiant.

The final step was your perfume. You lifted the glass bottle from the dresser, the familiar weight cold in your hand, and spritzed the warm air once, twice. The scent unfurled immediately–vanilla cream softened by a touch of milkiness, with a faint undercurrent of sandalwood that grounded it. The fragrance clung to your pulse points, curling close to your skin until it felt like part of you.

Quickly, you reached for your small purse, the supple leather cool beneath your fingertips as you looped the strap over your shoulder. The faint, comforting scent of it–warm hide and polish, like a bookstore bound in old bindings–rose faintly to mingle with the vanilla-sandalwood perfume curling close to your skin.

You crossed the apartment in quiet, bare feet whispering against the hardwood. The kitchen glowed in low lamplight, its counters gleaming faintly. There, waiting exactly where you’d left it, stood the bottle of wine you’d chosen yesterday evening after circling the aisles too many times: a 2018 Merlot from Napa Valley. Its glass was dark as garnet, the label cream-white and gold-etched, the cork sealed tight with a velvet-red cap. You slid your fingers around its neck, lifting it from the counter, its weight a grounding anchor in your hand.

Your phone buzzed once as you set the bottle against your hip, and you pulled it free, thumb quick as you typed Rocco’s address into Google Maps. The little blue line appeared, carving a neat route through streets you knew by heart–twenty minutes, give or take. Your stomach tightened at the number. Not long at all.

For a moment you lingered in your kitchen, pacing from the counter to the couch and back again. The hem of your lilac dress swished around your thighs with every turn, brushing your skin with whispers of fabric. The perfume warmed under the motion, releasing soft pulses of vanilla and cream that followed you like a secret. You smiled faintly to yourself, shaking your head before snagging your keys from the bowl near the door, and slipping on your flats.

The lock clicked shut behind you with a sharp metallic bite. The hall was hushed, filled with the faint detergent-clean air of the building’s vents, and you moved swiftly to the stairwell, heels tapping in light rhythm down the concrete steps. The garage air hit next: cool and metallic, tinged with the smell of damp asphalt and motor oil, a faint echo of rain still clinging in its shadows.

Within minutes you were sliding into your car, the leather seat cool against the backs of your thighs. The wine bottle settled snugly against your purse on the backseat, the clink of glass against it’s zipper quick and delicate. Your perfume bloomed in the enclosed space, mingling with the faint lemony-clean scent of the air freshener clipped to your vent.

The engine hummed alive beneath your hands, steady, grounding, and you hooked your phone into the dashboard mount. The map blinked, steady and blue, guiding you forward as you eased out of the garage.

The city streets spread before you, wet from the previous night’s storm. The pavement gleamed slick and black, reflecting the sodium glow of streetlights and the neon blush of storefronts like streaks of watercolor. Tires hissed faintly as they sliced through shallow puddles, and every stoplight painted the windshield briefly–amber, green, red–each hue casting its own atmosphere across the cabin. The hum of your tires, the faint purr of your engine, the occasional wiper sweep: it all blended into a rhythm that synced with the restless thrum in your chest.

When the map finally announced your arrival, your eyes had already found it: Rocco’s building.

It was small, a weathered brick apartment block perched above a strip mall. The bricks were a patchwork of russet and umber, worn down by decades of storms, faint white efflorescence spreading like ghost veins across their surface. A laundromat anchored the far corner, its tall glass windows spilling harsh fluorescent light into the rain-slick street. Inside, machines spun like silver cyclones, their rhythmic whir humming faintly even from across the road.

Next door, a shuttered tailor’s shop sagged under the weight of its own faded sign, the painted letters peeling at the edges, a striped awning still dripping from the storm. Beside it, a convenience store flickered with life, its neon beer sign buzzing in uneven green, the aisles inside glowing sharp white against the dark. Above it all stretched a row of apartment windows, blinds crooked, some glowing with the dull amber of lamps, others dark and hollow.

You pulled into a space across the street, cutting the engine. The silence that followed seemed louder than the drive itself. For a beat, you sat gripping the wheel, staring up at the second-floor windows. Somewhere behind one of those rectangles of light, he was waiting.

The wine bottle felt heavier when you lifted it again, the smooth glass cool against your palm, the embossed label brushing your fingertips. You tucked it against your purse and crossed the street. The night air carried scents in layers: faint fryer oil from the convenience store, detergent-laced humidity spilling out from the laundromat, the sharp tang of wet concrete still steaming faintly under the streetlamps.

The stairwell entrance yawned beside the convenience store’s doorway, a narrow mouth of concrete painted with old graffiti. You stepped into its shadows, heels tapping softly against worn stone steps, and found the buzzer panel streaked with rust.

Your finger pressed the small square marked 2D. The metallic buzz rattled in your chest, ringing three times before his voice broke through the tiny speaker, rough and magnetic even through static:

“Hello?”

A smirk tugged at your lips instantly. “It’s Y/N.”

The lock clicked without hesitation, the sound immediate, certain.

You pulled the heavy door open and climbed the narrow staircase. The carpet runner was threadbare, frayed at the edges, its once-burgundy fibers dulled to brown. Overhead lights buzzed faintly, their glow uneven, casting crooked shadows down the hall. You counted the doors as you walked, each brass number dull with age until you reached 2D.

You knocked, soft at first, then firmer. From inside, you heard it–metal clanking, hurried footsteps, a muttered curse. Then his voice, muffled but rich:

“Coming!”

The lock snapped, the knob twisted, and the door swung wide.

Rocco filled the frame, hair pushed damply from his forehead, strands curling stubbornly at his temples like he had just gotten out of the shower no more than an hour ago. He wore a light brown button-down, unfastened enough to show the crisp white tee beneath, and a pair of black jeans that clung in all the right ways. Whether they were the same ones from that stormy night didn’t matter–they looked good. More than good. Fitting and complementing his form.

His eyes dragged over you, sharp and unguarded for a moment, before his brows lifted slightly.

“Hey,” He greeted, voice low, casual but not quite steady.

“Hi…” You replied, heat blooming in your chest as he stepped aside, motioning you in. The apartment’s atmosphere swallowed you immediately.

The living room was well lived-in: a dark tan leather couch sagged comfortably in the center, its cushions bearing the imprint of years. A black leather armchair slouched nearby, a stack of magazines half-fallen against its leg. The coffee table between them carried scars of use–cup rings, faint paint smudges, a half-burned candle melted into its glass jar, and a lighter left beside it.

But it was the floor that caught your eye: a wide tarp stretched over the hardwood, layered with splatters of dried paint–crimson, ochre, cobalt, black. A ladder stood in the middle like a throne, its steps crowded with chaos: jars of acrylics, stiff brushes fanned out in old coffee tins, tubes of oil paint squeezed until their middles buckled, a palette knife crusted with dried gold, a mason jar half-filled with cloudy water.

There were a few paintings propped on large canvases against the far wall, tall and raw, their surfaces alive with broad brushstrokes that twisted and tangled into abstract storms of color. Crimson dragged through cobalt, ochre layered in thick ridges that caught the light like scars, black cut in sharp slashes that seemed to swallow the air around them. They weren’t neat or pretty, but they carried something urgent in their strokes, something restless. You found yourself staring longer than you meant to, imagining him pacing in front of the canvas, shirt pushed up his forearms, brush gripped tight as he debated the next strike of color. You could almost hear the soft drag of bristles over fabric tarp, the faint curse under his breath when a stroke didn’t land quite right.

Your gaze moved on. In the far corner of the room, just below one of the two narrow windows, stood the makeshift turtle enclosure. It was larger than you expected, occupying its corner with quiet authority. The storage bin had been retrofitted with a mesh lid secured by clamps, the glow of a heat lamp spilling down in golden sheets that turned the creature’s shell into a polished dome of amber.

Your chest loosened at the sight, a smile tugging unbidden at your mouth. A small sigh slipped past your lips, quiet and soft, like an exhale you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Off to the side, a narrow staircase leaned against the wall, its metal railing climbing straight up to the loft above. You could see the suggestion of his bedroom up there, you could see his thick plaid comforter from where you stood and it looked neatly set up.

And then–the smell. It wrapped around you in layers, thick and grounding. The tang of tomato sauce simmering low, deep and sharp with oregano and basil. Garlic, rich and pungent, butter-softened until it clung to the air like velvet. A hint of bread crust browning, its yeasty warmth curling into everything else until the whole apartment smelled alive, like comfort and hunger woven together.

You turned, catching a glimpse of his kitchen. It was small but busy, an organized disarray that somehow still read as clean. A wooden spoon, stained red, rested across the rim of a pot where sauce burbled in low, thick bubbles. The stove’s light cast an amber glow against the backsplash, warming the counters where a cutting board still held half-chopped parsley, flecks of green scattered like confetti. A dish towel was slung over the handle of the oven, the faint golden glow within hinting at garlic bread crisping to perfection.

Rocco’s hand brushed yours as he reached around you for the wine bottle, his thumb grazing over the embossed label as he took it from you. He glanced at it, then at you, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Merlot,” He murmured, voice rich, warm with amusement. “Very fitting choice.” You lifted a shoulder, shrugging lightly, but your smile betrayed you.

“Hopefully it’s still good.”

“I’m sure it is.” He flashed a brief grin, one corner of his mouth higher than the other, then tapped the neck of the bottle against his palm. “I’ll finish everything up, then pour some out for us.” He turned back toward the kitchen, his shoulders rolling as he moved. The fabric of his button-down shifted over his frame, catching faint creases of light as he crossed the small space. You found your eyes tracking him without meaning to–the way he hunched slightly to stir the sauce, the sure motion of his wrist as he tested the bread, the low curve of his back as he reached for two glasses from the cupboard. The kitchen light cast his hair in faint bronze where it curled at his temple, and for a moment you forgot to breathe.

“Need any help?” You asked, voice cutting through the hum of the oven fan. He glanced back over his shoulder, blue eyes catching yours, softened by the glow of lamplight and stove. His smirk curved again, faint and easy.

”I’ve got it handled, you can keep looking around if you’d like.” The offer felt more intimate than casual–as though letting you wander was letting you into something private. You nodded softly and let your gaze drift again, drawn toward the turtle’s enclosure. You stepped closer, heels muffled by the tarp as you crouched slightly to peer inside. The turtle was awake, head lifted, mouth busy as he tore into a leafy green with quiet persistence. The steady crunch and scrape of his mouth against the vegetable was oddly endearing, grounding in its smallness. His shell caught the glow of the lamp, gleaming faintly golden, the line of the fracture no longer raw but still in the process of healing.

“He’s looking really good, Rocco,” You said, the words leaving you in a tone softer than you expected. A smile tugged at your lips as you let out another little sigh, warmth blooming low in your chest. You turned your head, glancing over your shoulder toward the kitchen. His attention was fixed on the food, but your words drew his gaze up to you. “You’ve done a really good job.” The faintest blush bloomed high on his cheeks, visible even in the amber light. His mouth tugged in a crooked smirk, but his eyes betrayed him–blue, steady, softened by the quiet hit of your praise.

“Well,” He started, voice shy at the edges, “You’re the one who guided me through it and gave me advice, so I can’t take all the credit.” You pursed your lips, tilting your head just slightly at his comment.

“You did all the work though,” You countered. Rocco’s lashes flickered, a subtle flutter that betrayed the fact that he wasn’t used to the flattery landing square in his chest. He glanced back at the simmering pot, stirring the sauce once more with a slow, deliberate motion.

His voice was softer when it came this time, almost conceding, “I guess you’re right.” The fragrant sauce enveloped the apartment even more, the sharpness of oregano and garlic really clinging to the air. You wandered as he worked, fingertips brushing along the battered wood of his coffee table, then pausing before the canvases propped against the wall, looking more closely at them. They felt urgent, restless, a language in pigment.

“These are…Beautiful by the way.” Rocco glanced over his shoulder, wooden spoon still in hand. His laugh was low, a quick huff meant to deflect.

“They’re not much. Just a hobby. Nothing good.” You turned back toward him, brow arched, lips quirking.

“You’re kidding, right? There are people who would pay for pieces like this.” His blue eyes flicked up, locking onto yours for a beat before sliding away. His smile was crooked, dismissive but not unappreciative.

“Thanks for the encouragement, but… I doubt it.”

“I’d buy one,” You said simply, your tone even but weighted enough that it landed like a stone dropped in still water. That made him pause. Spoon stilled, steam curling around his wrist. He looked at you with something unreadable in his gaze–part disbelief, part something heavier. Then, a small, rough chuckle escaped him, softer than his usual.

“Maybe I’ll make you one, then.” He murmured, and you could feel your pulse ticking faster in your throat.

By the time he plated up the spaghetti, the silence between you was not empty but full. He twirled strands onto each dish with care, spooned sauce heavy over them, then added a golden-edged piece of garlic bread to the side. A fork and spoon nestled together in each plate like partners. He uncorked the wine with a practiced motion, the soft pop cutting through the hum of sauce, then poured ruby liquid into two glasses.

You joined him, brushing close as you lifted plates and glasses, the warmth of his arm ghosting against yours in the small space. Together you carried everything to the couch, where the low lamp light pooled amber against the dark leather cushions.

You sank into the couch beside him, close enough that your knees brushed and neither of you shifted away.

The fork felt light in your hand as you twirled the first bite, pasta winding in glossy spirals before you lifted it. The sauce clung thick and rich, pooling at the curve of the tines, dripping faintly with every small shift. When it touched your tongue, the flavor bloomed instantly, almost startling in how vivid it was–ripe tomato simmered down to velvet, the sharp bite of garlic softened with butter, oregano sparking through with a fragrant green warmth. You caught the whisper of basil and the faintest shadow of red wine cooked into the sauce–you hadn’t noticed a bottle anywhere, but it was evident it was there–each note unfolding in layers until it felt like the taste filled your whole mouth.

It was good. Not decent, not passable–good. Better than good.

The moan slipped out before you could swallow it back, low and pleased, the sound rolling soft from your throat. Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second as you savored the richness, and when they opened, you found Rocco watching.

His gaze had snapped to you immediately, caught like a moth to flame. His blue eyes lingered on the parting of your lips, the way your expression softened in pleasure, before he tilted his head faintly, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Good?” He asked, voice almost teasing, though pitched low enough that it brushed across your skin like velvet. Heat crawled faintly up your neck as you swallowed and nodded, smiling despite yourself.

“Very.” The answer seemed to settle something in him, his smirk loosening into a grin that curved one corner of his mouth higher than the other. He dug into his own plate, twirling a forkful with the easy grace of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. He bit down, chewed quickly, then lifted his brows with mock solemnity.

“Great,” He replied after a swallow, leaning back into the couch, shoulders easing. “Cause it’s the only meal I can make.” The unexpected candor caught you off guard, and laughter bubbled up bright and unrestrained. You tipped your head back, the sound spilling into the low amber-lit room. He watched you openly, blue eyes steady, the smirk softening into something warmer as though your laugh alone had shifted the entire atmosphere.

You reached for your glass of wine, fingers curling around the delicate stem. The glass was cool against your fingertips, condensation slick where it had caught the room’s warmth. You tipped it to your lips, sipping slow, letting the Merlot roll across your tongue–dark and velvety, full of black cherry and plum with a whisper of spice that lingered at the back of your throat. It was smooth but strong, warm enough to curl low in your stomach.

When you lowered the glass, your lips shone faintly with the stain of red. Your tongue flicked out, quick and instinctive, to catch the last trace of wine that clung there. The motion was small, thoughtless–yet his eyes tracked it instantly.

“Wine still good?” He asked, too casually, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. His gaze darted down just for a breath, to where your tongue had swept slick across your lips, before cutting back up to your eyes. You let the moment stretch a beat too long before nodding, tilting your head slightly.

“Definitely. Pretty strong, but it’s good.”

He lifted his own glass, the wide mouth of it dwarfed in his grip. His hand looked almost wrong against something so fragile–the stem swallowed by his fingers, knuckles sharp, veins faintly raised beneath his skin. The motion was hypnotic, the small tilt of his wrist as he brought it to his lips, the flex of tendons along his forearm when he tipped it back. His throat bobbed with the swallow, a slow roll beneath stubble, and you had to force your eyes back to your glass before it became too obvious that you were staring.

He nodded in agreement, setting his drink down again, though his gaze lingered.

Conversation wound on, light at first, casual, but the space between you shifted–something looser, warmer, threaded with undercurrents neither of you named aloud. Your knees brushed again, but this time you didn’t move away. The fabric of your lilac dress swished faintly as you shifted, and the hem rode higher, baring a longer sweep of your thigh to the amber light.

You noticed the way his gaze faltered, caught there. Blue eyes dipped low, tracing the curve of exposed skin, and his jaw tightened just slightly, a faint pulse flicking beneath the hinge.

Your own eyes betrayed you in turn. You found them drawn back to his hands, the way one rested against his thigh as he leaned into the couch. His fingers flexed faintly, restless, the tendons sharp, the breadth of his palm wide enough that you imagined it spanning the entirety of your waist if he set it there. The thought made your stomach tighten, a pulse low in your belly.

Your gaze darted up–and caught him again. He wasn’t subtle about it now. His eyes had shifted to your neckline, where the movement of your laugh had tugged the fabric of your dress just enough to reveal the faint edge of white lace beneath. His throat worked visibly, a small swallow as if his body had betrayed him in its urgency.

The tension was no longer a suggestion. It sat thick in the air between you, palpable, thrumming with each stolen glance, each purposeful brush of skin.

You finished the last bite of pasta slowly, twirling the strands with unnecessary care just to ground yourself. When you set the fork down with a soft clink, Rocco moved almost immediately.

“I’ll go soak these,” He said, his voice low, carrying a rasp that hadn’t been there before. He collected your plate and his in quick succession, his fingers brushing yours lightly as he slid the dish from your hand. The touch lingered just enough to spark across your skin, deliberate and steady. Before you could answer, he was on his feet. He moved with an ease that belied the storm of tension in the air, striding to the kitchen. You heard the quiet clatter of ceramic against steel, the rush of hot water hissing as it filled the sink. He didn’t linger. The water was shut off just as quickly, the plates left to soak.

When he returned, he carried the wine bottle by the neck, its dark glass catching the light. He held it loosely, shoulders relaxed, but his eyes found yours instantly, steady and unflinching, before tipping the bottle towards you.

”Want a top-up?” He asked. You glanced at your glass–nearly drained–and nodded. The small smile that curved his mouth in response sent a ripple of heat through your chest. He leaned forward, filling yours first, the stream of ruby wine gleaming like liquid garnet in the dim light. The scent rose instantly–dark fruit and spice unfurling between you–before he poured his own and set the bottle down with a muted clink on the table.

When he returned to his spot beside you, the couch dipped under his weight. He sat closer this time, so close that the warmth rolling off his body brushed against your bare thigh. You hadn’t fixed the hem of your dress, and the lace edging of your bra peeked just faintly above the neckline, calling him like a siren again. His eyes betrayed him–flicking there, dragging lower to your thighs, then back up as though he hadn’t meant to linger. But the hitch of his breath gave him away.

You swirled your glass lightly, watching the wine lap at its edges before lifting it to your lips. His gaze tracked every motion. The way the glass touched your mouth. The way your lips parted just slightly to let the wine slip in. You caught him watching and arched a brow, smirking faintly.

“Something on your mind?” You asked, tone light, teasing. His grin was crooked, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“Just wondering if you always make drinking wine look that distracting.” You laughed softly, the sound curling between you like smoke.

”Maybe you’re just easily distracted.” You replied.

”That’s a possibility,” He admitted, leaning back into the cushions, but his gaze didn’t stray. It stayed locked on you, on the shine of your lips, on the exposed slip of lace. His hand flexed against his thigh as if restless, aching for somewhere else to be. The silence between you grew thicker, charged. Without the distraction of food, there was only this–warmth and tension threading tight.

You leaned forward, setting your glass down on the table slowly, before turning towards him. The scent of his cologne threaded with the earthy tang of paint that clung to the air now that the smell of the food had faded away. The sage and lemony citrus mixed into this clean, natural scent, it was almost non-existent in a way. You leaned in just enough that your shoulder brushed his, your voice dropping softer.

“You know…” You murmured, eyes flicking to his mouth, “I don’t think you’re as subtle as you think you are.” His laugh was low, a rough scrape that tugged at the edges of your chest.

“I don’t think you mind it though.” He shot back.

And you didn’t. Not even close.

Your eyes flicked down, helpless, to his mouth. His lips were parted just slightly, soft and plush in the amber glow, the faintest sheen catching where the lamplight touched. The thought of them against yours was enough to make your stomach coil. You dragged your gaze back up, and there he was–blue eyes already on you, unflinching, scanning every inch with no shame at all.

The heat rose in your chest, thick and dizzying. You swallowed the saliva pooling in your mouth as your pulse thrummed like a second heartbeat in your throat. You shifted closer, the lilac fabric of your dress whispering faintly as it brushed against his jeans. The subtle scrape of denim against the smoothness of your thigh made your breath catch, and you weren’t the only one–his chest rose sharply, a faint hitch of breath betraying how much the nearness was undoing him.

You leaned in, closing the space until your lips hovered just over his. Barely there. The heat of his breath mingled with yours, carrying faint notes of Merlot and garlic. You let your mouth ghost over his, brushing the barest edge, teasing the promise without delivering. Your exhale fluttered against his lips, and his met yours in return, shallow and uneven. He leaned forward instinctively, chasing you. You pulled back by the smallest measure, a spark of mischief alight in your chest. The denial drew a low huff of laughter from him, warm and rough, rumbling through the narrow space between you.

“You’re teasing me…” He rasped, voice catching on the edge of a smile. You smirked, tipping your face until the tip of your nose nudged his, a tender, playful brush.

“That’s the whole point,” You whispered, your words spilling like a secret against his mouth. His breath shook, a soft shudder breaking loose from his chest, and it tugged something deep inside you taut. Your hands rose, almost without thought, cupping his face. The heat of his skin seeped into your palms, stubble rasping faintly beneath your thumbs as they swept along the hard planes of his cheeks. His eyes flickered half-shut, lashes trembling, and then–he broke.

He kissed you.

The contact was immediate and hot, lips pressing firm, parting, claiming. He kissed like he’d been holding it back for too long, like restraint had finally snapped. His mouth slanted against yours, pulling, coaxing, deepening with every pass. He tasted of wine–dark fruit, velvet warmth–and something rawer, wholly him. Your lips parted to his, tongues brushing, testing, until the kiss became hungry, wet, a rhythm you couldn’t step out of if you tried.

His hand slipped down, spanning the curve of your thigh. Fingers spread wide, gripping gently, then tighter, squeezing as if to memorize the shape of you. Heat flared low in your stomach at the pressure. His other hand slid to the small of your back, broad and warm, pulling you flush until your chest pressed hard to his. The exhale broke from you in a hot huff through your nose, the sound muffled into his mouth as he swallowed it whole.

When you pulled back, it was only to breathe, foreheads pressed, noses brushing. The air between you was traded, stolen–your exhale became his inhale, his became yours, each breath thick with the taste of wine and want. His grip at your back tightened, tugging you impossibly closer, a silent plea you couldn’t ignore.

So you moved, swinging one knee over his hip as he pulled you forward so you could settle into his lap. The couch dipped beneath you, his thighs steady and solid under the weight of you, spreading slightly so he was in a more comfortable position. His hands caught your hips instantly, anchoring your body to him as you straddled his body. The hem of your dress rode higher with the motion, fabric pooling up, baring the smooth line of your thighs. He glanced down–quick, unguarded–eyes flicking like a thief hoping for a glimpse beneath. His breath hitched when the motion teased the possibility of lace.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him fully, until chest pressed to chest, heart to heart. His gaze trailed up, caught by the neckline of your dress, where the faint scallop of white lace peeked above the lilac fabric. His eyes lingered, reverent, hungry, before lifting back to yours.

They shone in the low light, blue glistening like wet paint, filled with something fierce and tender all at once. His voice was roughened, thick, but the words were soft enough to unravel you.

“You look…Stunning tonight.” The honesty of it hit like a blow. Heat burned high in your cheeks, your lips curving in a trembling smile you couldn’t hide. You leaned in, brushing your mouth to his again.

”Thank you.” You whispered, kissing him harder this time, pouring your gratitude into the press of lips, the push and pull of heat. His mouth opened to yours instantly, tongues tangling, messy and desperate. His hands slid up your back, broad palms skating over the arch of your spine before slipping lower, lower, until his fingertips brushed the hem of your dress. He didn’t stop. His hands slid beneath, slow but sure, the warmth of his skin searing against yours as he settled his palms just below the edge of your underwear. The faint rasp of cotton at his fingertips drew a low groan from deep in his chest, swallowed into your kiss.

His mouth broke from yours with a shuddered exhale, his breath spilling hot across your cheek as his lips dragged lower. He kissed along the edge of your jaw, slow, reverent, like he wanted to map every angle of you with his mouth. The stubble on his chin grazed your skin in a way that made you shiver, that faint scrape like fire drawn gently across tender flesh.

“God…” He whispered between kisses, voice husky, words trembling at the edges, “You look so pretty sitting on me like this.” His lips brushed the hollow beneath your ear before he nipped there, the sharp catch of teeth soothed by a lingering kiss. His hands flexed against you, fingers digging harder into the thin fabric bunched under his palms, tugging you closer until your chest pressed fully against his.

The air thickened with scent–your perfume blooming warm and sweet, vanilla and sandalwood twining with the faint citrus-sage clinging to his shirt. He practically huffed it, nose buried in your throat, his inhale ragged like he was trying to breathe you in and keep you in his lungs forever.

“You feel so fucking warm in my arms.” He murmured, almost a groan, the word melting against the sensitive skin of your neck, as he nipped at your throat, softer this time, and you gasped faintly, your hand curling in the fabric of his shirt. He shifted his mouth lower, dragging kisses down to where your pulse thrummed hard beneath his lips.

“And you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever held,” He whispered into the heat of your skin, teeth grazing lightly before he sucked, leaving a faint mark that made your stomach coil. His voice was a string of reverent confessions, punctuated by the press of lips, the scrape of teeth, the hush of breath.

His hands slid higher, tightening at your hips as he dragged you across the rough denim of his jeans, the friction biting and delicious, making your breath catch in a sharp exhale that you felt bloom hot against his hair. He nuzzled deeper into the slope of your throat, his face pressed into you as though he could burrow inside your scent and live there forever. Each inhale he drew was ragged, trembling, his breath clinging to your skin in damp, heated patches that smelled of wine and warmth and something rawer.

”You know what I didn’t go look at when I was giving myself a tour of your apartment?” You teased, your words lilting soft, playful, cutting into the thick air between you. He stilled, just slightly, lips ghosting your pulse before he pulled back enough to see you. His eyes were half-lidded, blue darkened like stormwater, his voice broken on its edges.

”What?” He asked.

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, leaning close, letting your whisper brush across his mouth. “Your bedroom…” The effect was immediate. His chest swelled on a shaky inhale, ribs pressing flush to yours, and you felt the tremor run through him as his thumbs pressed into the waistband of your underwear. A crooked smile tugged faintly at his lips, boyish and hungry all at once.

“I could give you your own private showing right now if you’d like.” Heat flushed your chest, and you pressed harder into his lap, denim rasping deliciously against you. A little hum slipped from your throat, breathy and unrestrained.

“Sounds like a great idea…” Your lips ghosted his ear as you added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Maybe we should have a dress code…” His brows pulled together faintly, forehead creasing as his lashes flickered.

“Dress code?” His voice was hoarse, like the words barely made it past the knot in his throat. You leaned close enough that your nose skimmed his jaw, your lips grazing the corner of his mouth.

“Undergarments only.” The way his laugh broke–low, a little incredulous, muffled against your shoulder where he pressed his mouth–made your stomach coil tight. It vibrated through you, warm and intimate, like he couldn’t believe the audacity but loved every second of it.

“It seems like you’ve had this planned all along…” He theorized.

You hummed softly, tilting your head, lips curving as you replied, “No… everything just fell into place perfectly, that’s all. Chalk it up to pure coincidence.” His fingertips traced along the edge of your underwear, teasing you with every brush, before sliding fully around to cup your ass. His palms fit there as though they belonged, warm and broad, squeezing once with a kind of possession that had your spine arching into him.

“Alright…” He murmured, voice rough, lips quirking into crooked smirk. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” Your smirk deepened, heat sparking at the base of your spine as you pressed back into his touch.

“So does that mean I can take this off then?” You teased, your fingers brushing over the top button of his shirt again. His eyes narrowed faintly, dark with want and intent, before his mouth curved.

“As long as I can take this dress off you afterwards.” You wet your bottom lip slowly with the tip of your tongue, savoring the weight of his gaze on the motion.

“Deal.” Your fingers worked the button open, then the next, each little pop of thread and fabric a spark of heat in the air. The edges parted to reveal the soft cling of his white t-shirt beneath, the thin cotton stretching faintly over the rise of his chest. He leaned forward as you slipped the shirt off his shoulders, hands leaving your ass just long enough to help shrug it free. The fabric whispered to the floor, forgotten, as you trailed your fingers back down, slipping beneath the hem of his t-shirt. You gripped and tugged it upward, the cotton dragging over his frame, revealing his pale skin inch by inch. Broad chest, lean muscle, the faint ridges on his stomach shifting as he inhaled sharply. Your fingers brushed across him as you pulled the shirt higher, and his muscles flinched under your touch, tiny shivers rippling across his chest like the faint twitch of strings plucked taut.

Freckles dusted across his skin in a variety of shades of browns, scattered starkly across his entire torso chest and shoulders. You wanted to trace each one, memorize the map of him. Around his neck, a thin chain glinted–a simple silver loop that carried a small pendant, flat and old-looking, the kind that looked like it could open, a secret tucked close to his heart. It caught the light when the shirt cleared his head, a gleam of intimacy you hadn’t noticed before. Your fingers curled around it briefly before his hands found you again, returning beneath your dress with a hunger that was less hurried and more carnal. His touch slid high, hiking the fabric up, until the bottom of it bunched around your hips. His breathing picked up, hot and uneven, ragged in the quiet of the room as his eyes dipped lower. When the sweep of your thighs gave way to the reveal of white cotton and lace, his exhale broke–rough, heavy, almost pained with how much he wanted you right then and there.

There was already a little damp patch blooming against the pale cotton, and the sight of it nearly undid him. His mouth watered at the evidence of your arousal, his tongue twitching against his teeth with the desperate urge to taste, to drag his lips lower until he had you unraveling on his tongue. Instead, his hands–wide, hot, trembling slightly–slid higher. The lilac fabric rode up and up until it whispered over your shoulders, before he tugged it off completely. The dress fell in a careless heap with his shirts, leaving you perched on his lap in nothing but matching lace and trembling skin.

Rocco leaned back just enough to look at you, and the blue of his eyes darkened almost black. His chest rose sharp beneath you, ribs straining against his thin frame like he was trying to breathe around the sheer sight of you.

“Christ…” He rasped, voice roughened, breaking at the edges. His hand came up, cupping the weight of your breast through the lace, fingers splaying wide, thumb brushing across the swell until your nipple tightened and pebbled under the thin fabric. The sound he let out was nearly a groan, his jaw slack as if he couldn’t believe the reality under his hand.

“Look at you,” He whispered, leaning forward until his mouth pressed against the tops of your breasts. His lips were hot and damp, dragging heated kisses across your skin before he licked slowly, tasting the faint salt of you, tasting the perfume still clinging like sugar and sandalwood to your collarbones. His mouth trailed lower, until he reached lace. His lips closed around one peak, sucking, his tongue flattening against the damp fabric until it clung slick to your nipple. You gasped, fingers threading through his damp hair, tugging lightly, guiding him closer. He hummed against you, the vibration shooting through your chest, and nipped gently at the lace-covered bud, just enough to make you gasp again.

“So fucking perfect,” He murmured against you, lips shining with spit. “Wish I could tear this lace right off, see you bare for me…” His teeth grazed again, a playful scrape, before he sucked harder, leaving the fabric darkened and wet.

Your hips shifted helplessly against his lap, pressing harder against the rough drag of his jeans. The pressure bit delicious and raw, enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips. His hands left your breasts, sliding down with a kind of hunger that was both desperate and controlled, gripping your ass tight. He pressed you down, grinding you against the hardness beneath denim until your breath stuttered and a faint whine caught in your throat.

When he finally pulled off your chest, his lips were wet, the lace of your bra gleaming with spit in the lamplight. He looked at you like he’d never seen anything more devastating, his breath hot and ragged, puffing across your skin in bursts that made you shiver. He pressed his forehead to your sternum for a second, trying to catch himself, before suddenly shifting–hands hooking under your thighs as he stood.

“You’ve still got your jeans on!” You pointed out, legs wrapping around his torso on instinct, clinging as his hands supported you with effortless strength.

The heat of your core pressed into his stomach through the thin barrier of cotton, and his breath hitched, his words hot against your ear: “They’re just going to have to come off once I get you on my bed.” You kissed along his throat as he carried you, your lips tasting the faint tang of his skin, his cologne mingling with the earthy trace of paint. Your teeth grazed his jaw as you tugged at his hair, and he groaned low, staggering only slightly as he reached the metal staircase. Each step creaked beneath his weight, his grip tightening around you, steady, determined, his breath catching when you kissed beneath his ear.

When he reached his loft area, he set you down carefully at the edge of his bed. The plaid comforter sank beneath your weight, soft and plush against your bare thighs, the fabric cool where your heat had already soaked through lace. You leaned back on your hands, looking around as he flicked on a lamp. The dim light painted the space amber, glancing over posters tacked to walls–old films, stark art prints, raw sketches that felt like glimpses into his head.

But then he moved in front of you, and everything else blurred. He stood tall, shadow falling over your body where you sprawled on the comforter. His chest rose and fell, pale skin gleaming faintly in the light, freckles scattered like constellations over his shoulders. His chain glinted once at his throat, catching the lamp glow.

You looked up through hooded eyes, lips parted, then let your gaze drift down to his belt. You met his stare again, holding it as you leaned forward. Your fingers slipped under the worn leather, brushing heat into his skin as you tugged the buckle open with excruciating slowness. His breath hitched audibly, and he let out a shaky laugh, low and rough.

The buckle clicked free. Your fingers trailed to the button, sliding it open, then tugged the zipper down until the metal teeth parted with a soft rasp. His jeans loosened instantly, hanging low on his hips. He pushed them down in one smooth motion, the denim falling to pool around his ankles. What was left made your mouth water.

His erection strained against the thin cotton of his boxer briefs, heavy, outlined perfectly against the pale fabric. The sight alone made your thighs clench, a pulse deep in your belly. You leaned forward, pressing your mouth to him through the fabric. The taste of cotton and faint salt filled your tongue as you licked along his length, wetting the cloth until it clung, transparent and darker in spots where your saliva soaked through. His groan was guttural, head tipping back, his light brown hair following his movements, throat bared while his hand found the back of your neck, holding you there gently but firmly.

“Fuck…” He breathed, the sound breaking, raw. You kissed along the thick outline, teeth grazing lightly, dragging just enough to make him gasp. The heat of him pulsed against your lips, twitching faintly beneath the thin barrier, as you squeezed him through the damp fabric, your hand wrapping around the weight of him. He felt hot, solid, heavy even before he was freed, and his hips jerked faintly into your touch, betraying how close to the edge the teasing was driving him.

Your fingers hooked under the waistband at last, tugging it down slowly. The cotton slid over his hips, and then he was revealed to you fully.

He sprang free, thick and flushed, veins ridging up his length in sculpted lines that caught the dim light. His cock curved slightly upward, heavy and aching, the blunt head slick with pre-cum that glistened like pearl at the tip. He was thick enough that your fingers itched to wrap around him just to feel the full breadth, long enough to make your breath stutter with a pulse of need low in your gut.

You swallowed, mouth pooling with saliva at the sight, your lips parting instinctively. A hot rush swept through you, equal parts awe and hunger, as you gathered spit in your mouth and let it drip slowly into your palm. You wrapped your hand around him, slick mixing instantly with the pre-cum that leaked down his shaft, spreading it in glossy rivulets.

Your hand moved slowly at first, stroking him with deliberate care, letting the spit-slick glide of your palm work down the heavy length of him. The heat under your hand was staggering, each twitch of his cock making your wrist shift, veins thick beneath your touch. His pre-cum leaked steadily, pearling at the swollen head only to smear down under your strokes until he gleamed in the amber lamplight.

“God, Rocco…” You whispered, your voice low and hot, words tumbling out like confession. Your thumb circled lazily over the tip, spreading his slick wider. “You’re so fucking big. Look at you…Already dripping for me.” Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, your mouth watering as you tilted your head, gaze locked on his length. “Bet you taste so good.”

The groan that tore from him was ragged, breaking low in his chest, his head tipping back for a second like he couldn’t bear the weight of your words. Then his eyes snapped down again, sharp blue, pupils blown, watching every twitch of your hand. His breath was already heavy, chest rising and falling fast, like he’d run a sprint to get here. You leaned forward, lips parting as your tongue flicked out, pressing right into the slit at his crown, as the hot, salty taste coated your tastebuds. His hips jerked involuntarily, a strangled gasp escaping as his hand tightened at the back of your neck.

“Holy shit, Y/N…Fuck.” His voice was wrecked, strained, and it only spurred you deeper. You licked slow circles around the head, letting your saliva mix with his slick until he was wet and glistening, then you wrapped your lips around him, sucking the tip into your mouth and hollowing your cheeks, applying gentle pressure as your hand stroked the rest of his length.

The sound he made was guttural, torn from somewhere deep, his breath hitching sharp. His thighs flexed under your palm where you braced him, nails digging into the thick muscle instinctively as you bobbed your head lower, taking more of him into your mouth. Your lips stretched around him, the salty-slick weight pressing heavy on your tongue as your throat began to tighten against the intrusion.

His fingers dug harder at your nape, not forcing but grounding, trembling slightly with restraint. He tilted forward, his hair falling in damp curls around his temples, framing his face as he looked down at you. His jaw slackened, lips parted, chest heaving with every breath as he watched himself disappear between your lips.

“You’re…Christ…You’re beautiful,” He rasped, hips rutting just the slightest, helpless in their hunger. You took him deeper, gagging softly around the thickness. His whole body tensed at the sound, panic flickering across his features. “Shit–I’m sorry…” He gasped, pulling slightly at your hair as though to free you. But you pulled off first–saliva stringing from your lips to the head of his cock in shining strands that glistened in the lamplight, coating your chin. Your eyes lifted to his, wet lashes fluttering as you smirked faintly, breathless.

“It’s okay,” You murmured, voice husky. “I want it.” Before he could respond, you swallowed him down again, determination fierce in your movements. You sucked harder, letting it get sloppy, your spit running down his length in wet ribbons as you bobbed faster. The wet sounds filled the loft–messy, obscene, your lips working around him as you stroked the base with your hand.

Rocco lost the rhythm of his breathing, his groans spilling free, raw and desperate. His hips thrust forward despite himself, small shallow ruts that pushed him deeper into your throat. You gagged again, eyes watering, but you held firm, squeezing his thigh harder, nails biting into him as you swallowed around him. The heat coiled in him like a breaking wave. His breath stuttered, ragged, broken into gasps.

“Y/N…I’m…Fuck, I’m close–” His warning was cut short by a guttural groan as his cock pulsed thick on your tongue, spasming hot and urgent. His release hit the back of your throat in sharp bursts, salty and warm, flooding your mouth as he thrust one last time with a desperate rut.

You swallowed him down, every drop, your throat working around him until he sagged above you, shuddering with the force of it. His hand on the back of your head, his other braced against his thigh as his long body folded slightly, a heavy, guttural sigh breaking free. When you finally pulled off, you did it slow, letting your lips drag the length of him until the head slipped free with a wet pop. Spit and slick gleamed down your chin, glistening in the dim light as you smiled up at him, eyes hazy with heat.

“Jesus Christ…” He groaned, his voice filling with praise and awe, as he shook his head, “Fuck, that was so good.” His hands came to cup your face, his rough palms hot against your spit-slicked skin. He hauled you up into him, mouth crunching to yours in a filthy, desperate kiss. His tongue pushed by your lips, roaming your mouth so he could taste himself on your tongue, groaning like it was too much. The kiss was messy, wet, his lips devouring yours, spit smeared between you as his hand slipped away to shove his jeans and boxers down fully, kicking them aside.

When he pulled back, he was panting, eyes wild and heavy-lidded. His hand slid down immediately, slipping between your thighs to press against the damp lace there, your wheeling core clenching around nothing in anticipation. His fingers pressed slowly on the fabric feeling the heat and wetness that had soaked clear through seeping onto his skin.

“You got that turned on from taking me in your mouth, hmm?” His voice was a low growl, threaded with disbelief and lust. You nodded, breathless, lips parting on a shaky laugh.

“Felt so fucking good hitting the back of my throat…Couldn’t resist getting turned on by it.” His answering groan was low, hungry, vibrating through your chest where his mouth brushed yours again. He tapped his fingers against your clothed pussy, feeling your hips chasing the touch. His lips curled into a lust-drunk smile.

”Lay back so I can return the favour.” He murmured, voice thick with intent. You shifted back slowly, your eyes never leaving his. The cool plaid comforter kissed your heated skin as your back met the mattress, the fibers rough against your shoulder blades, grounding you in the middle of the fire his body had stoked. Your feet slid up onto the bed, knees bending to part your thighs in an open invitation. The soft stretch of your white lace panties pulled tight over the heat between your legs, and the sight of you like that–open and waiting–made Rocco’s jaw clench visibly, the cords in his neck standing out for a moment.

He crawled forward, his knees sinking into the mattress until his long torso filled the space between your thighs. Your legs immediately cushioned him, your heat brushing his skin, pulling a sharp breath from him. He leaned down, catching your mouth again.

The kiss was feral, messy–his lips claiming, pulling, devouring. His tongue pressed past yours, tangling, tasting, claiming the breath right from your lungs. You moaned into him as the soft weight of his cock, still damp and heavy from your mouth, dragged against the soaked gusset of your panties. The wet pressure made your hips jerk, chasing him, and you gasped into his mouth. He tore away, lips slick and swollen, his forehead pressed to yours as he panted.

“Fuck…I could ruin you right now…Could fuck you right into the mattress. But I gotta control myself…Have to taste you first.” He rasped. The words scraped over your nerves like an electrical current, setting everything into an inferno. His mouth dropped to your neck, teeth grazing before catching skin just enough to sting, soothed instantly by the hot drag of his tongue. He licked a trail down, reverent and dirty, until his lips hovered over your collarbone. His hand slid behind your back, and with one flick, your bra clasp came undone. He leaned back just enough to strip it free, the lace loosening and slipping down your arms until your breasts spilled bare into the open air.

A slow smile appeared on his kiss bitten lips.

”Fuck me…” He whispered, his shimmering blue eyes drinking in every detail–the rise and fall of them with each breath you took, the way your nipples pebbled, the suppleness of the flesh. Then his mouth claimed you again. He bent low, hair falling loose in strands that brushed soft along your chest as his lips closed wetly around one nipple. The heat of his mouth was staggering, tongue swirling, sucking deep until your back arched and your nails tangled in his hair. He lavished one peak, wet and messy, before shifting to the other, his spit clinging, his tongue flicking until both of your nipples were pebbled and aching. His groan vibrated against your skin, as if he couldn’t get enough of the taste.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth trailed lower, dragging a spit-slick line down the center of your stomach. His chain brushed lightly over your skin, cool against your heated flesh, while his tongue traced a slow path toward your waistband. His teeth grazed the lace there, tugging lightly before he lifted his gaze. The look in his eyes–wild and tender at once–stole your breath as his hands slid down your sides, his broad palms soothing hot and steady over your skin, sending goosebumps to the surface until they settled right at the waistband.

Rocco peeled your panties down inch by inch, the delicate fabric clinging damply to your heat before sliding over the length of your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, legs shifting out of the garment with a slow, deliberate grace, the cool air of the loft rushing against your damp skin. The sight of you–soft thighs parted, glistening where arousal had spilled over–made his throat work visibly as he held the lace in his hands.

For a moment he didn’t move. He just lifted the panties to his face, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed them to his nose and inhaled. His chest rose sharply, a low sound rumbling from deep in him, raw and absolutely feral. When he opened his eyes again, they were darker, stormier than before and his lips curved into a smirk, as his rough voice spilled into the charged air.

“I’m going to be keeping those…” Your thighs clenched instinctively at his words, the ache inside you tightening like a coil. A laugh escaped you, breath and, unsteady.

“You can do anything you want…” His smirk deepened, boyish and wicked all at once, before he tossed the lace onto his jeans watching them settle against his clothes. Then his focus snapped back to you like he’d been magnetized, as if nothing else existed in the world but your bare body stretched out on his bed.

Rocco climbed down the mattress, shoulders rolling broad and steady until his palms pressed against the backs of your thighs. His hands spread wide, the rough heat of them searing into your skin as he pushed your legs up–bent knees pressing toward your chest, thighs parted wide. The position was both vulnerable and claiming; he had you open, framed perfectly, and his hungry gaze devoured every inch.

“Christ,” He murmured, eyes drinking in the slick sheen between your legs, the way you glistened in the lamplight. He settled lower, flat on his stomach, his jaw brushing the inside of your knee as his arms snaked around your thighs. His grip was strong, dragging you down toward him until your hips tilted into his mouth’s territory.

The first drag of his tongue was along your inner thigh, hot and slow. He tasted the dampness there where arousal had slicked your skin, groaning at the faint salt of you as if even that was enough to undo him. His stubble rasped faintly against the tender flesh as he kissed lower, trailing spit-slick paths down toward your core. You were trembling already, watching the crown of his head dip, watching him get closer.

He looked up at you then–blue eyes locking with yours, steady, unrelenting. His voice came low, filthy and coaxing.

“Look at you dripping for me. You want my mouth, don’t you?” Your breath hitched, your hands curling in the comforter beneath you, fisting the fabric.

”Yes…God, yes…” You whispered. But he only smirked, tongue flicking the very edge of your thigh.

“Doesn’t sound convincing enough, Y/N. Beg me. I want to hear how badly you need me to taste you.” Heat flushed high in your cheeks, shame and hunger tangling until you whined, hips lifting helplessly.

“Please, Rocco. I need you so bad. Please–” He hummed, pretending to consider it, eyes narrowing with teasing cruelty as his lips brushed your skin but never where you needed.

“Better. But not good enough. Give me more.” A whimper tore from your throat, and your hands darted to clutch his wrists, fingers digging into the veins that ridged his forearms.

You were desperate now, trembling with want, words spilling out broken and sweet. “Please, Rocco. Please eat me. I want your mouth on me, I can’t…Fuck, I can’t wait anymore, please…” That did it. His smirk softened, lips curving as he pressed a tender kiss to your thigh.

“Good girl,” He soothed, voice like gravel dipped in honey. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

And then he was on you.

His mouth crashed into your core, tongue flattening hot and wet against your folds. He licked a long, feral stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’d been starved for you his whole life. The sound vibrated through you, shuddering along your spine. His tongue shoved between your folds, nosing, licking, sucking greedily until his whole face was slick with you.

“God, you taste so fucking sweet,” He rasped against you, the words hot and wet on your skin. “And it’s like it’s never ending…” His eyes stayed on yours even as his mouth worked you, the intimacy of it so overwhelming you could hardly breathe. You writhed beneath him, gasps and moans spilling raw from your throat, legs shaking where he held them pinned. He licked into your entrance, tongue fucking you shallowly, teasing the depth it could go, before dragging back up to suck your folds into his mouth. The slurping was obscene, wet, filling the loft until it sounded like sin itself.

“Rocco…Fuck–” Your back arched, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, guiding. He only pressed in deeper, nose nudging your clit as he sucked hard, his tongue swirling over you until your cries pitched higher. Your hips lifted without thought, grinding down against his mouth, chasing the friction of his tongue, desperate for more pressure on the throbbing bundle of nerves at your core. Every drag of his mouth sent sparks ricocheting through you, sharp and sweet, but the way he pulled back–licks turning into teasing flicks, lips brushing the edge of you without giving you everything–made you whine out loud.

Rocco lifted his head just enough to breathe, his lips glistening with your arousal, chin shining slick in the dim light. His blue eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide, and his voice came rough and low, ragged from restraint:

“Keep grinding on my face, Y/N…Make a mess of me.” The command made your entire body clench. A gasp tore free as you buried one hand in his hair, tugging, guiding, grounding yourself in the feel of his damp curls tangling between your fingers. Your thighs trembled around his head, your breath spilling out in broken bursts.

“You want me messy, huh?” You whispered back, your voice shaky, threaded with heat. His groan vibrated against your skin, his lips curving into a grin even as his tongue flattened and pressed harder against your clit.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Ruin me…Fucking drench me.” The words unraveled you further. You rolled your hips down onto his mouth, grinding, chasing the pressure, whimpers spilling helplessly from your throat. His nose nudged your clit as he sucked, the rhythm obscene, wet sounds filling the loft like a symphony of sin.

Then his hand slipped lower, fingers dragging along your slit before pressing inside, slowly. Two thick fingers stretched you open, sliding into your heat with a slick ease that made your back arch off the mattress. He curled them up, finding that spot inside you that made your breath hitch and your thighs clamp tighter around his head.

“Fuck, Rocco!” You moaned, tugging his hair harder, your hips rutting down against the dual assault of his mouth and fingers.

“That’s it,” He rasped against your clit, never stopping the suction, his tongue swirling hot circles around it, “Take what you need…I’ve got you.” Your head tipped back, lips parting as your moans tumbled out raw, unrestrained. You couldn’t have stopped yourself if you tried. Each curl of his fingers sent shocks rippling through your body, every stroke slow and deep, deliberate, hitting that aching spot inside. Coupled with the relentless swirl and suck of his tongue, it was overwhelming, unbearable in the best way.

“I can’t…I’m gonna–” You gasped, the words breaking, trembling as your whole body shook beneath him.

“Yes, you can.” His voice was a growl, muffled by your heat, his fingers thrusting harder, tongue dragging faster, relentless. “Cum for me, pretty girl…Give it all to me.” Your body seized around him, the coil inside you snapping with a feral, blinding rush. A scream tore from your throat, high and raw, your back bowing off the mattress as you shattered. Your thighs clamped hard around his head, grinding down helplessly on his mouth as your orgasm ripped through you, shaking every limb, trembling with the violent relief of it.

He groaned into you, greedy, sucking harder, fucking you through it with slow, curling thrusts of his fingers. He didn’t stop until the spasms began to ebb, until you were shuddering beneath him, gasping for breath, nails tangled tight in his hair.

At last, he pulled his fingers free with a wet sound. Before you could recover, he spread your folds open with his thumbs, his tongue lapping up every drop of your release, groaning like it was honey straight from the comb. He licked you clean, savoring every spill, every tremor, until your thighs trembled uncontrollably. When he finally leaned back, his face was soaked with you–chin, lips, stubble shining with your slick. A crooked smile stretched across his mouth as he kissed the inside of your thigh, then again, softer.

“Fuck, Rocco…” You whispered, voice hoarse, chest still heaving. “That was so good.”

He laughed against your skin, the sound muffled, boyish, tender. He nipped lightly at the plushness of your thigh before replying, rough voice full of warmth:

“What can I say…” He smirked up at you, blue eyes glinting. “I always finish my dessert.” Your breathless laugh spilled out, shaking with aftershocks, and you couldn’t stop the grin that broke across your lips. He kissed your thigh once more, then your mound, leaving a wet spot there, before trailing his mouth higher. He left a damp path of kisses up your stomach, your chest, your throat, until finally he reached your lips.

He kissed you deep, his mouth tasting of you, slick and sweet and intoxicating. You moaned softly into it, the sound low and helpless, your arms wrapping around him to pull him closer. He fed you your own arousal, tongues tangling, the kiss messy and consuming. It was filthy and tender all at once, so intimate it made your chest ache, before pulling back.

“We should get under the covers. I’m kind of getting a bit chilly.” He whispered. You smirked, your lips curving with mischief, though your voice came out hoarse from moaning.

“Sounds good… But you’re going to have to help me a bit.” You shifted your thighs experimentally and let out a breathless laugh. “Think my legs are numb.” His laugh broke quick and warm, a sound that vibrated against your bare chest

“That’s one of the best compliments I’ve gotten in a while,” he teased, dipping his head to kiss your cheek before slipping his arms beneath you. He lifted you with ease, one hand supporting your back, while the other slid under your thighs. The sudden sweep of motion stole a small gasp from your throat, but you curled instinctively into him, nuzzling your lips against the side of his throat as he carried you up the mattress. His chain brushed your collarbone, the pendant catching briefly on your skin before sliding away.

He tugged down the thick plaid comforter, and eased you beneath its warmth–hot from where the two of you were laying moments prior. The fabric settled heavy and soft across your body, smelling faintly of detergent and him–sage, paint, and salt. Then he climbed over you, pulling the covers up over his shoulders until the two of you were cocooned in shadow and warmth. His chain dangled loose against your chest, the cool pendant glancing off your skin before coming to rest just above your sternum.

Rocco leaned down, his roughened palm cradling your cheek as though you were something precious. His lips found yours again, and this kiss wasn’t gentle. It was molten–wet, insistent, hungry. His tongue swept against yours, tasting you deeply, groaning as he pressed harder, chest flush to yours. You whimpered into the kiss, curling your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer until there was no space left.

His hips shifted, and you felt the hard length of him pressing insistently against your core. The blunt heat of him through the soft drag of your folds made you gasp into his mouth, your lips breaking from his as you whispered, desperately:

“I want to have sex… if you’re up for it.”

Rocco froze just enough to pull back, his forehead resting against yours, blue eyes blown wide but steady on you. His voice came rough, threaded with sincerity, “I’m always up for it. Just…Want to make sure I don’t overwhelm you too much. We don’t have to do everything in one night. I’d like to keep seeing you after tonight.”

The confession cracked something tender inside you. You reached up, cupping his face in both hands, your thumbs brushing his sharp cheekbones. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed, trembling faintly from restraint. You kissed him once, soft and sure, before whispering against his lips:

“I want to see you again too. And hey…You won’t overwhelm me. I just really want to feel you.”

His lips split into the smallest, softest smile, vulnerable and reverent all at once. He nodded, whispering, “Alright…” Before crashing back into your mouth. The kiss was wild now, desperate. Your thighs opened wider beneath him, making room for his body to settle between them. One of his hands slid down, broad palm stroking over your hip, then lower until his fingers wrapped around his cock. You felt the motion–the slick sound of his spit-slick strokes as he pumped himself, the blunt heat dragging along your folds as he guided himself through your wetness. You gasped at the sensation, your hips jerking instinctively, chasing the pressure.

“Ready?” He asked, his voice low and gravelly, lips brushing your cheek as his chain swung and the pendant kissed your collarbone.

You nodded, eyes locked on his as your thumb stroked along his stubbled cheek. “Ready.” He pushed forward slowly, the thick head slipping past your entrance, stretching you with exquisite precision. Your back arched, your breath stuttering out on a broken moan as the burn and the fullness melted into pleasure.

“Fuck…” He moaned, his head dropping to kiss your wrist where you cradled his face. “You feel so good already.” His voice was ragged, reverent, as he pushed deeper, inch by inch, until his hips met yours and he was buried fully inside you.

“Rocco…Fuck, you’re huge. You’re so perfect.” Your words broke into a whimper as your walls fluttered helplessly around him. His hand gripped your hip, squeezing gently, grounding himself into you, his hips moving to push just a little more against your cervix. The two of you groaned together at the fullness, the intimacy of him feeling every pulse. His forehead pressed to yours, noses brushing, your breaths tangled. The pendant swung down, bumping lightly against your chin with each tiny tremor of his chest. You tilted your head, lips parting, and took it between your teeth, the cool metal clinking softly against them. His groan was guttural, his blue eyes snapping open to watch you hold the chain in your mouth.

“Jesus, that’s so fucking hot,” He complimented, hips jerking faintly. Then he kissed you with the pendant still between your lips, the kiss wet, sloppy, filthy. His tongue tangled with yours as the cool metal pressed between you, his moan vibrating into your mouth. One of his hands slid up, finding yours, threading your fingers together, holding tight, as he pulled back just enough to thrust forward.

The drag was slow at first, deep, hitting places inside you that made your toes curl. You moaned into his mouth, the pendant clinking faintly as you clutched it harder between your lips. His thrusts built rhythm, hips driving into you with a deep, consuming pace.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” He whispered into your mouth, his voice breaking with each thrust. “So tight–fuck–you’re perfect, Y/N. Taking me so deep…”

You whined, the words shooting straight to your core, your encouragement spilling out broken and eager. “Don’t stop… Please don’t stop. You feel so good inside me.” His thrusts grew rougher, deeper, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp beneath the muffled comforter. Each stroke bottomed out, his cock dragging every nerve raw, your walls clenching around him in helpless pulses. His chain swung with every movement, the pendant bumping against your chin, against your lips, as though marking every thrust.

He buried his face in your neck, groaning, kissing, biting softly. His words poured out hot and cracked between each thrust: “So fucking beautiful…So sweet…Gonna fill you up, Y/N. You’ll take it all, won’t you?”

“Yes,” You gasped, your nails clawing into his back as your body arched into him. “Please, Rocco. Fill me.”

That undid him. His hips stuttered, thrusts breaking into erratic ruts as his moans deepened into something guttural, primal. With one final push, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing hot as he came, spilling deep inside you.

The warmth spread thick, filling, your walls clutching him tight as you moaned at the sensation. Your body pulsed around him, milking him through it, each spasm drawing out another rough groan from his chest. His long sigh escaped ragged, satisfied, as he kissed frantically along your neck, your jaw, your cheeks.

At last, he leaned back, his hand brushing your chin to tug the pendant gently from between your lips. He let it fall against your chest before capturing your mouth in a slow, reverent kiss, tongues brushing tenderly now, softly.

“That was so fucking good,” He whispered against your lips, his voice warm and broken with awe. His forehead pressed to yours, his chain resting cool between your heaving chests, as his body stayed close, still buried inside you, unwilling to let go. His skin was hot under your palms as you dragged your hands slowly down the planes of his chest, feeling the way his ribs rose and fell, the scattered freckles beneath your fingertips, the faint flutter of his heart still racing under your touch. He hummed, low in his throat, leaning down to brush the gentlest kiss against your lips–soft where every kiss before had been hungry.

“Gonna grab a warm towel for you and clean you up,” He murmured against your mouth, voice rough but tender.

You smiled, tilting up just enough to kiss the tip of his nose, your lips brushing there with playful warmth. “That would be nice.”

He chuckled, kissing you once more before pulling away carefully. The slide of him leaving your body made you gasp faintly, the warmth of him spilling out of you in a hot trickle. He caught the sound with a crooked little smirk before bending to grab his boxers, tugging them on in one smooth motion. Then he trudged down the narrow stairs.

For a moment, you lay there catching your breath, listening. The faint rush of water came from below, a quick hiss and shut-off, then his footsteps returned, steadily. His silhouette reappeared at the top of the stairs, curls pushed damply back from his forehead, eyes softened with something warm as he crossed to his dresser. He pulled free a folded pair of boxer briefs and a worn t-shirt, setting them carefully on the mattress before tugging the covers down to reveal you again.

The cool air kissed your skin, but then he was there, kneeling between your legs, towel warm in his hands. He wiped you with slow, deliberate care, catching the mess of him still dripping from you. His touch was steady, reverent, his head ducking once to press a kiss to your knee as he worked. When he finished, he set the towel aside, unfolding the boxer briefs and guiding them gently up your legs. His fingers brushed along your thighs as he helped you slip into them, pulling them snug into place before taking the t-shirt and easing it over your head. The cotton fell soft against your skin, heavy with his scent.

It made you laugh softly, warmth bubbling in your chest at how careful he was. He let out a long, quiet sigh, tossing the towel to the floor before climbing in beside you. The mattress dipped, then his arms came around you, wrapping you in his warmth, his chest pressing firm against your back as he drew you close. His breath tickled your hair when he spoke, voice low, content:

“I’m glad you made an exception and did this little house call…”

You let out a small laugh, teeth catching at his forearm as you nipped him playfully. “Would only do it for you.”

He smirked at that, the sound of it in his voice as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “Perfect…That’s what I like to hear…But next time I’m going to be taking you out.” You nodded.

”Sounds good to me…” You replied. Then he buried his face into your hair, his nose nudging at your crown as he settled, nuzzling deeper until his whole body seemed to melt around yours.

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