here's a completely out of context blurb/imagine with this gif, bear with me!
word count: 1.2k
jack abbot x female reader blurb, zombie apocalypse au
warnings: violence, mentions of death angst
an: could turn this into a multi-chapter fic??
You’ve been running for who knows how long.
Five days ago, North America was plunged into an apocalyptic event.
The night air is colder than usual, and you try to not think about the fact that you’ve just watched thousands of people die from a rampant parasite that infects the human brain. Once a person is infected, they live for about 24 more hours while the parasite makes its way up the spine, slowly taking over the person’s consciousness, until they are no longer.. well… alive.
Full contact with someone’s inner fluids, whether through saliva, blood, mucus, etc is how someone gets it.
Thanks to your absolute germaphobia and sheer luck, you’ve manage to nearly escape twice.
Oh, once someone is infected, they start to go insane, looking for more hosts to infect. Hence the running. Hence the fear.
You pant while nearing a warehouse. Legs, on fire, lungs feeling like they’re about to collapse and implode. Earlier, when making your way through a neighborhood, you managed to trip and twist your ankle. There wasn't time to deal with it though. But any moment you stopped to catch your breath or to check your surroundings, you were reminded of it as it throbbed painfully.
Every time you shut your eyes, flashes of moments earlier in the day blind you. The sight of family and friends turning over night into merciless creatures. Only to just die once the parasite had spread to another host.
Horrible.
You fight back a sob rising in your throat. Now was not the time to get emotional.
The door of the warehouse hangs slightly ajar. You push it open, as carefully as possible, wincing when the hinges croak.
Dim, fluorescent lights flicker, offering some relief to your eyes. They had been straining to see even just a foot in front of you for the past few hours since your phone light died.
You figured some abandoned building would be safer than someone’s house, the possibility of an entire family infected inside was terrifying.
Plus, because the time it took for the sickness to spread, it would be too late.
Maybe you've already been infected.
You glance down at yourself. With the paranoia you had been cursed with, you managed to double layer your clothes, ensuring that it would be difficult to get to skin contact. Your face remained uncovered, but you wore a hoodie and had a face mask on hand, just in case you got close to any humans.
You take a step inside.
Machinery lines the walls. It doesn't look totally abandoned, but no body actually would be living here. No food storage either. Would be unlikely for another person to be here.
Frantically, you look around for a safe area, preferrably in some storage closet where you could hide. And finally rest. Your feet feel almost numb-
Thud.
You spin around towards the noise. It came from behind, didn't it?
A floorboard squeaks above. You take a step back, and hover your hand over the pistol wedged in your belt strap. It came from a dead police officer. You remember the relief you felt when you came across it, still in an animalistic frenzy from escaping your infected family. You grabbed it without thinking, and now a chill shakes your spine. Would you have to use it?
Your thoughts are cut abruptly as something lands on your shoulder.
You're yanked to the side, a gloved hand covers your mouth to prevent you from screaming.
"Shh, hold still!" A voice hisses in your ear.
It all happens so fast you don't even have time to react. Suddenly you're pinned to a steel wall, cold metal biting the back of your head.
"Are you infected?" The ambusher says, voice low.
You shake your head.
How would they know? How did you know when your friends slowly turned unrecognizable?
The eyes. So faintly, their pupils would enlarge and the whites of their eyes would turn slightly grey. It was dreadful.
Guess this man knew that too.
White, hot light flashes into your eyes, and you immediately shut them, wincing away.
The gloved hand forces your head back to him. "I'm sorry, I need to check."
You open your eyes, desparate to prove that you were not one of them.
Hopefully. Finally, some clarity. Some assurance that you were still going to live another day.
"You're clean," he says, letting go of your face, releasing the gloved constraint over your mouth. "Needed to make sure you wouldn't spit on me, or bite me."
The man steps back and you get a better look at him. The light in his hand shines on the ground, and the flourencent lights above are still on, allowing you to see clearly.
You blink a few times to allow your eyes to adjust back after he blasted your retinas with his flashlight.
He's taller than you, but not overbearing. Dark silver curls stick damply to his head, probably from sweat and exertion, no doubt a survior like you.
Wrinkles and tanned skin give away his approximate age, maybe in his 40s, or 50s? Some blood stains his temples, right where his crow lines meet. Probably his if he's not infected.
Wait-
"Prove to me that you're not one of them," you blurt.
He nods. With his flash light, he lifts it up to his eyes. They're hazel, and his pupils shrink into tiny dots, the right amount.
Relief floods your body and you nearly collapse. The man drops his light, steping forward and hooking his arms under yours, catching you.
"Woah, easy there," he says, lifting you. "How long have you been awake?"
You shake your head, standing slightly with the remaining energy left in your legs, ankle giving you a bite of pain. "Not sure, but I've been running all day."
He moves his hands to your hips, steadying you.
It feels nice.
Real, safe, warm.
Contact with someone like you. Someone alive.
You look up at his face. He gives you a weak grin.
"I'm Dr. Abbot," he says. "I'm an emergency med attending. It's just me here, I've scoured the place, you're safe."
If God was real, I just met an angel. A doctor. During this medical crisis. He could look at your ankle. Maybe he could wrap it for you.
More than that.
He could probably see the parasitic signs before anyone else. Most likely how he's still alive. You could help protect each other. Help you stay alive.
You give him your name. "Thanks for not killing me."
Because he could have easily done so. Better safe than sorry, right? Not only were parasitic people killing others, but scared, distrustful people were also just as likely to end your life.
"Oh, you poor thing," he leans down and looks more intensely into your eyes.
Your lip quivers and you barely fight back the sob.
It's unexpected what he does next.
Dr. Abbot pulls you into a gentle hug.
Comforting, more than anything. It's nice though. You bury your face a little deeper as a few tears quietly wet his shirt. You don't fight it. You can't.
Not when this is the single thread of hope you've caught onto.
a/n: i finally watched ready or not 2 tonight and yes I was drunk and it's almost 2am and no I don't know what possessed my fingers and maybe i've never written anything faster in my life but one thing is for sure and two things are for certain, don't ask me the color of NOTHIN. this was literally written in like 20 minutes and it hasn't been edited and tomorrow me may regret posting it at all but as titus says FUCK IT we (le bail) ball. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated.
The sharp crack of your head against the ground feels like a strike of lightning splitting the back of your skull, and you can’t tell if it’s blood or sweat dripping down the back of your neck. The world becomes unfocused, pain diluting the sharpness of your vision to the point where everything is a fuzzy silhouette. It could be a concussion, or it could be blood loss from all the injuries you’ve sustained during this second round of fucked up hide and seek. If you made it out of this alive, it’s a game you’d never fucking play again.
There’s a weight that settles on top of you, almost comforting in your daze. A strong pair of calloused hands caress your neck, but it’s a misconception, a mistake your brain makes in the midst of the blunt force trauma you’d suffered when your head had smacked against the cold hard ground. It’s not a gentle touch, it’s the weaving of fingers around your throat, constricting like a snake coiling around its prey, and your world suddenly snaps back into focus.
Titus is hovering above you, his knees bracketing your hips, and his pupils are blown wide in wild bloodlust, the onyx of them nearly eclipsing the sliver of hazel. The edge of his lips curl in a snarl, or maybe it’s amusement that bares his teeth when your eyes widen in panic and you start to squirm beneath him, clawing at his forearm and his chest despite how weak you should be by now. He likes that you’re a fighter. It makes this more interesting. More fun.
“I told you it would be me that gets you.”
You can’t tell if it's the joints between his knuckles cracking or the vertebrae in your spine when he tightens his grip. Everything starts to get blurry again, the oxygen being denied to your brain combined with your head colliding against the ground causing the edges of your vision to shrink in a vignette like the ending of an old black and white sitcom. Your breathing feels like a futile attempt against the inevitable, a desperate gasping that doesn’t even begin to rival the heavy panting of the man above you, either in exertion or excitement, you’re not sure.
It can’t end like this. After everything you’ve endured, everything you’ve survived, it can’t fucking end like this.
“I can…gurantee…head council…seat.”
Titus doesn’t stop his efforts to strangle you, but he does lessen the pressure of his hands around your throat, just slightly enough to allow you to stay conscious. A dry chuckle escapes from him as he leans closer down towards you, his blood spackled face coming more clearly into view above you. His voice is raspy when it reaches your ears.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, sweetheart, I’m securing it myself.”
“And share…with your…sister?”
That gets his attention. Titus lessens his grip just enough to let you suck in a frantic gasp of air. His head tilts slightly to the side in what could be construed as curiosity, or maybe he’s taking a moment to enjoy this, the kill that single handedly secures his spot in the head seat of the council, taking his father’s recently vacated spot. A spot that should’ve already been his if it weren’t for the stupid fucking archaic rules. The seat he feels belongs to him, and him alone. Seizing the moment, you grip onto his forearm with the strength you have left, leaving crescent indents in his skin with your bloodied nails, your other hand grasping at the front of his sweat soaked shirt. Swallowing down the metallic tang of your own blood, your labored breathing carries your offer.
“That woman said there’s a loophole. A way you get the council seat, and I get to live.”
Titus lifts his chin subtly in defiance, arching one of his brows.
“The woman you killed.”
“I didn’t kill her-”
“You got her killed. Same thing.”
Titus regards you for a moment, his eyes wandering over your battered and bloodied body beneath him. Whether it’s morbid curiosity, or him reveling in giving you a sense of false hope, he indulges your ploy.
“Let me hear it. Give me your best elevator pitch, sweetheart. It’s gonna be your last.”
He’s enjoying this. There’s an unmistakable flicker of exhilaration in his eyes. Titus could’ve killed you at any point during the hunt, easily. He didn’t want to. He likes the chase. The thrill of it all. It’s more exciting to him than the reward of the kill. It’s why he’s entertaining your last ditch offer now.
“Marry me.”
That draws genuine surprise from Titus, his brows lifting considerably up his forehead, creating creases in his blood speckled skin. You don’t waste the moment. You grip tighter onto him, almost subconsciously pulling him in closer, keeping his attention focused on your body beneath him and not the prospect of your death granting him what he wants more than anything.
“If you marry me, you get the seat. You don't have to share.”
Titus seemed to consider this. The one thing that he wanted more than his father’s seat was to not have to share it with his sister. He hated that his father saw Ursula as more capable of carrying on the family legacy. He hated that she treated him like a child. Claiming the seat was more important to his pride than his loyalty to his family.
“And you get to live.”
“It's a win-win.”
It was strange to not believe in any deities even though you'd seen a glimpse of one. Real evidence of something beyond human comprehension. But in that moment, you found yourself begging even Mr. Le Bail to convince Titus to accept your offer. If he refused, you had no other tricks up your bloodied and tattered sleeve.
Titus narrowed his eyes, regarding you in a new light, weighing the payoff of the transaction. He didn't care if you lived or died. All that mattered was that the golden ring was on his finger.
“I don't think we’ll have time to catch a plane to Vegas.”
Titus looked down at you in wicked amusement, his lips stretching in something that was probably meant to be a form of a smile.
Overview: (this is apart of to have and to hold, it picks up right where chapter 20 stops) the lawyer brings some unfortunate news for you. (mdni!, def an 18+ story)
A/N: not sure if this is the end or if i wanna keep going tbh, truly up to y'all lol
Word Count: 1.8k
Previous Chapter
After much protesting and screaming, Titus managed to half-carry, half-drag you back into the house. Wrapping you up in a towel, he promises a warm bath and an “open” conversation as soon as the Lawyer confirms the game has ended. You scowl at him from the couch, jerking away from his touch.
“You’re not going to be able to avoid me forever, princess,” he says, moving his hand back to his side. “Nothing changed from yesterday, you know.”
“Besides the fact I am sitting here covered in your family's blood,” you huff. “And I killed your sister. Oh! And you snapped a man’s neck for not apologizing enough in front of me.” Titus pulls his mouth in a tight frown before responding.
“I told you I’d do anything for you. I love you,” he says, as if that’s a totally reasonable response. You open your mouth to retort, but the door swings open and the Lawyer walks in.
“Mr. Danforth,” he nods to Titus before turning to you, “Mrs. Danforth.” You already heard Titus say it, and you did use to almost fantasize about how it’d feel. But you do not like how it feels at all, especially after hearing the horror stories about Titus from now all-dead men.
“Is the game over?” Titus asks, cutting directly to the point.
The Lawyer nods, “It ended with the death of Ursula; my condolences, by the way. The two remaining participating Danforths left the playing field.”
Titus smiles a toothy grin and has to physically stop himself from hugging you. He can tell you’re still pissed at him, even if he genuinely cannot fully grasp why. “So, we’re done?”
“Nearly. You both must participate in the traditional blood binding ritual. It can be a closed ceremony,” the Lawyer replies.
“Can we do it now?” he asks.
“What happens if we don’t do it?” You interrupt, “Do I get to be free?”
“Ah, the bylaws make it clear it must be done willingly by both parties. If the ritual is not completed, nothing changes. However, you may find it’s in your best interest, Mrs. Danforth,” he says, offering you an almost sympathetic look.
“What the fuck does that mean?” you snark.
“Mr. Le Bail is rather traditional. When the original contract was made, the wife was viewed as being beneath the husband. Without completing the more modern pact, the original agreement is valid,” the Lawyer responds. Titus looks incredibly pleased with this information, and you want nothing more than to slap him. But you refrain.
“So, he’s a sexist piece of shit? I don’t have any rights right now?” you practically shriek.
“I am afraid not, Mrs. Danforth. You are akin to property until the blood ritual.”
You laugh out loud out of pure shock. “Great, so now I’m doubly fucked. I’m practically a slave to a psychopathic murderer,” you say in disbelief. Titus has a full-blown shit-eating smirk now.
“Maybe we can put off the blood ritual,” he teased. He really can’t believe his luck. Not only is his sister dead and you killed her, but you’re fully his. There’s absolutely no way for you to escape or back out.
“Fuck you,” you snort, slamming back into the couch.
“I don’t think that’d be very proper in front of the Lawyer, do you?” He says mockingly.
“I would rather not participate in that; is there anything else?” The Lawyer responds.
“How could she kill Ursula if she shared the High Seat?” Titus asks, turning his full attention back to the Lawyer.
“Your Father removed her from the Seat after your marriage ceremony,” The Lawyer answers. Titus really cannot believe it; this may be the best day of his life. Actually, this definitely is the best day of his life.
“Hail Satan,” he says, wishing only that you’d celebrate with him.
“Hail Satan,” the Lawyer repeats before excusing himself. Titus scoots closer to you.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he whispers.
“Go fuck yourself,” you retort as you push further into the couch.
“Don’t be such a brat. Do you want to go shower?” He asks, cutting you a bit of slack given the circumstances.
“Alone, yes. With you, no.”
“Mm, I don’t think you have a choice, do you?” He meets your eyes with an infuriating smirk.
“I am not leaving the couch,” you insist, whipping your head around and pulling the towel tighter. You would rather sit in the blood and grime from the hunt than be touched by him.
“I’m going to give you one final chance, princess; then we’ll do it my way. Which I’d assume you’ll not enjoy as much,” he says as he stands up, offering you his hand. Refusing to even look at him, you don’t move. “Have it your way.” He turns and abruptly walks away without another word.
Looking around, you contemplate running. But, really, what’s the point? You think to yourself; he’ll find me eventually. Instead, you sink further into the couch, yanking the towel as tight as you can around your body and curling your legs to your chest.
You think about everything that’s led to this point, all the way back to the night at the bar. Ever since that day, everything has felt surreal. Until the hunt, Titus really had been doing well in acting like a normal boyfriend. You had been finding yourself enjoying being around him, liking seeing his soft and human side. He seemed to be slowly learning to listen and have some semblance of control. The hunt totally erased that, though. And seeing how willing and able you were to kill people sort of ruined the illusion that things could be normal. You hate how you felt when Titus beamed at you for strangling his sister. You didn’t like how good his praise felt for doing something so heinous.
“Two options, pretty girl,” Titus reappears, pulling you out of your thoughts. “We can do a little leash situation or handcuffs. I’ll let you decide.”
You roll your eyes and scoff. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”
Titus frowns slightly, “Can’t you just not be a bitch?”
“Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up,” you say. It’s so hard to not fall victim to his pushing. He’s so good at being annoyingly bratty.
“Such foul things for such a pretty mouth,” he says as he positions himself in front of you. “Which will it be?”
“Go fuck yourself, freak,” you mumble. Titus grips your chin with his hand, angling your head up to look at him.
“I am trying to be understanding, but you’re making it very hard. I think we’ll put off the ritual for a day every time you disobey. As you heard from the Lawyer, until then, you carry the same rights as a standard dog, Mrs. Danforth. And, I think dogs should be properly contained, don’t you?” His smirk returns as he lets your chin fall and he snaps something around your neck.
“Titus, what the fuck?” Your hands immediately try to pry it off, but you can’t seem to find a latch.
“Uh uh uh,” he chastises, holding onto your hands. “Just be grateful I don’t make you crawl. For now, at least.” He clips what looks to be an actual dog leash to the collar and tugs on it.
“You dick, I’m not some sort of animal,” you pull back on the leash, trying to give yourself some slack.
“That’s not what the Lawyer said, was it?” He’s taunting you, and you despise the fact you know he is and that it still enrages you.
“I wish they would’ve killed you,” you say through gritted teeth, still trying to fight against his pull. He abruptly picks you up, causing you to drop the towel. Within seconds, he has you bent over his knees and the leash secured under his foot. Your head is forced downward while you’re completely exposed.
“I think it’s time you showed me a little gratitude, yeah? I killed for you, I spent hours training you, and all you have to say are hurtful things,” he rubs at your ass, making you squirm.
“Stop,” you mutter, feeling your face flush. His hand smacks down hard, causing you to jolt against him. “Titus!”
“You love me, I know you do. I just wish you’d accept it,” he says as he slaps your ass again, forcing out another yelp. “After all, we have an entirety together.”
“I don’t want you. I will never want you,” you huff, still squirming against his hold.
He slaps again, this time hard enough you’re sure his handprint will be left behind. “You’re such a bad liar, princess. I bet you’ve never come harder in your life than you have with me. And I see how you look at me.”
You feel the heat radiating from where his hand has been landing. “Hate you,” you mumble.
“Then why are you so wet?” He says as he dips a hand between your legs. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking about.” Instead of responding, you buck up against him.
“Let me go,” you whine, hating the embarrassment flooding through you.
“As you wish, Mrs. Danforth,” he says as he lands one final slap across your ass. He swings you upwards, the sudden head rush making you feel woozy. The dizziness makes you grab onto Titus’s arm to steady yourself. He smiles, liking the warmth of your touch.
“Am I allowed to shower now?” you ask.
“I suppose I’ll permit it,” he replies, getting a final grope of your ass in before standing up, yanking the leash behind him. You gasp as you’re pulled forward, angry by the reminder he has you literally collared. “You go in front,” he says, stopping and making a big show of dramatically waving you on. Biting your tongue, you go ahead. He sighs happily, taking in his handprints on your perfect ass.
He still isn’t quite sure this is all real. He’d never admit it out loud, but he keeps waiting to wake up from a dream. In his lifetime, natural or unnatural, he never saw himself finding a real wife. Not only did he genuinely enjoy his fun little games, but he wouldn’t have guessed himself capable of feeling the mixture of feelings he does when he sees you. Nothing in the entire world would be able to separate him from you now, especially as you now are afforded the same protections he is. He makes a promise to himself to try not to push you too hard, at least not in the beginning. He hopes, and knows that with infinite time, you’ll warm up to him.
Reader is an artist and activist and Titus is obsessed.
Her artwork is anti rich people, anti corruption, anti exploitation, and basically every Titus and the Danforths stand for.
She's been arrested during protests several times. Titus collects every angle of footage people upload from them. All the cops who touch her mysteriously disappear. Her bail is always paid by some anonymous donor almost as soon as she is arrested. The Lawyer waits for her in the police station already before she can even be booked.
Titus tries relentlessly to buy one of her pieces but she simply won't sell to him.
He shows up at her rundown studio and he sticks out like a sore thumb with his stupid ascot and stupider grin.
She insults him.
He loves it.
And what is better than having one of her pieces hanging in his room? Exactly. Having her in his room, collared and chained to his bed :D
Summary The very long awaited anniversary chapter. After a year of marriage, it's time to replace some of the bad memories with some good.
W.C. 9.2k
Tags Oral (f mentioned, m receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, vacation Titus is still pretty punchable, semi-public groping, public groping (unwanted, boo), unwanted attention and harassment, violence against gross men, some domestic fluff
Author's Note Some fun fluffy smutty marriage romp as a palette cleanser! And then because I am who I am there is an emotional ending lol I really want yalls feedback on this one please! Let me know what you think and what you want the bride's decision to be
xoxo
You wake with the sun, jet lag still lingering in your body, trying to pull you back to sleep. The sheets are plush and clean and fresh. Only in the way that vacation sheets are. They don’t smell like home. They smell like salty sea air and sunlight.
Titus is still sound asleep next to you. Golden light pours into the room, highlighting his freckled cheeks. Initial desires say to wake him with kisses, feather light and chaste, so you can feel his large hands wrap around your hips as he says devilish things in that sexy, early morning rasp.
But waking him up now would mean taking away one of the only things you can do for him on this trip, so you press a single kiss to his cheek, and slip out of the bed quietly.
Rubbing sleep away from your eyes, you yawn and pad to the kitchen, pulling the satin robe closed around your waist. You’re on a mission this morning.
Open the fridge, check the pantry. Of course, Titus made sure everything was stocked, so you have many options. It takes a moment to make a mental plan.
Coffee first. You check the time and orient yourself. It’s extremely rare for you to just be able to do something as simple as make yourself coffee, or make breakfast, you have to make sure you still know how to do that. It almost troubles you, but when the coffee maker starts humming and the smell fills the kitchen, your concerns are wiped.
Fueled with caffeine and a reminder that you’re not totally inept- not yet, at least- you start on breakfast. Eggs, sausage, plated fruit. Simple, and not the spread that Titus is used to. But enough. And made by you.
You have to move the flowers back and forth, out of the way. Titus made sure that the villa was completely overflowing when you got there yesterday. It’s a fucking flower shop- if the flower shop only sold your favorite blooms in your favorite colors. Eventually, you arrange them all on the floor next to the balcony, a small army of blooms watching you swirl around the kitchen.
It’s the start of a week-long getaway to Greece. A much needed vacation, and time away from- well, everything. It’s not often that you get time alone together, and the Mediterranean sun is a welcome break from a rainy New England spring.
You’re not worried about waking Titus up, since the villa you’re staying in is so huge, you’d probably have to scream for him to even hear you. It’s far too much space for just two people.
When you pointed that out upon arrival, Titus shrugged.
“More room for activities.”
Activities being a very chaste word to use. Not that you can really blame him. It’s not like you haven’t been mentally mapping out all of the places in the villa that Titus could have you bent in half. The insanely spacious sofa, the kitchen island, the walk in shower, the pool. Unfortunately- or maybe fortunately- you’ve grown to be just as insatiable as he is.
After only 20 minutes, there’s a change in the air. You hear his soft footsteps before you feel his arms wrap around your waist from behind.
“Hey, you,” you smile.
“Good morning,” he says in that sleepy voice you love so much. It always hits you right in your chest, making your neck prickle.
You turn in his arms to face Titus. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, but they look at you with that all-consuming adoration that he always has. His hair is softly mused, the grey slowly overtaking his cinnamon streaks. You hold his cheek in your palm, running a thumb over his morning stubble.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” you say.
“You didn’t,” he shakes his head. “I think it was subconscious. The bed was too big. Too empty.”
You let out a small sigh, understanding exactly what he means. You two are so linked to each other, when one of you is gone, it feels like a part of you is missing. A matching set, incomplete without the other.
“Happy anniversary,” you smile.
“Happy anniversary,” he replies.
This day was always going to be a tough day for you. It’s your anniversary, yes. But there are so many complicated emotions tied to your marriage to Titus. Considering the borderline traumatizing circumstances of your wedding, Titus was hell-bent on making this trip as perfect as possible. Replace the bad memories with better ones. Consider this a fresh start.
Titus steps back to lean his hip on the nearby counter, just watching you move as you direct your attention back to the stove, where the sausage is browning and the eggs are almost perfect.
“What, no snarky remark about how you could have hired someone to cook?” you tease.
“Actually, I was just enjoying the view,” Titus replies, eyes dragging down your bare legs. “Makes me want to fire all of the chefs at home just so I can watch you cook all day.”
“Funny,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes.
Titus reaches around you to grab at a sausage link from the pan.
“Would you go away?” you swat his hand before he can take it, trying not to laugh.
Titus takes the moment of distraction to press his lips right below your ear, traveling down your neck. His fingers tug at the tie of your robe. Not enough to pull it open, but enough to remind you that he could.
“Titus,” you bite back a giggle. “Go sit down!”
“Darling, I’m hungry,” he murmurs.
“It’s almost ready,” you reply.
“Not for food.”
“I’m not letting this get cold,” you insist.
Titus huffs- nearly stomps his feet and whines- and turns to pour some coffee.
“First, you wake up before me, denying me the chance to bring you breakfast in bed, or hell, just staying in bed,” he starts. “Now you’re kicking me out of the kitchen. I thought this trip was supposed to be fun,” he mutters into his mug.
You flash your eyes at him sideways. It’s not a threat, but a promise.
Titus clears his throat, his pout gone. “Can I help you set the table?”
“I’m so glad you asked!” your tone turns saccharine on a dime. You hand him the fruit.
Being alone with Titus- truly alone, no staff on the other side of the door tending to every whim- almost makes your heart sore. He’s without his usual airs. In grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, Titus looks like an average- extremely attractive- husband.
It’s almost like this is the first time you are regular rich people, removing the context of the satanic cult and the fact that Titus pretty much runs the world.
“Anything special you want to do today?” Titus asks after breakfast.
“You don’t have anything planned?” you raise an unconvinced eyebrow.
“No,” Titus shakes his head and leans back. “I have many things planned. But I want to know what you want to do.”
“And what if I don’t want to do anything you’ve planned?” you ask.
“Then I’ll cancel it,” he shrugs like it’s obvious. “Today is about you.”
“Technically, it’s about us,” you point out.
“Technically, we can do whatever we want. So we should do whatever we want. We’re on vacation.”
It’s almost a challenge. Even after an entire year together, you know you’ve been pretty conservative with your position- and Titus’s bank account.
So fuck it, yeah. What can you pack into a dream vacation to Greece?
“But first,” Titus grabs the seat of your chair with one hand and yanks it closer to his side, pulling a surprised yelp from you. He pulls at the tie of your robe, fully this time, and it falls away easily.
“Still hungry?” you ask, leaning back in your chair.
The robe falls open, revealing the sheer nightgown you woke up in.
Titus nudges his foot against your ankles, pushing your legs open for him. No panties. His eyes snap up to yours.
“Starving.”
There’s a sense of freedom in this kind of lifestyle. Sure, having a full staff at your beck and call is really great when you need someone to vacuum the carpet or take out the trash. But there’s way too many people around for you to be propped up on the kitchen counter, legs bare and wide, as Titus pulls a second orgasm from you.
“Ti, please,” you whimper. “So- it’s too much.”
“But you taste so good,” he drags his tongue through your folds one last time, lapping up everything you have to give.
“Come’re,” you tug at his face.
“It’s not my fault,” Titus says, finally standing between your legs. He presses a lazy, pussy-drunk kiss to your lips. His hair mused from your fingers running through it, pulling it.
“Nothing ever is,” you smile.
“You standing there, cooking for me, no panties,” he kisses you again. “You’re a vision. A fucking wet dream.”
You reach down and cup his dick through his sweatpants, feeling how hard he is just from eating you out. Titus chokes on his breath a little, leaning over to grip the counter top, arms tense on either side of you.
“I should probably return the favor, right, baby?” you move your fingers gently over him.
Titus doesn’t say anything, just lets out a low, bitten off noise and a nod.
You slide off the counter onto your knees in front of him. Titus is already breathing heavily, looking down at you with dark, hungry eyes.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweats and pull them down to free his thick cock, almost painfully hard. It snaps up against his abdomen, precum already leaking at the tip. He’s achingly ready for you.
“Look at you,” you mutter, taking him in your grasp. “How long have you been like this?”
“Too long,” he groans. “All because you wanted hot eggs.”
Titus groans when you open your mouth wide and slide your tongue from base to tip.
“You didn’t like breakfast?” you say sweetly. You move slowly, waiting for his bravado to completely crumble before you indulge him.
“Fuck,” he grits. He drops a hand to the side of your face, encouraging you. “No, honey, I loved breakfast.”
“Good, for a second you sounded a little ungrateful,” you drag your tongue over him again, swirling it against the tip to collect the precum.
Titus lets out a broken moan, his fingers curling in your hair.
“Watch it,” he hisses, but it sounds almost desperate.
You decide to stop teasing, but only because your mouth is nearly watering at this point. Not because he looks like he’ll start whimpering if you don’t blow him right now. When your mouth finally moves over him, you take him as far back as you can without immediately gagging.
You move slowly along his dick at first, letting your mouth and throat work open for him, hand stroking what your lips don’t reach. Titus’s head falls back, hand still firm in your hair. A low groan escapes.
“So pretty with your mouth around me like that,” Titus moves his hand to the side of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.
You continue to work him slowly, taking as much as you can each time.
“That’s it,” His hips jerk forward, almost like he didn’t mean to. He looks down, chest rising and falling with deep breaths, trying to rein himself in. Biting back the aggression that’s sitting right behind his eyes.
You look up at him through your lashes and move your hands to his thighs, bracing yourself. A silent indication that you are giving up the reins.
Titus sees it, and understands.
His hips buck again, this time on purpose, deeper than before. Deciding the pace for himself, chasing the bliss he gave you. Saliva gathers on the corners of your mouth, eyes pricking with tears.
“That’s my girl,” Titus groans. His pace stutters, just once, and his mouth opens slightly.
Titus suddenly slides out of your mouth, breathes shallow, and reaches for your arm to pull you to your feet.
“Had enough already?” you wipe the spit from your mouth slowly, something Titus can’t pull his eyes away from.
“That was so good, my dove,” Titus says, hands gripping your hips firmly, “But I would rather fill that pretty pussy.”
He spins you around and presses you against the countertop, practically hinging you where your stomach meets the granite. He kneads your plump ass in his hands, his thick fingers pulling them apart.
“This is what you want, right?” Titus asks.
“Yes, please,” you wine, trying to push your hips out for him.
Titus steps out of his sweats fully and kicks them off to the side. You feel his cock slide over your pussy, rubbing against your clit and making you shudder. This is payback, you know it. But damn, if you don’t like it.
“You can do better than that,” he tuts. “My beautiful wife knows how to ask for what she wants.”
“Titus, please. Fuck me,” you turn your head over your shoulder to look at him, how much pleasure he’s getting from your whining. “Please, I want to feel you. I need to feel you.”
You bend over the counter fully, looking back at him with doe eyes and batting lashes.
“I never can hold out very long for you,” he mutters.
Titus slides his cock into you, pressing his hips against your ass all at once. It draws a loud, low moan from you. You’re on your toes, nearly pushed off the ground by the force of him.
You press your palms to the cool granite, pushing up so that your back arches dramatically as you take all of him in. It’s like your insides have permanently rearranged themselves just to accommodate Titus. A body made for him.
“You feel that?” Titus grunts. “You feel how deep you take me?”
“Mhmm,” you mewl.
Titus leans forward, pressing his chest against your back and pulling your hair away from your neck. He nips at you, sucking a bruise to your pulse point before pressing a kiss over it.
“So good,” he murmurs against your skin, “fucking hell you feel so good.”
Then, he starts to move, and you feel like the wind is knocked completely out of you. If it weren’t for Titus’s arms holding you up, one wrapped around your waist and one resting by your shoulder, you would have collapsed against the counter.
“Titus,” you whine, leaning your head back.
“Talk to me, sweetheart, let me hear you,” he grunts.
“Oh shit,” you whine. The words float around in your head, but you’re unable to catch them. “I love the way you fuck me.”
His pace isn’t feverish, not like it sometimes is, but it is deep and brutal. You can feel your walls clenching around him, pulling his dick in further with every thrust.
“Fuck, baby,” Titus pants in your ear. He moves his hands down to your hips, gently folding you over the counter again.
When you feel his large grip move to your thighs, you don’t even have the strength to say anything when he pushes one of your legs up, your knee resting on the counter next to you.
“Look at that,” Titus says, marveling at the new angle, and how your pussy takes him all the way in.
You’re overwhelmed. There’s nothing for you to hold on to. Nothing to bring you back down to earth. Nothing but Titus’s jagged breaths. You can feel your cunt clenching and pulsing around him, another orgasm threatening to blur your vision.
“Don’t stop,” you whimper.
“Let me feel you, honey.” Titus pushes your leg up just a little further, so he can push even deeper inside.
Suddenly, you cry out, your release squeezing around Titus. He fucks you through it, though his pace slows slightly at the feeling.
“Fuck, honey, you’re going to take it all,” he moans, hips stuttering slightly.
“Yes,” you whimper, “I want it.”
One final thrust, and Titus buries himself inside you, holding his hips close as he comes with your name on his lips. Your sensitive cunt is filled with his release.
Something rattles in your chest. The closeness, the need. Or the fact that no matter what Titus says, how cocky he is and how much he asks of you, at the end of it all, he’s completely undone by you. Only you, with your long lashes and full hips and easy smile, can make him break.
“Fuck,” you sigh as he pulls out. Your heart rate has yet to settle.
“Happy anniversary, hon,” he kisses your back, breath hot.
“Thank you, baby,” you look back at him, cheek resting on the cool countertop as you try to find yourself again.
“You’re okay?” Titus asks when you don’t immediately stand upright again. He runs a light hand over your back, all the way down your spine.
“I’m good,” you reply.
“Come on,” he nods towards the bedroom, “let’s go spend our money.”
Titus doesn’t go far. He steps back and watches as you try to collect yourself, your legs a little wobbly. You can feel his cum dripping out of you onto your thighs. What a fucking sight.
He bites his lip, trying to bite back a smile.
“Don’t,” you snap your eyes to him. “Not unless you’re going to carry me back to the room.”
“Of course,” he nods and happily gathers you in his arms. Once you’re settled, arms slung over his shoulders, he indulges himself. “Suppose this is my fault, anyway.”
“Shut up, and take me to get cleaned up” you bury your face in his neck, trying to hide the blush.
He kisses the top of your head before taking you to the ensuite for a warm bath.
You soak for a few minutes, just letting your muscles relax while Titus cleans himself off and gets dressed. He checks in on you every so often, and even helps you dry off, carrying your damp body to the bedroom to change.
When you finally get dressed- which is almost impossible to do when your legs are jelly and Titus is watching and can’t keep his damn hands to himself- you finally make it out of the villa.
It’s a sunny morning, with a gentle, warm wind. You opt for kitten heels- the wedges you planned for are definitely not stable enough for your current state- and a breezy sundress.
The driver takes you down to the shops. And by shops, Titus obviously planned for the luxury shopping district, where every single item costs an average mortgage payment.
After a year, none of this should phase you anymore. Spending money should be like breathing. But you didn’t ever want that excitement to fade. You still want to feel grateful that you don’t have to check your bank balance before buying a necklace.
“You’re not going to mope around, acting bored while I try things on, are you?” you ask Titus when the car slows to a stop.
“What?” He looks almost offended. “No. I love spending money. It’s one of my favorite hobbies. The only thing better is watching you spend my money. That, my love, is very sexy.”
It takes a mountain of willpower not to giggle like a schoolgirl when the car door opens and Titus holds his hand out for you.
“Where would you like to start?” he asks as you take it all in.
First stop is Hermes, where you pick out a silk scarf and a beautiful handback that costs more than your first car.
You leave Gucci because the skirt you liked didn’t fit around your hips. Titus got angry, and even angrier when you dragged him out of the store instead of letting him berate the uncaring staff.
It takes a few moments of talking him down, followed by some strategically placed kisses along his neck, for Titus to calm down.
“You don’t need to be a walking billboard for that tacky brand, anyway,” he huffs, lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you along to the next store.
Three jackets from Prada, and when you can’t decide on which sandals to get, Titus of course nods. “Get both.”
You spend a couple of hours moving from store to store, trying on clothes and letting Titus carry the bags. Well, he carries them until the driver meets up with you every so often to ferry them back to the car.
In every shop, Titus is there with you, watching with adoration. Every time you pick something up and exclaim about the price, it amuses Titus. How many times does he have to say that no, it’s not too much, get whatever you want? But when you find something you love, when your eyes light up and you feel at home in a new garment, or with a new piece of jewelry, it makes his heart soar. He would spend every last dollar to his name if it meant that smile never faded.
There’s a small Greek boutique that has beautiful dresses, and you head back to the fitting room with an armful. You’re in the middle of trying one on when there’s a soft knock at the door.
“One second!” you call.
The door opens anyway. You hold your breath, but it’s Titus that slips in quietly. His eyes fall on you and the dress you’re in the middle of shimmying on. You turn towards the mirror and finish pulling the straps up.
“Impatient,” you tut.
“Eager,” he corrects.
“Make yourself useful,” you turn around and move your hair so that he can access the zipper.
Titus comes behind you, his familiar presence grounding you as always. His hands settle on your hips, right above your ass, thumbs moving back and forth in the fabric.
“That’s not what I asked for,” you turn your head towards him slightly
“I’m getting there,” he replies. “Just…taking my time.”
Slowly, achingly slow, he drags the zipper up your back, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. You can see him in the mirror, how his eyes close for just a second. Heat rises up your neck.
“I like this color,” he mutters against your skin.
“Yeah?” You look at the dress in the mirror, smoothing the fabric over your stomach and thighs. It fits you extremely well, like the fabric was stitched around you. Showing off every curve, and enough skin to make a weak man stop in his tracks.
“You should wear it to dinner tonight,” he toys with the fabric hanging over your hips.
“Titus,” you warn.
“Hm?” He looks at you in the mirror.
“Don’t.” It’s the only word you can manage.
“Don’t what?” he asks. You hate the look on his face. It’s hungry, it’s innocent, it’s almost impossible for you to deny.
“I’m not doing this with you in a very public dressing room,” you say.
“This is fully sealed off,” he says, hands rising to the front of your dress. “We’re in a separate room. I doubt anyone can even hear us.”
When his fingers find your breasts, a low whimper escapes you. Immediately, you wish you could take it back, because he takes it and keeps going.
“Titus,” you grab his wrists.
He kisses your neck, nipping at your earlobe before pulling away. You blink, coming back to yourself. It’s the push and pull that Titus loves so much. Proving to you how depserate you can be for his touch. And you are desperate, but not without pride. Unfortunately.
“Get it,” he nods. “Wear it tonight.”
And Titus slips out with the last word. You wish you could be angry with him, or even remotely annoyed. But this dress turned from a maybe to an absolutely, just with the way his eyes devoured you in it.
You buy the dress in two different colors.
After a while, you get decidedly bored of just going from store to store. There’s no intrigue in simply swiping a card, spending money on things you could technically still get back home.
“God, rich people have the worst taste,” you groan, rifling through the hangers.
Titus’s eyes flicker up to you. “You forget, you’re a rich person now, too.”
“Yes, but the difference is, I know this isn’t worth $300.” you hold up a white t-shirt that just says ‘Chanel’ in black lettering on the front. At least it’s 100% cotton.
Titus looks at you, clearly sensing your shift in mood, your irritation.
“Come on,” Titus says, holding out his hand. “Let’s move on.”
“Oh, I forgot,” you slide your hand into his, “you have plans.”
Titus scheduled a helicopter to take you from Athens to Mykonos. You white knuckle his bicep the entire time, trying to enjoy the view without thinking about crashing and falling. Titus squeezes your hand and doesn’t even try to hide how amusing he thinks it is. As long as he’s the one you’re holding on to, he won’t complain.
It’s already midday by the time you land, and Titus has made lunch plans. A private charter boat to a small cove, not a single soul in sight. You eat fresh fruit and pasta salad while looking out at water so blue and so clear, it doesn’t even look real.
“Titus,” you catch his attention and pop a strawberry into your mouth. “If I fell into the water, would you jump in after me?”
“Why are you asking me that?” he sighs, not sure if he wants the answer.
“I’m just trying to gauge my likelihood of survival,” you shrug.
“You can’t swim?” he asks.
“If I said I couldn’t, would you come after me?” you squint.
“If you said you couldn’t, I would be scheduling lessons for the moment we get back stateside,” he says, leaning back in his chair.
“You still didn’t answer the question,” you tilt your head.
Titus leans his head back, like he’s gathering emotional strength. “Yes, I would jump in after you. Of course I would.”
“Oh Titus, you big softie,” you smile, only teasing him a little.
You throw a grape at his chest that he catches.
“Don’t go telling people that,” he huffs, but you can see he’s fighting a smile. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Yes, dear, a reputation for a man who loves his wife.” You rise from the table and stop behind him, running your hands over Titus’s shoulders and chest, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Whatever will you do.”
Titus quickly reaches around, sliding one arm around your waist and pulling you into his lap. You let out a borderline shriek, bare feet flailing in the air.
“I would jump into the water for you,” he says. His tone is light, a smile pulling at his mouth as he continues, “I would crawl through broken glass for you. I would even stand in line at a regular grocery store to buy those disgusting sodas you like if you asked me to.”
“The drama,” you raise your eyebrows. You raise your hand to cup his cheek.
“So what’s your likelihood of survival, then?” he asks.
“With you around?” you pause, “probably still only about 75%.”
Titus rolls his eyes.
“But I’ll take my chances,” you smile.
The boat continues around the island, taking you on an unofficial water tour of Mykonos. You lounge around on the deck, resting and getting some sun. Titus checks in with you every once in a while, but otherwise only approaches to refill your water, and make sure you are reapplying your sunscreen. It’s serene bliss.
Eventually, Titus sits down on the lounge chair next to you.
“We can go to a wine tasting,” he starts, “we can walk around the town, we can go back to the villa.”
“Let’s do that stuff another day,” you wave. “I just want to lounge and be rich and lazy.”
Titus kisses your forehead. “Perfect choice.”
“By the way,” he looks down at you over his sunglasses. “You never answered me, can you swim? Or should I lower my expectations of skinny dipping at the pool?”
You just grin and shake your head at him.
The boat takes you back to Athens, and you arrive back at the villa in the early afternoon, feet sore and belly full.
“I want to take a nap,” you say, looking at Titus as you walk through the doors.
“Okay,” he nods, taking off his shoes but heading in the opposite direction.
You stand there, bottom lip poking out.
Titus shakes his head, but laces his fingers with yours and lets you drag him to the bedroom.
Surprisingly, he makes no passes or crude remarks when you take your dress off and lay on the bed. He strips to his boxers and slides behind you, pressing his chest to your back. He’s warm and heavy, his presence always calming to you.
“Thank you,” you murmur, sleep already threatening to take hold.
“For what?” he asks, nose pressed into your hair, nuzzling closer.
“Just. Thank you,” you say.
Titus doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t demand that you name the exact feeling, the exact list of things you are grateful for, or that you love about him. Not like he used to.
He does wake you gently, a large hand on your leg, thumb moving back and forth.
“There she is,” he says softly when your eyes finally open.
“You’re awake,” you say sleepily.
“Don’t want you to sleep through dinner.”
Titus made dinner reservations for a time and place that would have the best view of the sunset. His words.
And it is insane, of course. Right on the water, seemingly glowing from within by candlelight. You are taken up to a private table on a balcony, overlooking the beach below and the sunset just peeking below the horizon line. It’s calm and relaxing, live music drifting in from somewhere down by the shore.
Titus has a breezier air about him. For one, his phone isn’t going off constantly with market reports and news updates. His attention is on you, fully. And your attention is completely on his neck, and where it runs right down to the top two buttons of his shirt that are wide open. You just want to bite him.
“You’re staring,” Titus says, lifting his eyes from the menu for just a moment.
“You’re hot,” you shrug.
“And yet,” he sets the menu down, facing you fully, “when I say things like that, you call me a pervert.”
“That’s because you follow it up with a handful of my ass,” you point.
“I won’t be shamed for loving your ass,” he says. “It’s my second favorite part of you.”
“What’s your first?” you narrow your eyes.
Titus doesn’t answer at first, his mouth twitching in an almost smile.
“Titus!” you gasp.
I was going to say your face,” he raises his eyebrows. “Your beautiful eyes, obviously. Who’s the pervert, now?”
You roll your eyes and take a long sip of wine. Your stomach is already in knots, in a good way.
The appetizers alone have you letting out near ungodly moans.
Locally made wine, fresh fish caught that morning, and the best bread you’ve ever had, sopping up Mediterranean olive oil and herbs.
Everything is delicious, and you don’t deny yourself a single whim. Not even the food on Titus’s plate.
“Can I try your pasta?” you ask, tilting your head.
“I can order you your own plate,” Titus flicks his eyes up at you. He’s not defensive. It’s a fact. He will order you another plate. “Get whatever you want.”
“But I don’t want an entire plate of pasta,” you say, “I want a bite of your pasta.”
Titus almost smiles, and reaches his fork over the table. You lean forward slowly, trying not to be completely inappropriate in this very classy restaurant. But you see the way Titus is watching you as your lips close around the fork, and all of that caution goes out the window.
“Mhm,” you say, savoring it, “yeah, this wouldn’t have tasted as good from my own plate.”
“Ridiculous,” Titus mutters, but you can see the corner of his mouth lift just slightly.
“Do you want to try my fish?” you ask.
Specifically, perfectly cooked white fish with hand made orzo and a fennel butter sauce so good that it makes your heart ache.
You prepare your fork with the most perfect bite you can manage, and hold it out to him.
“Come on,” you insist, “it’s really good.”
Titus leans over the table, mimicking your earlier actions as he takes a bite. His eyes never leave yours. It shouldn’t be erotic. It shouldn’t be sending heat up your neck. It shouldn’t be making your breath catch.
But Titus’s eyes are sharp and focused on you. The sun is down, and his face is illuminated by soft candle light. And the wine is thrumming in your veins. There’s still soft music floating in from somewhere down below.
It’s all very romantic. Strategically romantic. Painfully romantic.
“You’re right,” he wipes his mouth. “It’s good.”
“I’m right?” you repeat.
Titus smirks and nods, trying not to encourage you. Luckily, you can do that on your own.
“Oh, say that again,” you press a hand to your chest and smile. “I’ll give you a baby.”
Titus’s eyes flash to yours. You don’t even realize what you’ve said, not really, not at first. Your brain is foggy, and the words fall out too easily. You meant it as a joke, but you realize how the air has changed.
You blink. He swallows.
“I- uhm,” you set your fork down. “I guess that’s a conversation we should have.”
Titus reaches across the table for your hand. You set your fingers in his, and he squeezes you reassuringly.
“I want to, yes.” he says. Your heart is in your throat. You try not to give your anxiety away, but you don’t know how well it’s working. Titus studies you for a moment. “But not right now. Enjoy your fish.”
You let out a slow, small breath. Something you hope Titus doesn’t notice.
It’s obviously something you’ve thought about. But you feel totally unequipped for it at the moment. You’ve been incredibly lucky- and on birth control- for the last year. Everything about your life up until this point has been so uncertain, so volatile. You want to have the chance to enjoy it, first.
But you know Titus is older than you, and has obligations. He needs to secure an heir. The last thing you want is to wait too long, and he’s not even able to enjoy being a dad.
These are all things you’ve thought about and successfully pushed to the back of your mind. And you try to do it again.
The plates are cleared, dessert enjoyed, wine glasses nearly polished off. You stare out to the water, almost not believing it’s right in front of you. It’s almost too much, and you suddenly become very existential about the last year of your life. Everything that got you to this point.
“It’s a rare moment when I can catch you at a loss for words,” Titus says. You can feel his eyes on you.
You cast a sidelong glance at him. Not angry, not irritated. Just waiting.
“I don’t like it,” he says, tone flat, but not uncaring. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
“I guess I didn’t know what to expect. You pretty much always do whatever you want, I didn’t know what vacation Titus would be like,” you smile.
Titus’s shoulders settle. He almost looks a little nervous.
“You went through a lot of effort to plan for today.” You settle your chin in your hand and just look at Titus. “Thank you.”
“I just,” he blinks and shakes his head. Titus looks almost a little sad. “I just really want you to know how much I care about you.”
The words come out clunky, like he’s surprised they’re coming out of his mouth.
“You tell me. Often,” you say.
“Me telling you is not the same as you knowing it,” Titus says, his eyes flashing to yours.
Oh.
Your expression softens.
“I’m not an easy man to know, or love,” Titus looks out into the water. “I didn’t ever think I would feel about anyone the way that I feel about you. It scares the shit out of me,” he lets out a breath and half a smile.
“You have baggage,” you shrug, “I have baggage. Yours happens to be satanic and homicidal, but-”
Titus looks at you, waiting. His eyebrow twitches slightly. He doesn’t know what you’re getting at.
But your lips curve into a small smile.
“Every marriage has its quirks,” you say.
Titus’s face softens.
“And yet, you handle it with such grace,” he says.
“I mean it,” Titus takes a sip of wine. “I want this trip, this anniversary, to be a do-over. If that’s even possible.”
“You know it’s not,” you sigh. Your relationship does not- cannot- exist without the context by which it was formed. You are reminded of it every time you visit the resort. “But as time goes on,” you continue, “I’m sure it’ll become background noise to everything else.”
“Yeah,” Titus sighs. He frags a hand over his face, and his hazel eyes have that weepy gloss to them.
Perfect time for some cheering up.
“I have something for you,” you turn to pull an envelope out of your bag and hold it out to him. “Happy anniversary,” you smile.
“What is that?” he asks. His eyebrows fold in the center, a small v forming on his forehead. He looks at your hand with sheer confusion.
“Not what you’re supposed to say when someone is trying to hand you a gift,” you point out.
“I told you not to worry about gifts.”
“Well,” you say, trying to hand him the envelope again. “I wanted to do something for you for a change. I kept thinking. What are you supposed to get the man who has everything?”
“Nothing. I told you not to,” Titus stares at your hand, not taking it. “I have everything I want.”
“You paid for it, if that helps.” You set the envelope down on the table in front of him, “So, is it technically a gift?”
Titus looks at you, brows furrowed, as he relents, finally picking up the envelope.
You wish you had taken a picture of his face. The reaction when he realized what he was looking at.
Photos of you. Specifically, boudoir photos. Lacy lingerie, hair wild, sprawled out on satin sheets, fuck me eyes looking directly in to the lense of the camera. Legs long, back arched, on your knees, on your stomach, every way Titus could want you.
Tasteful. Sensual. Absolutely devastating.
“When did you take these?” Titus mutters. He can’t take his eyes away.
“Maybe a month ago,” you say. “I had them printed right before we left.” You watch his face. It’s still astonished, but otherwise unchanging. You hate to fish, but you need him to say something. Anything. “Do you like them?”
“I don’t think like is a strong enough word,” Titus flips to the next photo. “Fuck, darling.”
You’re completely naked, save for a large, ornate breastpiece covering your chest. Sitting on the floor, legs spread wide. With Titus’s antique pickaxe propped between your legs.
“I need this as my screensaver,” Titus mutters.
It’s you, all of you, bared for the camera. The only people who have seen these photos are you, Titus, and the very kind (female) photographer who reassured you the entire time.
“Giving this to me in a public setting is not fair at all,” he looks at you, eyes dark.
You sit your chin in your hand, refusing to break eye contact. “At least I had the decency to wait until dessert.”
Titus clears his throat. He swallows hard. You let the back of your foot run down his calf.
He carefully places all of the photos back in the envelope. “We need to leave. Now.”
Titus doesn’t even wave for the bill, just drops multiple hundred dollar bills on the table and stands. He takes your hand and leads you back through the restaurant at a brisk pace. Your heart is racing, and you can almost hear your pulse in your ears.
When you reach the restaurant entrance, you pause.
“I’m going to run to the restroom,” you tug on Titus’s hand. “Have the car pulled around, I’ll meet you outside.”
Titus shifts his weight. He obviously doesn’t want to leave you alone. But the look in your eyes says there’s no arguing.
“Alright. Out front.” he kisses your cheek before you part ways.
With the amount of alcohol you’ve had at dinner, you’ve been needing to pee for the last thirty minutes. And you don’t want to cut into whatever happens when you get back to the villa with a bathroom break. You need to take a moment to freshen up, anyway.
When you head out in front of the restaurant, it’s a little dicier than you thought it would be. There’s clusters of people walking around, but it’s otherwise dimly lit, and you don’t see Titus or the car anywhere.
You clutch your purse close to you and wait exactly where you told him you’d be.
A few minutes go by, and you see a man lingering in the corner of your eye. Young, tan, and a jaw line sharp enough to make a man arrogant. Based on his step, he’s had a little too much to drink. And his eyes are locked on you.
“Ah, a beautiful woman standing alone,” he says, standing awfully close, “that can’t be right.”
His accent is American, he must be another tourist. You stiffen, hand tight around your bag.
“I’m fine,” you give a strained smile, trying to avoid eye contact.
“You’re waiting for someone?” he asks. You don’t answer, and he settles next to you. “I’ll keep you company.”
“I would rather you didn’t,” you say, finally looking at him and dropping the sweet facade.
“It’s no trouble,” he says. “I can’t leave you alone out here. We’ll wait for your friends together.”
“I’m waiting for my husband, actually,” you say.
He cocks his head, like he didn’t hear a single word you said.
“Of course, a pretty thing like you. But why did he leave you alone in the first place?” he asks, looking around.
“He’ll be right back,” you nod. The hairs on the back of your neck are rising, and a sour feeling rises in your belly. It’s not the alcohol.
This stranger leans in, his mouth pressed against your ear.
“I’m sure we can find something to do while we wait for him, right?” His hand rests on your low back.
You freeze. It moves slowly down, until he’s groping your ass.
You smile, sickenly sweet and not threatening whatsoever.
“If you don’t remove your hand,” you start, your voice low, “and crawl back to whatever decrepit, foul hole that you came from, I will cut your fingers off individually and feed them to my goats.”
He doesn’t move. You can’t tell if he just doesn’t believe you, or he’s that stupid.
You grab his hand off your ass, and with a surprising amount of strength, bend his fingers so far back, he has to twist just to keep you from breaking them clean off.
“Did I not make myself clear?” you spit, eyes narrow in a fury.
“Okay!” he cries out. “Okay, I’m sorry.”
You release him.
“Fucking cunt,” he mutters, shaking his head and cradling his hand. And his wounded ego.
Always needing the last word, you grab a fist full of his hair and slam his face into a nearby lightpost. You use all of your strength and pent up aggression, and feel immediate catharsis when his forehead makes contact with the hard metal. He cries out, holding his head as blood wells at a gash.
“Are you crazy?” he yells.
The few people in the area are starting to look at this scene, but you won’t back down. You narrow your eyes.
“I’m going to call the cops,” he spits.
A car door slams behind you. Titus reaches you in just a few long strides, and your heart immediately calms. He’s here. He’s with you. You’re not alone.
“Do we have a problem here?” TItus asks. It’s clear that he’s trying to keep his tone cool, but there’s a familiar twitch in his eye. He’s seething.
“Yes!” there’s blood seeping slowly between the man’s fingers. “This psycho bitch attacked me!”
You’ve seen Titus get mad plenty of times. That anger seems to always simmer just beneath the surface, able to be tapped into on a dime, and snuffed out just as fast.
This is one of those times where he can’t quite put it out.
Titus grabs the man’s free arm, twisting it behind his back. He cries out in pain. You watch, slightly horrified, but mostly intrigued, and extremely turned on.
“If you know what’s good for you, and you value your worthless life,” Titus hisses into the man’s ear, “I’ll never see your miserable face again. Especially not near my wife. Do you understand?”
Titus waits for a weak, terrified nod before releasing him. Without another word, and blood still trickling down the side of his face, the stranger disappears around the corner.
“Baby,” Titus pulls you in front of him, hands on your shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” you sigh. “Where were you?”
“The car was stuck in a row of drunken party buses,” Titus answers quickly. “And I pull up to the front of the restaurant to find you slamming faces into light poles.”
“Whatever you’re going to say,” you hold your palms up to him, “save it.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say,” his mouth almost curls.
“My dove,” you drop your voice into an extremely accurate impression, “you shouldn’t have done that. He could have hurt you. It’s not safe. I’ll protect you.”
“I don’t sound like that.”
“You do.”
“You need your ears checked.”
“You need your face checked.”
It’s not your best line. But the alcohol is making your brain fuzzy. That’s what you decide to blame it on.
Titus steps closer to you, standing right over you. You open your mouth to say something, but your brain short circuits when you process how he’s looking at you. The concern has faded into something dark and lustful.
“Are you going to keep talking or are you going to let me tell you how hot that was?”
You blink up at him, mouth snapping shut, immediately humbled.
“Y-you can tell me,” you look up at him through your lashes.
Titus squints at you slightly. His face settles on a sly smile, bringing his mouth right to the shell of your ear. “And I’m trying hard not to fuck you in the middle of the street, because that was so, so sexy.”
You settle your hands around Titus’s ribs, eyes drifting down to where he’s definitely getting very hard.
“Mr. Danforth, if I knew you’d get so turned on by seeing me beat up men, I’d have taken up MMA fighting,” you tease.
“Let’s not get carried away, Mrs. Danforth,” his lips ghost your cheek.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” you whisper.
The ride bad to the villa is brutal. Not because it’s bumpy, or because traffic was particularly bad. Nothing could have been fast enough for you and Titus. The moment you climb into the back seat with him, you’re already practically on top of him. Brand new dress hiked up around your thighs, straddling Titus, every pothole or cobbled road bouncing you in his lap, threatening your composure little by little.
His hands are all over you. Over your ass, in your hair, on your thighs. You don’t even care that the driver swerves slightly, overcorrecting, probably because he’s looking back at you and Titus in the rearview mirror. Let him watch.
You stumble out of the car, bare foot and giddy. Titus has the straps of your wedges in his grasp and follows you up to the villa, one hand firmly planted on your ass. The moment you close the door, he’s on you again.
“I’m proud of you,” he mutters into your mouth, pushing you against the nearby wall.
“For what?” you gasp when his hand comes up to palm your breast.
“Defending yourself. Not letting him bully you. Fighting back.” Titus’s entire body is pressed against you, slacks straining where his anticipation is building.
“You like it when I fight back?” you ask, taking his bottom lip in your teeth for a moment.
“I like it when you make other men bleed,” he says. His gaze is dark and needy.
Your dress is hiked all the way up to your waist, the unyielding fabric out of the way when Titus grips your thighs and pulls them around his hips. He carries you through the villa, stopping when you pull at his curls.
“Couch,” you breathe.
He looks down at the massive sectional, and back up at you, questioning.
“We don’t get to do it at home,” you shrug.
“I’ll make sure to schedule days where everyone is out of the fucking house,” he says, gently laying you down onto your back. “If it means I get to fuck you on the dining room table.”
“Dream bigger, Titus,” you say as he climbs over you, slotting himself between your legs, dress bunched up around your waist, “If the estate is empty, you could take me on the balcony off the bedroom.”
“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second too long. Regaining control of himself. “You’re a menace.”
“Your menace,” you say.
“Even better,” Titus smiles before dropping completely over you, his mouth hungry for you.
The next day is a lot softer. Sleeping in, whispered good mornings, fingers intertwined. You move to rise from the bed, only for Titus to wrap one arm around your middle and drag you back in, pressing lazy kisses to your face and neck. He keeps you there for another hour, not letting go until you convince him that you really have to pee.
Coffee steaming on the side table, a modest breakfast picked apart and enjoyed.
Titus has the boudoir photos spread out on the kitchen island, analysing every single one of them. The incriminating evidence of you is all over his neck, right by the collar of his button up, where you sucked bruises and sunk your teeth into his freckles.
Not like you don’t have matching marks on the inside of your thighs.
“I did get them on a flashdrive,” you say as you pour another cup of coffee.
“Great,” he says without even glancing up at you, “now I can make a slideshow. Project it in the casino.”
“I know you’re joking based on how you almost bashed a guy's skull in when you thought he was watching me at the resort pool last summer,” you say, settling next to him.
“That’s right,” he says, looking at you now, “this is all for me.”
You sigh and take another sip of coffee. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you’re stalling. Neither is relevant.
The excitement of vacation hasn’t worn off yet, but you know that the pin in the conversation from yesterday will rust over if you don’t talk about it. And you’re terrified. Not because you think you’ll fight about it, but because you don’t know what Titus is even going to say.
“We should talk about last night,” you say.
“Yeah?” a smile pulls at the corner of Titus’s mouth. “Which part? When you came three times in twenty minutes or when you refused to hop off me, even after I was spent?”
You stare at him flatly. “Titus, be serious for like a minute.”
“I am serious,” he says, scooping the photos up, arranging them into a neat stack. “Seriously impressed by your commitment to pleasure. And your flexibility. And your tenacity.”
“Titus,” you groan.
“What?” Titus reaches for you. His eyes are light as he looks at you, trying to lighten the mood. Now he’s the one stalling.
You step between his legs as his arms fall around your waist.
“What I said at dinner,” you start, trying to find the words.
“I was there,” Titus says.
“So then you have thoughts.”
“I have many thoughts.”
“About what I said,” you clarify.
“You really need to be more specific, darling.”
He’s torturing you. That’s the only reasonable explanation. You brought it up and now he’s making you bring it up again, as a part of some fucked up humiliation ritual.
You start to pull away, only for Titus to bring you right back, slitting your legs between his.
“Okay okay, I’m sorry, my dove,” he sighs, eyes still bright.
“You’re the worst,” you press your face into his shoulder and take a deep breath. Your hands find his sides, settling by his ribs and clinging to the fabric of his shirt.
Titus drags an open hand up and down your back in comforting circles.
“Come on, talk to me,” Titus says. “I’m right here.”
“I’m deciding if I should punch you in the face now or later,” you say into his shoulder.
“Wait until after lunch,” Titus says.
You smile against his shoulder. He feels it and pulls you to stand upright.
“I have thought a lot about it,” TItus says, expression contemplative. “You know there’s… familial expectations.”
“I do,” you nod.
“Does that scare you?” he asks.
“It is a lot of pressure,” you admit. “I know you want to make sure we maintain a long line of Danforths at the head of the council.”
Titus looks at the ceiling. “Yes,” he admits. “That is part of it.”
“What’s the other part?” you ask. Something, anything to get him to contribute his thoughts before you throw up.
“The other part is me imagining you barefoot and pregnant,” he looks at you adoringly. His thumbs move back and forth over your hips. “Seeing you be the incredible mom I know you would be.”
“You would be a good dad,” you say, resting your hand at the back of his neck.
“That’s sweet,” he deadpans. “But we know I wouldn’t win any awards.”
He looks away from you out the window at the trees moving in the breeze, biting the inside of his cheek.
“Hey,” you hold his jaw and bring his attention back to you. “You’ve been good to me. I’m sure you could…figure it out.”
The two of you look at each other for a moment, letting the words sit, before both of you let out a laugh.
“Okay, yeah maybe not the most encouraging thing I could have said,” you smile.
“It’s true, though,” Titus replies.
You press your forehead to his. Titus closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his hands firm on your hips.
“I need to make sure you want this,” he says.
“Do I have a choice?” you whisper. You think about his obligations to the council. Your obligations to him. How little time you’ve had together so far.
