WEEKEND LOVER
- Jane Smith
pairing: Jane Smith x Reader
summary: Jane’s weekend lover.
tags/warnings: smut, angst, top!reader, g!p reader, bottom!janesmith
author’s note: thinking of turning this into a v v short series.. if it does well. (DM me to get on the tag list.)
!idea from tt’s “weekend lover” audio!
word count: 1429
The silk sheets, cool against my back, twisted around my legs, a silent testament to the storm that had just passed. Jane’s head, heavy with sleep, nestled against my shoulder, her breath a soft, even rhythm against my neck. Her dark hair, a wild cascade, fanned across my chest, tickling my skin, each strand a silken whisper. The scent of her—a mix of expensive perfume, sweat, and something uniquely hers, like sun-warmed earth and jasmine—still clung to the air, thick and intoxicating. My cock, still swollen and sensitive, throbbed gently between my legs, a dull ache of satisfaction and something else, something sharper, already beginning to prick at the edges of my contentment.
She stirred, a soft groan escaping her lips, her body a warm weight pressed against mine. Her hand, slender and elegant, found my hip, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. I closed my eyes, trying to bottle this moment, to hold onto the fragile peace before it inevitably shattered. It always shattered.
“You’re still awake,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep, a low purr that always sent a shiver down my spine. She lifted her head, her green eyes, luminous even in the dim light filtering through the blinds, met mine. A slow smile spread across her face, a private, knowing curve of her lips that made my stomach clench.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I managed, my voice rougher than I intended. I ran my fingers through her hair, letting the strands slide through my grasp. Her skin, flushed from our exertions, glowed in the muted light. I remembered the way her back had arched, her nails digging into my shoulders, the guttural cries that had spilled from her throat as I pushed into her, deeper, harder, until her body convulsed around my cock, milking me dry.
Her thighs, still slick with our mingled fluids, brushed against mine. My cock, thick and rigid, had been a furious piston between her legs, plunging into her wet, eager pussy. Her lips, swollen and red, had been a constant source of torment, sucking on my tongue, nipping at my lower lip until I tasted the faint metallic tang of blood. Her clit, a hard bead, had pulsed under my thumb as I teased it, swirling my finger around its sensitive head, watching her eyes roll back in her head. The rhythmic wet sound of my cock sliding in and out of her had filled the room, punctuated by her gasps and whimpers. Her pussy, a tight, hot sheath, had gripped me so fiercely, every thrust had been a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure. I’d watched her tits bounce with each thrust, her dark nipples, erect and tempting, practically begging for my mouth. The air had grown heavy with our scent, a musky, primal aroma that promised endless nights of sin. I had felt her come, a series of exquisite tremors that ran through her entire body, tightening around my shaft, squeezing every last drop of pleasure from me until I couldn't hold back, my own release a hot, surging wave that emptied into her, filling her with my seed.
Now, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine, a soft, lingering kiss. “You were incredible,” she whispered, her breath warm against my mouth. “Absolutely incredible.”
My heart, stupid and stubborn, swelled in my chest. This was it, the fleeting moment of intimacy, the illusion of permanence, before the inevitable. I knew the script by heart.
She stretched, a languid, cat-like movement that showcased the elegant lines of her body. My eyes traced the curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her hips, the long expanse of her legs. She was a masterpiece, a living, breathing work of art, and I was her willing, foolish devotee.
Then, her hand reached for the bedside table. My breath hitched. There it was. The phone. My stomach plummeted, a cold dread washing over me, familiar and unwelcome. She picked it up, her movements fluid and unhurried, as if she weren’t about to stab me through the heart.
“Just need to check something,” she said, not meeting my gaze, her eyes already scanning the screen. Her thumb swiped, and the bright glow of the display illuminated her face, starkly outlining the sharp planes of her cheekbones, the slight frown that creased her brow.
My jaw tightened. “Right.”
She tapped a few keys, the soft clicks echoing in the quiet room, each sound a tiny hammer blow against my fragile composure. She brought the phone to her ear, her back slightly turned to me, as if to offer a pretense of privacy, a gesture I found both insulting and utterly predictable.
“Hey, it’s me,” she said, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone, a tone she reserved for him, the man who waited for her, the man she always returned to. “Just calling to say… I’m on my way back. Traffic was a nightmare.”
My vision blurred at the edges. Traffic. A nightmare. The lie, so casual, so effortless, twisted in my gut. I closed my eyes, a wave of nausea washing over me. I heard her murmuring, something about a late meeting, a client call. Her voice, usually so vibrant and expressive, flattened into a practiced monotone, devoid of the passion she’d shown me mere minutes ago.
“Yeah, I know, love. I miss you too. Be home soon.”
Love. The word, a poisoned dart, struck me squarely in the chest. I felt a cold, hollow ache spread through me, a familiar emptiness. I was just the pit stop, the convenient detour, the secret indulgence. I was the toy she played with when she was bored, the release she sought before returning to her real life, her real love. And I, like an idiot, always welcomed her back. Always.
She ended the call, a faint click, and then turned back to me, her expression unreadable. She offered a small, apologetic smile, a flicker of something in her eyes that might have been guilt, or perhaps just pity.
“John,” she explained, as if I needed an explanation, as if I hadn’t just heard every word. “He worries.”
I pushed myself up, the sheets pooling around my waist. The air suddenly felt too thin, too suffocating. My cock, which had been blissfully sated, now felt heavy and useless, a stark reminder of my foolishness.
“He worries?” My voice was low, laced with a bitterness I no longer bothered to hide. “Or you just needed to remind yourself you have a husband?”
Her smile faltered. Her eyes, those captivating green eyes, widened slightly. “Y/N, don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Don’t start what, Jane? Don’t start acknowledging the giant, gaping hole in this arrangement? The fact that you just fucked my brains out, then called your husband to tell him you’re coming home?”
She sat up too, pulling the sheet higher, a defensive gesture. “It’s not like that. You know how complicated things are.”
“Complicated?” I scoffed, running a hand through my hair. “Complicated is an understatement. It’s a fucking carousel, Jane. And I’m the idiot who keeps getting on for the same damn ride, knowing exactly where it ends.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, her eyes pleading. “You know I care about you. This… this means something to me.”
“Does it?” I challenged, my voice rising. “Because every time you do this, it feels like it means absolutely nothing. It feels like I’m just a convenient distraction, a warm body to fill the space between your husband and your perfect life.” My chest heaved with the effort of holding back the surge of raw emotion. “I can’t keep doing this, Jane. I can’t be your weekend lover anymore.”
She reached for my hand, her fingers cool against my skin. “Please, Y/N. Don’t say that. We can talk about this.”
I pulled my hand away, the touch burning. “There’s nothing to talk about. You have a life, a husband. And I…” I looked around my apartment, at the quiet, empty space that felt like an extension of my own hollow heart. “I deserve more than this. I deserve someone who doesn’t have to lie to get to me, or lie to leave me.”
Her face fell, the mask of composure finally cracking. Her lips trembled. “Are you… are you saying this is over?”
The words caught in my throat, a bitter pill. My heart screamed no, begged me to pull her back, to fall into her arms and pretend none of this mattered. But another, stronger voice, a voice I had ignored for far too long, finally spoke.
“Yes,” I said, the word a painful, defiant whisper. “I’m choosing myself, Jane. For once, I’m choosing myself.”