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Not today Justin
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@theywereafairy
✦ about this blog
mostly a home for soft, messy, sometimes feral fanfic about Pedro Pascal characters, written by a girl who romanticizes slow touches, filthy mouths, and complicated men.
this is a respectful space. don’t be weird or mean , we’re just here to scream about fictional men together.
𖤐 JOEL MILLER
✧ party 4 u
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
status: finished · 3/3 parts posted
⤷ read part one
⤷ read part two
⤷ read part three
summary:
you threw yourself a birthday party for one reason only: to make sure joel miller had no choice but to show up.
he broke it off a month ago. you’re not over it. and this might be your last chance to remind him why he never really was, either.
𖤐 JAVIER PEÑA
✧ paper rings
pairing: javier peña x f!reader
status: one-shot
⤷ read here
summary: you agreed to be javi’s wedding date in his hometown, but neither of you expected the tension, the gossip, or the way it would feel to stand beside him like you belonged there.
when someone talks shit, you defend him, with words, with touch, with everything he’s never asked for but always deserved.
✧ can you see right through me
pairing: javier peña x f!reader
status: one-shot ⤷ read here
summary: You were sent to Bogotá to write about the war on drugs, not to fall for the man in the middle of it. You’re supposed to stay objective. He’s supposed to stay detached. But somewhere between your questions and his evasions, something shifts.
Mint 💚
He’s stunning!🤩
Pedro Pascal for fantasticman magazine SS26 - issue nº 42
Okay, bye...xD
UN FUCKING REAL
All of the sudden I can afford Chanel
He so pretty
He is so cute!! Such a fanboy ☺️
Another rant about all this parasocial involvement
i already said something similar before but apparently it needs to be said again
Pedro Pascal dating someone is not a group project
i’ve been scrolling tumblr and the amount of analyzing, judging, and straight up making predictions about his relationship is honestly so uncomfortable and the thing is… we don’t know anything. literally nothing
you can speculate, sure, that’s part of fandom culture i guess. but this level of parasocial involvement is not normal.
he is his own person. this is his actual life, not a storyline for people to dissect and comment on like it’s fiction. and yes I don’t need to come on here and defend him or stand up for him. but like I am genuinely uncomfortable lol
you are not involved. you don’t have insider knowledge. you’re just seeing fragments online and filling in the rest
please take a step back and regain some boundaries
THIS NEVER HAPPENED. modern! marcus acacius x female reader | part 1/2
summary: The Friday before you start your new job, you get drunk and kiss a hot stranger. But it turns out Marcus isn’t just any stranger. He’s your brand-new boss, the guy who seems to get you like no other, and the last guy on earth you should want to kiss again.
non-smut tags: fluffy office romcom AU. ridiculously flirty Marcus. smartass do-gooder reader. banter. sweetness. a healthy dose of plot. reader has hair, but is not otherwise physically described. smut tags: Marcus is lowkey a horny animal. making out. fingering. a little dirty talk. public fooling around. they're drunk so dubcon. word count: 5.4K
andrea says: Written for @tateypots's PPCU Naughty or Nice challenge. Thank you so much for organizing it! I grew up on questionable 2000s romcoms, so I love this premise. My prompt is Marcus Acacius + "dating your boss" + nice. For the Grey’s Anatomy girlies (gn), yes this is deeply Derek and Meredith coded. I planned to release the whole thing at once, but haven't had much time to write lately, so I broke it into two parts and am just submitting the first. I tried not to end on too big a cliffhanger, and part 2 is already drafted. It should be out soon!
ao3 link | my masterlist | 18+ only after this point. MDNI.
You liked Manhattan best in the evenings, when all the cafes and bagel shops began to roll up their awnings. Midtown was never quiet, exactly – the subway always rumbled, steam gusted up from all the sidewalk grates, and neon signs thrummed in every run-down diner window. But there was a lull around twilight, after the commuters went home, when you swore you could feel the city readying itself, like some giant animal crouching before it burst into motion.
After a lifetime of following all the city’s rhythms, it felt wrong to go out this early, to wobble up from the subway in your tiniest skirt when the streets were still pink from the setting sun. But maybe tonight was meant to feel wrong. After all, this weekend marked the end of two eras.
The first was your era of trying to make a difference. The Manhattan you’d grown up in was slowly dying – all the affordable apartments, the run-down theaters and tiny bakeries had been priced out. For the last ten years, you’d devoted your life to saving them. But your legal aid firms were no match for corporate developers, and your pile of student debt was only getting larger. Earlier this year, your fourth employer in a row had gone out of business, and you’d finally given up. On Monday, you would start your new life as a sellout.
This was also the weekend that your favorite bar was closing. O’Henry’s was a sticky little dive, a New York staple, and you’d practically lived there all through your twenties. But the owners just couldn’t make rent anymore. For their final weekend, they’d slashed all the prices and were throwing an “end of the world” celebration.
Doors opened at seven. You and your best friends Sky and Jana showed up at six. By then the line already wrapped around the block. By eleven, O’Henry’s was packed wall-to-wall.
It had to be eighty degrees inside, and the sticky room roared with a hundred conversations. You, Sky and Jana had claimed a prime booth in the corner, and the three of you were viciously defending it. Well, Sky and Jana were viciously defending it. You were viciously attempting to drown your sorrows in $4 martinis while winning at a game of Jenga.
You prodded one of the center blocks, and the tower wobbled above you.
“This Jenga game,” you declared morosely. “Is a metaphor for my career.”
Sky and Jana exchanged a long look.
“Towering?” Sky asked.
“Classic?” Jana added. “Fun for the whole family?”
You glared at the both of them. A cluster of finance guys with identical haircuts chose that moment to bump against the table, and the tower collapsed in a rain of wooden blocks. All three of you got hit on the head.
“Ow,” Sky muttered. They lifted a sodden Jenga block out of their cosmo and contemplated the remaining liquid. “Do you think this is still safe to drink?”
“Probably equally safe as it was before,” said Jana sagely. “I’m a medical professional. You can trust me.”
Jana was a yoga instructor, but she’d memorized all the bones in the human body for her certification, and in your martini-infused estimation this made her a doctor. You nodded your agreement, and Sky downed their drink.
You got to work fishing Jenga pieces out of the booth. You had a tower to rebuild.
“Hey,” said a voice. One of the finance guys. “Sorry about your game. But uh, you guys have been here a while, and we were wondering…”
“No,” you snapped. “You cannot both terrorize and claim our booth. Begone.”
Sky snickered behind you. The guy hesitated. You stared at him flatly.
“You’re still here,” you pointed out.
“There’s five of us,” he said. “And only three of you.”
“We have head wounds,” you said. “We need to sit down. My friend is a medical professional, and she thinks so, right?”
Jana bobbed her head. “It’s life-or-death.”
The finance guy still wasn’t moving. Your little disagreement had caught the attention of a few other patrons now, including a guy in the next booth over. You met his eyes for a second, and the corner of his mouth lifted.
Well. There was only one thing you hated more than losing, and it was losing with an audience. You leveled the finance guys with your steeliest glare.
“Lane v. McNab,” you said. “In 1991, a drunken Jon McNab crashed his bike into a pile of grocery crates. One fell and injured Susan Lane’s arm, and she won a civil suit for the damages. Fifty thousand dollars.”
The finance guy blinked. “What –”
“That was just an arm,” you continued. “Think of what we could get for head trauma. And there’s three of us.”
When the finance guys continued to stare blankly, you rolled your eyes. “I’m saying we’ll sue you, Brooks Brothers, if you give us a reason. There’s precedent.”
The five of them evaporated. Sky burst into laughter.
“Grocery crates? Seriously? You couldn’t have made up something better?”
“I didn’t make it up,” you said. “That actually happened. The plaintiff was a typist, and the defendant had to cover her backpay when she couldn’t work.” You dropped a handful of Jenga blocks on the table. “Now, do we think it’s sacrilege to try and build a pyramid?”
You felt the pull of someone’s gaze. The guy in the next booth.
He was kind of hot, you realized, with broad, round shoulders and wavy hair that curled around his ears. An expensive-looking watch glinted on his wrist, and he was dressed in a deep blue suit. It fit him well, but something about the set of his shoulders seemed out of place in formalwear – almost as out of place as formalwear seemed in a bar like O’Henry’s.
The man was alone in his booth, but he’d somehow managed to keep the finance guys off his back. It struck you that he wasn’t on his phone. Either his thoughts were so quiet they didn’t bother him, or they were so loud he had to look at them head-on.
He held your gaze, and heat fluttered through your chest.
You snapped your attention back to Sky and Jana. They’d apparently watched the whole exchange. Sky leaned over and stage-whispered in your ear.
“He’s been checking you out for, like, hours.”
“What?” you said. “No, he hasn’t.”
Jana turned to look over her shoulder at the guy, then nodded back at you approvingly. Your face burned.
“Stop that,” you muttered. Tonight was not about guys, no matter how very deep their eyes might look.
Jana was mouthing something at you now. “You – should – talk – to – him.”
You shook your head at her. Meeting strangers in bars was a recipe for letdown, and you’d been through enough disappointment lately.
“Fine,” Jana said. “Sky and I will just go get another round. Maybe squeeze in a dance or two. You don’t mind watching the booth, right?”
Her tone was breezy, as if she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. Before you could protest, the two of them got up, leaving you alone with the stranger.
You were sure they meant for him to come over, but the finance guys closed in first.
They’d refilled their drinks, and all five of them crowded around the edge of your table. Seriously? Didn’t they have anywhere else to lurk?
“Still occupied,” you told them.
“Come on,” their ringleader said. He had watery eyes, and he swayed slightly as he spoke. “There’s plenty of space. Look.”
He sat down next to you in Jana’s empty seat.
Damn it. If you couldn’t get him to stand in the next few seconds, you’d lose the table for sure. On a different night, you might not have cared, but this was your bar. You’d come here five hours early to score this booth.
“Get up,” you said. “My friends will be back.”
The ringleader didn’t budge. He gave you a taunting look, as if he knew as well as you did that you couldn’t make him. Frustration crawled beneath your skin.
A smooth, commanding voice sounded from behind the pack of guys.
“Excuse me. You’re in my seat.”
It was the man from the next booth over. He’d come up to stand behind the finance guys. Now that he was on his feet, you realized how tall he was – enough to tower above the pack. There was something about him that emanated power, and it came from more than just his sheer size. You thought it was the way he carried himself, like he was used to bending the world to his will.
He glanced sidelong at you, and his expression softened, as if the two of you were in on some shared joke. Then the weight of his focus fell on the ringleader.
The smaller man appeared to be both deeply intimidated and trying hard not to be. For a tense three seconds, he held his ground, shrinking back against the leather of the booth. Then he dropped his eyes.
With a half-muttered “sorry, man,” he led the pack away. The tall stranger grinned at you.
“I’m surprised they came back after your threat to sue.”
“Me too,” you agreed. “Thanks. You should sit. If you want to.”
The booth he’d vacated was already full. It was the least you could do. And… okay, he was extremely good-looking.
The stranger hesitated, then slid into the booth beside you.
“I’m Marcus,” he said.
He held out a hand, and you scooted close enough to take it. His palm was warm, and it swallowed yours completely.
You told him your name, and he repeated it back to you.
“Pretty,” he commented.
Up close, you saw grey in his beard and at his temples. It suited him, in a hot forty-something way. Faint frown lines were etched into his forehead, but they seemed at-odds with the playful look he was giving you now.
“Where’d your friends go?” he asked.
You gestured toward the bar, where the throng hid Sky and Jana from view, and gave a vague explanation. The DJ had begun a long run of 90s throwbacks, so you’d probably lost them to the dancefloor.
Marcus watched you steadily as you spoke. Between the martinis and the pull of his attention, it was harder than it should have been to form coherent words.
“You know,” you said. “You’re the first person I’ve ever seen in a suit at O’Henry’s.”
Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “Are you asking what a guy like me is doing in a place like this?”
You laughed. “I guess I am. But I actually want to know.”
“I’ve been coming here a long time,” he said. “I like that it’s always stayed the same as it used to be.”
“I get it,” you said. “The city feels like it’s disappearing sometimes.”
For a moment, Marcus’s face shifted, folding in on itself to fill in all his frown lines. Then the sadness fled his face so quickly that you weren’t sure if you’d imagined it.
“I know,” he said quietly. “You grew up here, then?”
“Lower east side,” you confirmed.
“I knew it,” he said. “You act like a textbook New Yorker.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “I feel like you’re telling me I’m bitchy right now.”
“I would’ve said direct…”
“Uh-huh. Good save.”
Marcus’s knee bumped yours beneath the table.
“I mean it,” he said. “Direct is a good thing. You’re probably a killer negotiator.”
“I am,” you agreed.
He grinned. “And I’m from the city, too,” he continued. “So if you’re… direct… then I have to be just as bad.”
It turned out Marcus had grown up in Brooklyn. The conversation devolved into reminiscing from there. You traded stories about the huge blackouts in the 2000s, about your shitty first apartments and the roommates who’d lived in them.
Marcus had a careful way of telling stories, always pausing to arrange all the information in the right order. The closer your questions got to his day-to-day life, the more he seemed reluctant to answer. He didn’t bring up his job, and a part of you was relieved. You hardly wanted to talk about your own.
You didn’t know him well enough to be sure, but you suspected he was already a few drinks in. His face was flushed, and he had a way of tilting toward you as you spoke, his long arm braced on the back of the booth.
At some point you’d shifted close to one another, and his thigh kept brushing yours underneath the table. He felt enormous up close, and the rest of the booth, not to mention the bar beyond it, felt somehow like a distant world. Your hand lifted of its own accord and trailed over Marcus’s arm. He was a muscular guy, with a thick chest and bulky arms, but he moved easily in his suit jacket. It had to be bespoke. Whatever job he wasn’t talking about, it paid very well.
A little too late, you realized you had both stopped talking. And you were now blatantly staring at Marcus’s chest. You trailed your eyes back to his face and saw him fight off a smile.
“Hey,” you said.
Marcus’s eyes flickered with amusement. He brought his thumb up to trace your bottom lip.
“Hi,” he answered.
He lowered his head, and you tilted up into his gravity. Your heart stuttered. Marcus’s nose brushed yours. He tucked a hand beneath your chin and guided you into a kiss.
With a soft scrape of stubble, his bottom lip slid into your mouth. A sigh slipped out of you, and you felt Marcus shudder. Holding you in place, he coaxed your mouth open and licked slowly into it. Heat shivered through you, and you melted against him, splaying your hands on his chest.
A heavy sound drifted up from Marcus’s throat. His arms encircled you, and with one sharp tug he pulled you to sit sideways across his lap.
Time moved strangely, minutes dripping into one-another. Marcus’s hands roamed up and down your sides, pressing heat into you through your flimsy top. At some point you’d fumbled his shirt-collar open, and now your hand was inside it, trailing up the side of his neck. Marcus’s palms slid down your ribcage, and this time his fingers dipped beneath the hem of your shirt.
He touched your bare stomach, and your senses flooded. Heedless of your surroundings, you guided his hand upward.
Marcus groaned softly, and you felt him shake his head.
“People will see,” he murmured against your mouth.
You were about to protest that you didn’t care when you felt his hand move lower. He traced the outside of your bare thigh, then brought his fingers up beneath the hem of your skirt.
Some distant part of you - the part that hadn’t been destroyed by martinis or Marcus’s mouth – had the decency to wonder if this was wrong. But Marcus’s hand was sliding higher now, circling over your sensitive inner thigh, and decency seemed very unimportant.
You let your legs drift apart, and Marcus brushed you once through your panties.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re already soaked through.”
He shifted his hips, and a hot feeling bolted through you. He was hard. You could feel him straining against his pants, the thick line of his erection pressing against your upper thigh. It would be so easy to sling your leg around his waist, he could undo his zipper, and…
A glass shattered from the other side of the bar, and you and Marcus both stiffened. The kiss broke, and he rested his forehead to yours.
“What are you doing to me?” he murmured.
“I’m not doing anything,” you protested. “You’re the one who – fuck.”
Marcus traced a finger over the outline of your slit. Static crackled through your mind. You whined softly, and Marcus tilted his mouth forward to kiss you again. He pulled your underwear aside and slid two thick fingers along your folds.
“Come home with me,” he said.
You didn’t know if he was asking or ordering, didn’t know which you wanted, could hardly even breathe with the way he was touching you, with the pad of his middle finger circling your entrance. You spread your legs wider, and he made a low, desperate sound.
“Please,” he murmured. “I need to have you.”
“Marcus…” you managed.
When you didn’t say more, he pushed his finger inside you. The stretch ached through you, deep and sweet and not enough. You felt something bigger than pleasure now – hot shame, and giddy exhilaration, a whole-body thrill that had you biting back a moan.
You’d never done anything like this before. How much of it was visible to the rest of the room? Marcus’s hand was moving beneath the table, but surely people could see how close you were, could guess where his arm led.
“Come home with me,” Marcus repeated. “I can feel how bad you want it.” He slid his finger out of you, then pushed it slowly back in. “You’d take it so good.”
Your body throbbed with the need to say yes. But when you thought about it… getting in a cab with Marcus, riding the elevator to his apartment, seeing all the details of his life…
You didn’t know anything about him. Not really. You didn’t want that lonely morning-after feeling that always hit you after one-night stands. Not this weekend. Not when you’d come here to be with your friends.
You caught Marcus’s wrist and guided his hand out from between your legs, ignoring the pang you felt at the loss of him.
“I can’t,” you said.
Marcus loosened his hold on you and shifted back far enough to scan your face. His eyes were glazed over, pupils blown, and you thought you saw confusion knotting behind them.
“I’m not… I don’t like to go home with strangers,” you explained.
Some of the fog lifted from Marcus’s gaze.
“Oh,” he said. “Okay. I understand.” He tucked a strand of hair back from your face. His mouth twisted, like he was deciding whether or not to say more.
“I… I don’t really do this either,” he blurted. “I don’t want you to think… I don’t know.” He ran a rueful hand over his swollen mouth, and let out a slow sigh.
“What’s your number?” he asked. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
You bit your lip. The rational thing to do was say yes. Marcus was gorgeous, and he’d stood up for you, and he touched you like he knew what he was doing. But who knew what he was really like outside of this? Even if he was this great all the time, that was almost worse than the alternative. You’d just been crushed professionally. You couldn’t also risk getting your heart broken right now.
“I’m not really doing phone numbers at the moment,” you said.
Marcus’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.
“What, then?” he asked. “Instagram?”
You hesitated.
Marcus bent his head and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Email?” He kissed your jaw. “Messenger pigeon?” His lips brushed your cheek. “If you say Snapchat, that might be a dealbreaker.”
He pulled back, and you forced yourself not to return his grin. Understanding crept into his eyes, and a crease appeared in the center of his brow.
“It’s not that I didn’t have a good time tonight,” you began.
“You don’t have to explain,” Marcus said. He slid you gently off his lap and unwound his arms from your waist. “I’ll leave you to your friends. It’s getting late for me.”
“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”
He stood from the booth and buttoned his jacket in a single fluid motion.
“Have a good night,” he said.
You nodded. “It was… nice to meet you.”
Marcus vanished into the crowd, and you slumped against the booth. You felt a strange cocktail of emotions – an ache in your chest, lingering tendrils of desire, and a low pulse of dread for your coming Monday morning. You were still sorting through it when Sky and Jana returned.
They slid into the booth, both giving you pointed looks.
“What?” you asked.
Sky grinned. “You have lipstick on your face,” they said. “The non-lips part of your face.”
Oh, god, you probably looked a mess. Jana dipped a napkin in her vodka soda and passed it to you. She and Sky went into interrogation mode while you wiped your face. You told them more or less what you knew about Marcus – leaving out the biblical knowing part – and did your best to change the subject. You didn’t need them telling you you’d done the wrong thing.
“It’s not a big deal,” you finally said. “It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.”
In the end, you were glad you hadn’t gone home with Marcus. He was better as a memory, one wildly slutty moment outside of your real life. You… remembered it… that following night before you fell asleep, and again the one after that. It was a good distraction from the first-day-of-work outfit laid out on your dresser, from the pit of guilt twisting in your stomach.
Your new job wasn’t any old corporate law position. You’d been hired by Roman Industries, the biggest real-estate developer in the city. Roman had a way of jumping on every new property before it hit the market, and three of the four non-profits you’d worked at had folded thanks to the competition. It was impossible to build income-restricted housing when Roman bought all the would-be locations and turned them into luxury high-rises. And Roman was simply unbeatable: so massive that it was impossible to outbid them, and so well-connected that legal checks didn’t matter.
You’d come close to outmaneuvering them a few times at your old jobs, and apparently impressed Roman's legal team enough that they wanted you. If they’d approached you five years ago, you would’ve happily told them to go to hell. But nowadays, in property law, there was hardly anywhere else left to work.
You knew that you didn’t have much choice. You told yourself it would be temporary. You really tried not to get excited when the signing bonus landed in your checking account. But you still felt like a traitor when Monday morning rolled around and you showed up to work at the Roman Industries skyscraper.
A marble façade surrounded the building, made of tall, ridged columns that towered up over Park Avenue. More marble lined the lobby inside. It was three stories tall, and so dimly lit that it had to be intentional. A river of commuters poured in through the revolving doors, and the cavernous room echoed with hundreds of clacking footsteps. Maybe you were biased, but the overall impression was a little too much like the gates of a dark lord’s evil empire.
You half expected your orientation to be some sort of occult ritual. Blood oaths, or at least a vow of loyalty. Instead, you spent the morning in run-of-the-mill HR trainings, the same ones you’d gotten at all your old jobs. Even dark lords needed two-factor authentication.
You wouldn’t be working as a part of the legal team at Roman. Not directly, anyway. They’d contacted you last week with your assignment, and you were now head counsel for their biggest department. The Acquisitions Team. The exact people who’d bought all the properties out from your previous companies.
You were determined not to like them, but the woman from Acquisitions who came to get you after your trainings was perfectly pleasant. Her name was Ava, and she had a low, musical voice. She introduced herself as a director, which you thought was the highest rank after the department’s president.
“Next highest,” she corrected. She held open the elevator door, then pressed the button for the second floor from the top. “Technically, legal counsel is the second-in-command.”
You were in charge? Briefly, you wondered if this meant you could make everyone stop buying up the city. But the department president would probably veto that.
The elevator dinged open, and you stepped out into a commotion. A huge open space filled the middle of the Acquisitions floor, dotted with clusters of desks where suit-clad associates talked loudly on phones, or talked to each other, or wrote up long proposals on their computers.
Ava led you through the center of it, and you realized there was some sort of underlying structure. Each cluster of desks seemed to be a sub-team. One had models of buildings set upon it, another stacks of financial documents. There seemed to be a head to every cluster, and you were reminded briefly of army platoons.
Ava walked on into a carpeted hallway, and the conversations faded to a muted roar. You passed a long row of doors with brass nameplates, and stopped in front of the second one from the end of the hall.
The door was made of smooth wood, inset with a panel of frosted glass. You turned the polished brass doorknob, pushed open the door, and for the first time understood just how different your life would be at Roman.
A thick burgundy carpet spread out over the floor, bridging two walls lined with deep built-in bookshelves. There was space enough between them for a massive desk, and a pair of armchairs arranged around a good-sized coffee table. But all of that paled when you took in the windows.
There was a whole wall of them, floor-to-ceiling panels spilling morning light into the room. The city glittered outside, and – woah – you had a view of the Chrysler Building?
You caught Ava biting back a smile and realized you were probably gaping. You took another look around and noticed a comfy-looking executive chair behind the desk. There was also a second door in your office, inset in the wall opposite your desk. You’d have to find out where it led.
“Are all the offices this nice?” you asked.
Ava shook her head. “Yours is second-best on the floor. Almost as good as the General’s.”
“The General?”
You already hated the Acquisitions President on principle. But if he insisted on being called the General, you might be hurling yourself through your new windows.
Ava laughed. “Don’t tell him I used that name. He hates it when we call him that. But it’s fitting.”
“That’s sinister,” you said.
“No, he’s alright!” Ava insisted. “I’m supposed to take you to him now. Unless you’d like to check out the floor’s kitchen first? It’s stocked with Roman’s own brand of bottled spring water.”
You suspected she was serious, but you’d have to check later. You’d been dreading meeting your new boss all morning, and it was time to get this over with. You were certain that you wouldn’t like him, but you had no choice except to work alongside him, and you’d feel better once you knew what he was like.
“I’m good for now,” you said. “I think I’m General-ready.”
Ava nodded. You expected her to walk back out the door you’d come through, but she went instead to the one inside your office. She knocked smartly on it and didn’t wait for an answer before pulling it open.
The office on the other side was a slightly larger mirror of your own. The built-ins were full of neatly bound files, carefully displayed Diplomas, and a few awards emblazoned with Roman’s glossy burgundy logo. Instead of armchairs, a low leather couch stretched out facing the windows.
You turned your attention to the desk, where a dark-haired man in a perfectly tailored suit was pushing to his feet. He closed the button of his jacket in a single, all-too-familiar motion, then looked up at you and went completely rigid.
You looked back at Marcus in utter shock, your pulse thudding in your ears. A rapid-fire sequence of emotions was flashing across his face. Delight. Confusion. Horror. Disbelief.
He was so terrible at hiding his feelings that it would have been amusing if your mind wasn’t currently on overdrive. Ludicrously, you found yourself racking through all the HR trainings you’d just attended, as though you might have forgotten one entitled, “My New Boss Just Had His Fingers Inside Me.”.
In the corner of your eye, you saw Ava glance between the two of you
“Sorry,” she said carefully. “Were you in the middle of something, Marcus?”
“No,” Marcus said. His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, and spoke again louder. “No. I… wasn’t.”
“Okay…” Ana said. “Well, the new legal counsel is here.”
“Right,” he said. “Yes.”
He rounded the desk and offered you the same handshake you'd accepted on Friday. You clasped his palm, and the both of you held on a little too long.
In the daylight, you could see his coloring more clearly. His hair was a rich brown, threaded through with silver, and his eyes were warm and dark.
“I’m Marcus Acacius,” he said.
“Yes,” you agreed. “You are.”
A hint of a laugh showed behind Marcus’s eyes. Warmth curled inside you, and for a moment you were back in that dark corner booth. Distantly, you hard Ava saying your name, telling you she’d meet you in the kitchen.
The door closed behind her. Marcus gestured to the couch, and you both sat down on opposite ends. His stunned expression had worn off, and it was harder now to read the look on his face.
“So,” he finally said. “Did you get home safe on Friday?”
“No,” you quipped. “My cab driver axe-murdered me.”
Marcus’s mouth twitched. “That’s a shame. I really need a new legal counsel.”
“Because you’re the president of Roman’s acquisitions team,” you said.
Marcus nodded.
“How long have you worked here?” you asked.
“Going on twenty-five years,” Marcus said. “Most of the people who trained me are retired by now, and the whole board’s turned over since I started, but… I’m still running Acquisitions.”
There was something in his voice that tugged at your chest, but you were having a hard time focusing on it right now. How was Marcus the guy who’d stolen all those properties out from under your old companies? The guy leading Roman Industries in their takeover of New York? How had you hooked up with him?
He’d been at O’Henry’s to mourn its closing… but Roman was the reason prices had skyrocketed so much. What the hell was going on?
Part of you felt vindicated that you hadn’t slept with him. This was just about the worst case scenario, as far as who he could’ve turned out to be. Part of you was furious with him for everything he’d done. Part of you was heating up with humiliation, because you’d touched yourself to the thought of him last night. And the rest of you… the rest of you was watching the seams of his jacket buckle around his shoulders.
You forced yourself to think of something else.
“So, we have adjoining offices?” you asked.
“We do. It’s been useful in the past, being able to talk to Legal without alerting the whole floor.”
You bobbed your head, privately thinking that Marcus could just message you on Teams if it came down to that.
Marcus hadn’t stopped studying your face.
“I know this is a… specific situation,” he said. “If you want, there’s an HR form we can fill out. For conflicts of interest. There’s a power structure here, so –”
“No thanks,” you said.
Marcus was a department president who’d been around for a lifetime. You were a highly replaceable lawyer. If HR got involved, it wouldn’t be to help you.
“Look,” you said. “I think we should pretend this never happened. It was just a kiss.”
Marcus lifted an eyebrow in obvious disagreement, and your skin burned at the memory of his finger pushing into you. You’d take it so good.
You cleared your throat. Marcus was suddenly intently studying a patch of carpet, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Anyway,” he said. “Whatever you say. Nothing ever happened.”
“Right,” you agreed. “Yes.”
Marcus pushed up from the couch. “In that case,” he said. “We should get to work.”
He crossed over to the bookshelf and reached up to take down a file. You took in the tall line of him, the smooth taper down from his shoulders to his waist, and promised yourself that this would be completely fine.
part 2: coming soon
If you enjoyed the fic, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖
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"You'd take it so good" GUUUURL You're killing me!! ❤️❤️🥵🥵🥵
Marcus is killing ME!!! Glad you liked it, thank you for sharing and for your comments!!! 💕💕
Dayumn
Little rant
I’m saying this as a fan who genuinely likes pedro and enjoys being part of this fandom: some of y’all need to take a step back.
it’s one thing to be excited about his work or the parts of his life he chooses to share publicly. it’s another to speculate about his relationships, dig for clues, or treat his private life like a mystery to solve.
we don’t know him. we see a tiny, curated piece of a real person whose life doesn’t belong to the internet just because he’s famous.
you can be a fan without feeling entitled to someone’s romantic or personal life. respecting boundaries is also part of fandom culture.
let’s maybe focus on the art instead of trying to investigate the human behind it.
Fae🫂
Pedro being in Vienna, having dinner 15 minutes away from my flat and going to my favourite museum wasn’t on my 2026 bingo card lol
not saying i've ever looked at a man's armpit lustfully but
strike the match
pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x college student f! reader
you fuck joel miller, austin’s fire chief, in your old room while your parents sleep down the hall.
tags/content warning: +18, mdni. f! reader. age gap. joel is 52, reader is 25. battalion chief joel miller. brief scene of attempted forced kissing (not by joel). reader wants that old man so bad. unprotected piv. creampie. wear protection please. dry humping. thigh riding. mouth covering during sex. oral f!receiving.
w/c: 9k
Hold the wide end of the cue stick with your dominant hand, palm facing up. Find the point where the stick balances, then shift your hand two or three centimeters back.
Form a circle with the thumb and index finger of your other hand.
You raise an eyebrow as you sip the espresso martini through a straw. Who knew pool could be this interesting?
Slide the cue stick through the circle and rest it over your middle finger. Set the outer edge of your hand on the pool table and—
Someone calls your name and you glance away from your phone, which is still open on a page titled “Pool for Dummies: First Steps,” just in time to catch the wide smile of one of your friends.
“Another round?” she asks, tilting her head toward your espresso martini. “Some guy just bought us drinks.”
Your glass is still half full, but you nod and agree, adding that the next one better come with a straw too. Free drinks are a no-brainer.
Once the waiter walks off with the order, your eyes drift again to the corner of the bar, to the pool tables surrounded by loud men downing tall mugs of frothy beer.
But you’re only watching one of them.
Your lips close around the straw again, and though your vision is slightly blurred at the edges, you stay locked in on the silver-haired man in his fifties, full beard and all, leaning against the wall with a cue stick in hand as he waits for his turn. He laughs at something his buddy says, and somehow, the drink tastes sweeter while you’re watching those broad shoulders under a plain black T-shirt and those strong thighs in faded dark jeans.
His turn.
He leans over the table, lines up the shot. His biceps flex, looking even bigger as he makes that typical forward-and-back motion before striking. His eyes are fixed on the red ball, until…
Suddenly, they’re on you.
Your stomach drops like you swallowed an ice cube. Still looking your way, brows slightly furrowed, he makes the shot. You don’t even have to follow the ball to know it sank clean.
His friend says something, and just like that, he looks away.
“Oh my God, stop flirting with the geriatrics,” your friend says, placing another espresso martini in front of you. “Adam wants to take you home. You know, the skinny blond guy…”
“The twenty-seven-year-old,” you say. “He’s a baby. And I bet he’s circumcised.”
“You’re twenty-five. What’s your beef with circumcised guys?”
You skip that question because there’s no polite way to explain your preference when it comes to pool cues.
“I like my men the way I like my cheese.”
“Old and stinky?”
“Aged!” you correct. “Y’all can keep your cheddar. I want my Gruyère.”
Your table erupts in laughter.
It’s your oldest friend’s birthday tonight, and you all decided to celebrate her twenty-ninth at Miller’s Bar, run by Tommy, an old friend of your dad’s, and his wife, Maria. Luckily, your summer break from grad school lined up with her birthday, and coming back to Austin is always worth it for nights like this.
And it’s not hard to imagine the kind of attention a group of girls in short skirts, high boots, and crop tops draws inside a traditional Texas bar.
You’re halfway through your espresso martini on your next sip, and for some reason, that reminds your bladder it needs attention. You excuse yourself and get up, though no one really hears you, and head straight for the bathrooms in the back of the bar, tucked at the end of a dim, nicotine-reeking hallway, where the air clings to your skin and the walls are hung with fading paintings of bulls, cows and longhorns.
Your bathroom mission is quick, mostly because it’s way too dirty to linger. Pee, quick reflection while perched on the toilet seat (layered in toilet paper), a bit of lipstick, a quick hair touch-up.
The music from outside, a Dolly Parton classic, fills the bathroom as you open the door, and it only takes one step into the dark hallway for you to slam into a wall of concrete.
“Shit,” says the wall.
Strong hands catch your shoulders and push you back, and suddenly your face is being tilted up by firm fingers.
“You alright?”
Black T-shirt. Gray beard. You blink, looking up, and your stomach flips again. He’s even bigger up close.
“Oww,” you whisper dramatically, touching your temple. Showtime. Anything to keep his hands on you a little longer. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”
“Doubt it. Looks to me like you’ve had a few too many.”
“You sure? Here,” you grab his hand and place it on your forehead. “Do I have a fever? What if you gave me a concussion?”
“Your fault for not lookin’ where you were going.”
You squint up at him again. He pulls his hand away and only now do you realize just how big it is and how thick his fingers are.
He’s raising an eyebrow, but there’s a hint of amusement on his lips that pushes you to blurt your name, offer a handshake, and say:
“How about I buy you a drink as an apology?”
The smile dies. He ignores your hand, pats the top of your head twice, like you would a puppy, and sidesteps you, saying:
“Go find someone your age, kiddo. Plenty of boys in there’ll want you.”
“I don’t want someone my age!” you call out after his retreating back.
“Too damn bad.”
He steps into the men’s room, and you feel your shoulders slump with disappointment. Would a lower-cut top have helped?
“When you think like that, feminism goes back twenty years,” your friend says when you repeat that exact thought to her. “He’s supposed to like you for your personality.”
“I don’t want him to eat out my personality.”
He walks past your booth and heads back to the pool area, and your eyes eat him up again, but then Adam, the allegedly circumcised boy, and his crew show up, cramming into your booth and blocking your view.
It’s hard, but you resist the urge to roll your eyes and order another espresso martini instead.
At some point in the night, you get fed up with the boys and their dumb incel-tier jokes, so you decide to leave. Your friends ask if you want company walking home, but you decline, even though your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand. You pay your part of the bill, say your goodbyes and make your way to the bar’s exit.
There’s a chilly breeze outside that raises goosebumps on your arms, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, leaning slightly against the wall as you dial your dad’s number.
It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.
You try again.
Voicemail.
“I don’t sleep until you’re home,” you mutter mockingly, repeating what they always say. “Bet they’re deep in REM by now.”
You’re typing your home address into the Uber app when the bar door opens again. Your eyes meet his.
“Changed your mind?” you ask, trying to sound alluring.
He closes the door behind him and looks both ways down the empty sidewalk before turning back to you with indignation.
“What the hell are you doing out here alone? Where’re your friends?”
“They stayed.”
“And they just let you stand out here by yourself?”
You ignore him, already over this conversation, and hit enter on the app. The fare loads. Shit. Twenty bucks to get home? That’s ridiculous. And the nearest driver’s twenty minutes away.
“Where do you live?” he asks.
“I’m not telling you where I live, stalker,” you mutter, eyes still on your phone.
“Five minutes ago, you were trying to buy me a drink.”
“So? Telling you where I live is crossing a line.”
“I ain’t leaving you out here alone.”
“Hey,” you spin to face him and point a slightly shaky finger in his direction. “You’re not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”
He stares at your red-polished finger, then at your face, then raises his hands in surrender and walks past you toward the bar’s parking lot in silence.
Fine. Gotta love a hot guy who thinks he owns the damn world. Most exhausting type.
Alone again, you refresh the app a few times, and on the third, the price jumps from twenty to twenty-five dollars.
“Noooo,” you groan, leaning your head back against the wall to stare at the stars. Could you walk home? No… way too dangerous. And your high-heeled boots were not made for that.
The bar door opens again. You don’t look up to see who it is, and you don’t need to, because ten seconds later, there’s a hand on your waist. You jerk away, startled, trying to shake off the touch, but the grip is strong.
“Hey there, baby girl,” Adam says, way too close. You can feel his booze-soaked breath. “I got your message.”
His blown pupils freak you out, but it’s the fact that you can’t break his grip that makes your heart spike. You’re trying, but your espresso martini-filled body is sluggish. His hands feel like steel clamps against your dull reflexes.
“What message?”
“You wanted me to follow you out.”
“No, I didn’t. I just wanna go home. Let go.”
You try again. He holds tighter. Now he’s pressing his hips against yours. You push him, but every one of those espresso martinis slows you down.
“No need to make this so hard, baby girl. I saw the way you were lookin’ at me.”
“Let me go!”
Bile creeps up your throat and you swallow it down just to gather enough air to scream—
“Hey, kid,” a deep voice growls to your left, and your body nearly buckles with relief when he, Mr. Difficult, steps into view. He looks pissed.
“You back off her or you’re heading back to college five teeth short.”
Adam stumbles backward immediately, fear plain on his face. Mr. Difficult gives you a short nod, and you rush to him in quick steps, heart racing, tucking yourself beneath his broad frame like it’s shelter from the storm.
“These cameras,” he says, pointing to the ones mounted on the bar’s exterior, “I’ll have those tomorrow. Sexual harassment? I hope you don’t have a scholarship.”
Adam starts to say something, probably begging not to be exposed, but you don’t hear it. You’re gripping the man’s forearm, and he’s guiding you toward a black pickup parked between the shiny little cars of the boys still inside the bar.
In silence, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in: slow, one foot on the step, the other in, legs together, finally settled. Then he shuts it and walks around to the driver’s side. For a moment, you feel like Bella Swan hopping onto the back of that weird guy’s bike in New Moon.
He gets in, shuts the door, and takes a deep breath before saying so firmly you don’t even think to argue:
“Give me your address. I’m taking you home.”
Defeated, you tell him. Only then does he start the truck and pull out of the bar’s lot.
“You know that guy?”
“I know his name’s Adam, but I don’t know him. Don’t even know his last name. He’s a friend of a friend.”
“Goddamn criminal little punks,” he mutters, rolling up the windows and turning on the heat when he notices you’re trembling, even though the cold has little to do with it. “You alright?”
“I’m… yeah. I think so. Thanks for stepping in.”
He keeps driving, and you use the quiet moment to steady your breath and your hands. The streets of Austin are empty, ghostly, barely any cars out, and your mind wanders for a second. Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for that self-defense class your dad kept telling you to take back in Houston.
You wedge your hands between your thighs to warm them and settle into the seat. You pretend not to hear when Mr. Difficult’s phone rings and he answers:
“Miller,” he says flatly. Someone talks on the other end. “What the hell happened to Jesse? Tonight’s his shift, not mine.” More silence. Then Miller, his newly revealed last name, curses under his breath and snaps, “I’m on my way.”
He hangs up and makes a sudden, hard right, jostling your body and making your eyes go wide.
“Are you kidnapping me?!”
His frustrated sigh fills the cab.
“You’re way too damn annoying to be kept in captivity,” he grumbles, accelerating. “They need me at work and I can’t drop you off first. It’s urgent. You’ll wait for me.”
“I can call another Uber.”
“You ain’t calling an Uber drunk like that.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because,” Miller says through gritted teeth, eyes on the road, “it’s literally my job to protect dumbass civilians who walk themselves into danger. I swore an oath. Now zip it.”
Civilians? Swore an oath?
Five minutes later, you get your answer as the wide property of the Austin Fire Department fills your vision, the U.S. and Texas flags flapping hard in the night wind. Miller drives through the open gate and parks beside the building.
“Come with me.”
You follow, still dazed, clacking behind him in your high-heeled boots. He doesn’t check if you’re keeping up, just walks with long, fast strides, and when he reaches the covered part of the station, three mustached men in full gear look at him like he’s the second coming.
The rest of the crew is further back, checking one of the trucks. They’re all huge.
“Chief,” one of them says. Chief?
“We need you. We got a call on—”
“Where the hell is Jesse?!” Miller practically growls. The three of them look at each other, shrinking a bit despite all standing well over six feet. “He think he’s back in school? What if I’d been drinking tonight? You’d go on a call short-handed? Hell of a teammate, that one.”
You’re only noticed when Miller turns his head toward you and calls out again:
“Come on.”
You do, still quiet. The firefighters tear their eyes off him and look at you, and yep… there it is. Raised brows, head-to-toe glance, lingering a bit too long on your skirt, and an open flirt-ready expression.
Miller shuts that down real fast:
“Eyes off, punks. I’ll be down in two.”
You give them a sheepish smile, but what you really want to say is: Yeah! That’s right, punks! Eyes off!
With a little bounce in your step, like a kid who just got praised by the teacher for their stick-figure drawing, you follow Miller up the stairs, metal steps creaking beneath you both.
Upstairs, you find the firefighters’ break room: a big dining table, a flat-screen TV, leather couches, and a kitchen tucked in an attached nook. You glance away from the wall of photos just in time to catch Miller stepping into his bunker pants, still over his jeans, and pulling the suspenders over his shoulders.
Shameless, you watch the whole thing while having a revelation. Yeah, now you get why firefighters are in every cliché fantasy ever. If Miller climbed into your window wearing that gear, you’d one hundred percent say something ridiculous like, “Here to put out my fire, officer?”
Next comes the heavy coat, and you can already see the sweat forming along his hairline as he zips and buttons everything up.
“Wait here for me. There’s coffee, water…” he gestures vaguely around the room, clearly in a rush. “Bathroom, running water, all that. Won’t be long.”
Before you can say anything else, he grabs his helmet and gloves and jogs down the stairs, pulling the Nomex hood over his head as he goes.
Moments later, the siren roars through the station, and as it fades into the night, it becomes nothing more than a ghostly hum at the back of your mind.
You sit on the couch, staring at the white wall with your hands tucked between your thighs. A firefighter. The chief.
Have you accidentally wandered into one of those steamy books you secretly read before bed? Or are you still sitting on the toilet in that grimy bar bathroom, hallucinating on espresso martinis?
The TV’s on. The news is covering a convenience store fire, result of an electrical short. Flames rage against the dark Austin sky, the interior swallowed by orange heat, yellow police tape keeping the crowd away. Thankfully, the store was empty when it caught fire.
Firefighters are en route, the reporter says, visibly relieved, and you curl onto your side on the couch, hands folded beneath your cheek, watching the broadcast.
You blink a little slower this time, and then everything goes dark.
“Were you trying to flash your panties to everyone in here? Damn short skirt.”
That’s the first thing you hear when you come to, groggy, as something is gently draped over your legs. You crack one eye open to find Miller carefully placing a leather jacket that smells like men’s cologne across your thighs. Only then do you realize just how comfortable you’d been lying there, considering the length of your skirt.
He keeps adjusting the jacket until everything’s covered. There’s no judgment in it. No irritation that you passed out like that. Just care, obvious in the way he pulls and tugs at the edges without ever letting his fingers brush your skin. And that, somehow, disorients you more than if he’d called you a name or scolded you outright.
“You’re back,” you mumble.
He shoots you a sidelong glance. His cheeks are smudged with soot and ash, his hair sweaty and tousled. The jacket’s gone, his suspenders hanging loose by his hips.
“Yeah. Didn’t die.”
“Thank God,” you murmur, eyes falling shut again. “What a waste that would’ve been.”
He clicks his tongue, exasperated.
You hear footsteps moving away, and peek through one eye to see him heading toward one of the adjoining rooms, tugging off his soaked black T-shirt in the process. The sight of his broad back makes your mouth go dry, especially with the reminder of what that body does for a living. All that strength. All that control.
Before the thought can spiral, other firefighters filter into the room, looking just as worn out as Miller.
“You the chief’s new girl?” one of them asks in a low voice, clearly trying not to be heard by said chief. He looks suspiciously like Bradley Bradshaw from Top Gun.
“No. He doesn’t want me.”
That earns you a burst of chaos. Whistles and chuckles like a group of teenage boys, not grown men who just came back from a fire call. Someone at the back yells, “I do!” and you ignore it, because you don’t kiss babies. Not when there’s a fire chief with a back like that about to drive you home.
You sit up on the couch, keeping Miller’s jacket across your lap, and glance at the coffee carafe they’re passing around.
“Can I have some?” you ask, motioning toward it.
They scramble like it’s a competition: who’ll pour, who’ll carry it over, who’ll get that sweet little “thank you” you sing out.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Miller says as he reappears, now in a fresh T-shirt bearing the Austin Fire Department logo on the chest and a clean face to go with it. His silver hair is damp, slicked back. He points at you. “Up. Let’s go.”
You rush to finish your coffee, burning your tongue in the process, and set the cup down to join him, still holding his jacket.
“I don’t know who’s been in contact with Jesse, but tell him he’s off the rest of the week. Maybe a seven-day suspension will help him get his shit together.”
One of them steps forward. “Chief—”
“That’s not a request, Lieutenant, that’s a decision. You boys need to learn the weight of the oath we swore.”
Silence.
Miller’s voice sharpens. “Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Miller places a hand on your shoulder and guides you forward. You walk ahead of him, down the stairs and out to his truck in silence.
“Tell me your address again,” he says once you’re both seated, looking worn out.
“You’re the fire chief.”
“Battalion chief,” he corrects, starting the engine. “Address.”
You tell him. He starts to drive. You watch him for a few seconds, then say:
“That was hot. The way you chewed them out? Extremely hot.”
“What’s with your thing for older men?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” you exclaim, and Miller rolls his eyes. Still grinning, you explain, “It’s not a thing. I just prefer older guys because they actually know what they’re doing. It’s not a crime.”
“How old are you?”
“You gonna judge me?”
“Seriously?” Miller stops at a red light even though the streets are deserted. It’s well past three a.m. “You’ve said all kinds of crap tonight, and this is what you’re worried about being judged for?”
“Because then you won’t wanna kiss me.”
“I’m not gonna kiss you either way.”
“See? That’s discrimination.”
“You still drunk?”
You think about it. Your vision’s clear now, no blurs at the edges. That weird rush in your ears is gone. The coffee and the nap did wonders.
“I’m not,” you say, turning in your seat to face him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, like he’s afraid to admit you’re even in the truck with him. Finally, you say, “Twenty-five.”
“I’m twenty-seven years older than you.”
The light turns green. He drives.
“That just sounds like motivation to me,” you say, watching the way his thumb tightens around the leather steering wheel for half a second, his only reaction. “Are you married? Dating? Secret vow of celibacy?”
He shakes his head. No to all.
“My women need to be at least forty. That’s my cutoff.”
“Totally fair. Women in their forties are delicious,” you say, giving him a thumbs-up. “But there’s always an exception, right?”
“No. Not with you.”
“Am I ugly?”
“You know damn well you’re not. Those boys at the station were practically undressing you with their eyes.”
A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.
“You noticed? Look at you, paying attention,” you tease, but he doesn’t respond, and you know your limit. You stop pushing. “Okay. You don’t want me. Got it. I’ll stop.”
Silence. His forearms have so many veins. You bounce your leg, restless, and because you can’t shut up, you say:
“Thanks for taking care of our city, Chief.”
More silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a deep laugh fills the space between you, and the sound makes you melt right into the seat.
“You’re really somethin’ else, sweetheart.”
“Oh God,” you groan. “You’re gonna make this harder if you call me sweetheart.”
“What’s the difference with older men, anyway?”
“Fishing for an ego boost?”
“Forget I asked.”
“No, no, wait, sorry,” you say quickly, folding one leg under you and straightening like you’re about to give a TED Talk. You’re not wasting this moment. “Okay, listen, I lost my virginity in college—”
Miller rubs a hand over his face. “Too much information.”
“—and it was awful!” you go on, like he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t finish. I told him that, and he said it was normal. So I slept with another guy, and that sucked too. I tried to settle because I thought that’s just what straight-girl life was.”
Somewhere in the universal rules of womanhood, there’s probably a clause that says never trauma-dump on a man. No man is different. But now that your mouth is open, it won’t stop.
“So I went out with this guy.”
“A guy,” he repeats, leaning slightly to check the passenger-side mirror.
“I think he was forty-two at the time. Miller… was addictive.”
“I can already imagine why.”
“Mhm.”
“But that’s not a rule. Not every older guy knows how to do that.”
You resist the urge to ask if he’s talking about himself.
“Haven’t had any bad experiences yet.”
The car goes quiet for five more minutes. You recognize the avenue you’re on, which means you’re probably only ten minutes from home.
“Have you always been a battalion chief?”
“I transferred here four years ago. Before that, I was a commander in Seattle.”
“So that’s why I didn’t know you. When you came, I was still in college,” you say mostly to yourself. “Got it. You like it here?”
“I’m from here. Tommy’s my brother. I left for Seattle twenty years ago.”
“Tommy from the bar?!”
“Tommy from the bar,” he confirms.
Mouth falling open, you lean back in your seat. Makes sense. His last name is Miller.
“Wow. Tommy’s friends with my parents,” you process the information bit by bit. “You’re Joel.”
“Mhm.”
“Joel Miller.”
“Yes.”
“I remember he used to talk about you all the time when he came over,” you say, because it’s true. Everything was Joel. Apparently, Joel had been his savior when they were kids. “He must be happy you’re back… and as battalion chief, no less.”
It’s subtle, but the line between Joel’s brows eases just a little when you say that last part. Other than that, he doesn’t react much.
“Family’s family,” he replies simply.
You reach your parents’ street and direct him to the house. Joel parks in front of it, and you notice all the lights are off, the windows dark. The porch light is on, and you know the key’s tucked inside the lilac flower pot.
You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,
“Thank you so much for the ride. I’m sorry if I pushed too much and made you uncomfortable.”
You open the door to get out. Joel says,
“Close that door.”
Your hand freezes on the latch. Joel’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes down. After a beat, you shut the door and sit back in your seat.
The console light dims.
You give him a moment because he looks like he’s wrestling half a dozen battles inside his own head.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says quietly, rubbing his hands against his jeans. “I just don’t think I’m what you really want.”
“I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear you’re exactly my type.”
“Sweetheart, no offense, but this feels more like some drunk little adventure you’ll laugh about with your girlfriends tomorrow.”
If there was even a drop of alcohol left in your system, that sentence burns it out.
“Just because you’re older?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Come on, Joel. That’s crap. Yeah, we’ve got a big age gap. But I told you what I like and why I like it.”
“Because you wanna be the wild friend?”
Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Your cheeks flare with anger, and you decide you’ve had enough. You reach for the door again, and the next second, a large hand covers yours and pulls it closed.
“Okay,” you murmur, still staring at his hand on top of yours, frozen. “Now I actually think you’re gonna kidnap me.”
“Shit,” he mutters, and he’s way too close. “Sorry. If you wanna get out, you can. I just… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”
“So what’s this whole speech for, then?” you turn your face toward him, and now you’re only inches apart, since he leaned over to shut the door. “You don’t want me. I get it. I’m a big girl. I don’t need a speech.”
Joel looks from you to your house, scanning the darkened façade, probably noting the lights all off. When his eyes return to yours, there’s a new kind of resolve etched into his face.
“It’s gotta stay secret,” he says. No wiggle room.
Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.
“I won’t tell a soul,” you promise immediately.
“Not even your friends.”
“What’s the big fear?” you ask, half-teasing, though there’s a flicker of real curiosity beneath it. “You married?”
“Hell no. I’m just the brother of the guy who’s friends with your dad, and I guarantee he wouldn’t want some fifty-year-old sniffing around his little girl.”
“I’m twenty-five,” you repeat, but your voice wavers a bit as Joel leans closer. “It’s not up to my dad who I get involved with.”
“Good for you,” he says, like he couldn’t care less, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck. “Still damn young.”
“And yet, I’m gonna be your exception.”
He squints, confused, until it clicks.
“Oh. Right. The first twenty in my rulebook.”
You lean in, ready to kiss him, but Joel holds you still with his hand at your neck, like he’s waiting for something.
You say what he needs to hear:
“Won’t breathe a word about what you do with a younger girl in front of her house.”
“Good. That stays between me and God.”
He pulls you in, and the second your lips meet, you’re gone, falling into that familiar place you’ve always adored with older men.
Your brain short-circuits and Joel takes the lead in everything. His hand moves from your neck to the base of your skull, tugging you deeper, and he’s the one to part his lips, the one to tilt just right so your mouths fit like it’s a damn movie scene.
Your fingers slide into his hair, thick strands slipping between them, as you sink further into the seat. He follows, body hovering over yours. The moan that escapes your throat when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips is honest. The one that comes when he finally kisses you with tongue, though just as real, is so drawn out it makes your cheeks burn with the fear he might think you’re faking.
God. That kiss.
“It’s a crime to keep that kind of kiss from me,” you whisper breathless, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Joel kisses your bottom lip, your jaw, drags his mouth down your neck. The ceiling of the truck blurs as he finds your collarbones, and you arch into him to give him more room. “Joel—”
His tongue meets the skin of your chest and you thank every higher power that your neckline’s just deep enough for him to reach the dip between your breasts. The ache between your thighs tightens, that telltale pulse of being soaked hitting you all at once.
“More,” you whisper, tugging his hair, just enough to let him know you want another kiss.
He gives it to you. One hand on your waist, the other on your neck, he kisses you again, and this one’s filthy from the first second, now that you both know exactly how to move together. You press harder into his hands.
“You can’t be this polite,” you murmur. “Aren’t you gonna slip your hand under my skirt?”
“Boundaries,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut when you trail kisses along his jaw, rough with beard stubble. There’s still a faint trace of sweat and smoke from the earlier call, and you should probably care about that, but you don’t.
“No way you’ve got boundaries still holding steady in that brain,” you say. You watch his face up close as you take his hand and guide it down from your waist to your thigh. He opens his eyes at the heat of your skin and keeps them on you as you lead his hand higher, higher… right to the hem of your skirt. You pause. Ask: “Can I?”
He swallows hard.
He’s the one who moves now, sliding his hand beneath your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing like he means it, hard enough to make you giggle. His fingers find the lace of your panties where it sits snug between your cheeks.
“No one’s out here,” you murmur. Your hand finds the thick bulge in his jeans, and you raise your brows at him. “Can I make you come?” you ask, giving just the faintest stroke, enough pressure to make the denim feel good, not rough. “Please. Want me to take my panties off while I touch you?”
Joel clenches his jaw. Moves his hand from your ass to the front of your panties, cupping your pussy fully, probably feeling the heat radiating for him. You spread your legs as much as the car seat allows, giving him space to explore, all while trying to slip your hand inside his jeans to—
“No,” he breathes, shaking his head like the effort to say it physically hurts. You pull your hand away instantly at his no, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for more. “No. Not here. I’m not about to come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.”
He pulls his hand back from between your legs, taking a steadying breath.
“Not here,” says again.
God. You could cry.
“Okay,” you say instead because you’re an adult and you respect a no. “Alright. Okay.”
“Go on. Get inside.”
But before you do, you raise a finger.
“Can I suggest something?”
You’re not quite sure how you manage to convince him, though that alone would be something worth bragging about, but somehow, you do. You talk Joel into parking a little farther down the street, just to be safe, and into sneaking in with you through the back door, because the front one’s too damn noisy.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist as you guide him through your dark house. A stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. A pause in the living room to make sure no one’s there. Then the stairs. One step at a time, silent. His brown eyes find yours every time you glance back.
And then Joel Miller is in your bedroom and you’re locking the door.
With his hands on his hips, he looks around: at the old band posters from when you were eighteen and just starting college, at the lilac bedsheets covering your mattress. The curtains are cracked open, letting in the pale glow of the moon and the streetlights outside, casting his silhouette in silver while you kick off your boots and socks and toss them aside.
“Prove to me you’re not drunk,” he says low.
“You want me to do a four?”
He keeps staring. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, lifting your right leg and crossing it over your left thigh, making the shape of a four with your legs.
“You’re so old,” you mutter, reaching ten in the count. “I already told you I’m not drunk. You know that perfect little buzz? That’s all I’ve got.”
“Enough to not regret this in the morning?”
“Regret you? Only if I were out of my mind.”
The plush carpet cushions your sore feet as you walk toward the bed. He just watches you. Watches as you climb onto the mattress, toss the pillows to the floor, and lie back on your elbows, looking straight at him.
One raised brow. A wordless well?
Joel looks up at the ceiling, like he’s saying a silent prayer, then bends down to remove his boots.
“You think you can stay quiet?” he asks, stepping closer. He mutters, “Refuse to come in my jeans like a damn teenager, but here I am sneaking into your house like one.”
Joel stands at the foot of your bed. You smile at him, about to unbutton your skirt, but he’s faster. His hands slip under the fabric, tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them aside.
You realize what he’s about to do when he plants one knee on the bed and starts lowering his head between your legs, but you stop him with your foot against his chest.
“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. You’ve been out all night with your friends. Sure, you showered before leaving, but still… it’s been hours. “It’s okay, I don’t need—”
“I do. I want to,” he murmurs, and the way he brushes your foot aside like it weighs nothing sends a wave of heat down your spine. Now both hands are on your thighs, spreading them gently. “Unless you don’t want me to.”
He waits for a sign to stop. You don’t give it.
A smile curls his lips.
“Yeah. Stay quiet and let me enjoy it.”
The hands that were holding your thighs now push your skirt up, the leather bunching around your hips. Then Joel’s large frame lowers, and his mouth finds you.
Your head falls back as his warm tongue slips between your folds with torturous precision, the sound of his spit mixing with your slick making your stomach tighten, and you have to practically bite down on your bottom lip not to moan. He grabs your hips, pulls you toward his mouth, and my God… he really wanted this.
Joel seems to be patiently gathering every drop of your arousal with his tongue, like he’s not in any rush, not until he’s good and ready to start licking your clit, his lips closing around it and sucking, slow and steady.
A moan nearly slips out, but you manage to turn it into a shaky exhale.
Your leg gives a little and you can’t hold yourself up on your elbows anymore, so you lie all the way back, legs splayed around his broad shoulders.
You glance to the side, clutching the sheets beneath you as you start, slowly, to ride his face. The mirror on your vanity catches everything, still cluttered with makeup you’d used while getting ready, and now it reflects the way Joel’s body covers yours, one foot still on the floor, your skirt bunched up, the outline of him pressing hard inside his jeans. You lower your right leg and catch a glimpse of his jaw working as he eats you out, desperate, beard slick with your arousal.
“Good?” you ask sweetly, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair as your eyes meet. He can’t answer with words, but his eyes speak volumes, and he definitely grips you harder when you teasingly say: “You fifty-somethings really know how to eat pussy.”
Joel’s no exception.
You only pull him up because you want to kiss him again and because you obviously want him out of that fire department t-shirt. He peels it off, revealing a broad chest covered in dark hair that radiates strength.
Joel helps you slide your skirt off, and your mouths meet as you wrap your legs around his hips.
“I probably smell like smoke,” he murmurs.
“Just a little. More like sweat. And it’s delicious.”
Another smile. He’s on a roll.
“You’re insane,” he mutters, lowering his hips. The friction of his cock, denim-rough, grinding against your clit makes you whimper. He catches it. “Feel good?”
You nod. Joel watches you, then dips his hips again, and the seam of his jeans hits just right. You nearly come undone.
“Again,” you whisper.
He listens. Joel makes sure not to hurt you with the zipper, but grinds down hard enough, at just the right angle, to knock the air from your lungs. Your clit throbs under the pressure, the rough rub of the denim, and the solid heat of his cock beneath it only makes it more intense.
He licks two fingers and drags them between your legs just to give you a little extra slick, enough to keep it from turning raw, and keeps rocking into you. You hadn’t planned to come, but you also can’t stop it, not when that feeling keeps rising, rising, until—
It bursts, a sweet sharp rush that spreads from between your legs through every inch of you, and Joel keeps it going, those slow, steady grinds that don’t overwhelm but won’t let the afterglow slip away either.
You place a hand on the waistband of his jeans, gently stopping him.
“You need to fuck me. Now.”
“Urgent?”
“Mhm. So I can come again.”
“You’re so damn direct,” he mutters, clearly amused. Then he leans over and says, “Arms up.”
You obey. He takes off your top, and it’s you who unhooks your bra, now completely naked. Joel watches as he strips off his jeans and boxers, and when he’s bare, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look.
Thank you, God. Uncut.
You look up at him.
“Come here.”
Joel climbs onto your bed, his knees sinking into the soft lilac sheets, and settles between your thighs. Together, you shift higher up the bed until your head rests on the lone pillow left on the mattress.
“Might come too fast,” he warns, and you believe him by the way his cock is rock hard as he guides it to your entrance.
“I don’t mind.”
“Sure you don’t. You’re an expert in old men.”
The head of his cock pushes in with a wet sound that shuts your mouth. You bring your fingers down between your legs, starting to touch yourself again in slow, careful circles as Joel eases into you. He’s gentle, taking his time, eating you up with his eyes, and once he’s fully inside, his body covers yours.
You feel the soft press of his belly against yours, the hair brushing your skin, the weight of him, and it’s enough to stir you back up. Joel draws his hips back and fucks you, and the sound that escapes your mouth is nearly inhuman. Your eyes fly open, meeting Joel’s startled ones, and before either of you can react, his big hand covers your mouth.
“Quiet,” he says, then thrusts again.
You grip his wrist with both hands and wrap your legs around his hips, taking the rough, perfect rhythm of his thrusts — thankfully quiet, the bed doesn’t creak — as his thick cock drives deep into you, raw and goddamn delicious. Joel presses his hand firmer against your mouth to muffle you and clenches his jaw. The trimmed hair at his groin drags over your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass, and your eyes squeeze shut. You don’t even have the strength to keep touching yourself.
Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.
“Fuck,” Joel breathes, voice rough and shocked, sweat trickling down his neck. You feel a pulse inside you and then a warm rush spreading. “Fuck, fuck… I was supposed to pull out and—”
“It’s fine. Really,” because it is. You’ve never understood the drama around guys coming too fast. To you, it’s a compliment, as long as you’re properly taken care of. You repeat it, not wanting the afterglow to turn tense for him. “It’s okay.”
You pull him close and press a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers running through the softer strands at the nape of his neck.
“I had a vasectomy,” he confesses suddenly, lips still against yours, like the thought just occurred to him and he needed to reassure you.
“Great. I’ve got an IUD. Though we probably should’ve talked about this before, huh?” your hands slide down his sweaty shoulders. “Think you can get hard again?”
“Give me a minute.”
“Okay. Pull out.”
Joel shifts back, kneeling between your legs and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock as he slips out of you. You watch his softening length, slick with both of you, and wonder for a second why the hell you like that image so much. And even more… why the feeling of him dripping out of you turns you on.
“Sit there,” you tell him, nodding toward the headboard.
Silently, like a good student, he does exactly what you asked, leaning back against the headboard, his cock now fully soft resting on his thigh.
You crawl over on your knees, slipping between his legs to straddle his right thigh that feels solid under you, the thick hair tickling the insides of your thighs.
“How sensitive are you right now?” you ask, dragging a finger slowly along his cock, the head still tucked away. Joel jerks his hips back, pulling away from the touch. You lift your hand and arch a brow. “Okay. Got it. Very. I could try sucking you hard again.”
“Suck a soft dick?”
“Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”
“Alright. But I wouldn’t feel right about it.”
You rest your arms on his shoulders and lean in. “Okay. I respect that.”
Joel gives you that look, the one older people always get when they’re a little impatient with your ideas or mouth, but you know it’s not about you. He seems like the kind of man who grumbles about everything. Besides, the impatience doesn’t match the way his hands move across your back, soft and slow, up and down.
You say, “I was gonna learn pool just so I could play with you tonight.”
“Yeah? You learn anything?”
You pull back just enough to lift your hands. With your left, you pretend to grip a cue, and with your right, your thumb and index finger make a ring.
“Now I know how to hold a pool stick.”
Joel’s lips tug into a half-smile.
“You’re left-handed,” he notes, and you lower your hands again, nodding. His grip returns to your hips. “Well done. You should’ve come, by the way. I might’ve let you win.”
“You’d never let me win.”
“I’m softer than I look. And,” he cuts himself off when he notices your smirk, “if you make a joke about my soft dick, I swear I’ll have your name on a wanted poster by tomorrow.”
“I don’t get why it bugs you so much. Come on.”
You say that just before leaning in to press your lips to the pulse at his neck. Joel tilts his head slightly, giving you space, and you pepper kisses there, then across his shoulder. You press your chest to his, and his hands grip you tighter.
“Bet the single women in this town chase you down,” you murmur, arms around his neck. “And… the married ones too?”
“No comment.”
“Austin’s most wanted bachelor.”
“The divorcé,” he corrects.
Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.
“How long?”
“Five years.”
“Good. Tomb’s been sealed.”
He laughs against your mouth when you kiss him, but soon cups your face to kiss you properly, exactly the way you’re asking, even if you’re not saying a word. His kisses are so addictive, it’s strange to you. There’s something about Joel that turns a kiss into full-body contact. He kisses and touches you, strokes your cheek, your back, pays attention to what you need.
And he reads you well, because his hand slips between your legs.
“Lift up a little,” he says, and you rise onto your knees, no longer sitting on his thigh. His fingers slide between your folds, gathering the slick there. Joel lets out a low grunt, and you watch the way his cock gives a tiny twitch. “Let me eat you out again.”
Ah. Yes. But actually…
“Can I try something else?” you ask.
That’s how Joel, with lips slightly parted, ends up watching as you settle back down on his thigh, right over the thickest part, your legs spread wide.
You almost feel shy the first time you grind up against his thigh with his eyes on you. Your whole body shivers, breath catching in your throat, and you steady yourself with your hands on him. You’re so wet, from yourself and from him, that the movement is easy. Heavenly. The hair on his thigh adds just the right amount of friction on your clit, and it nearly sends you reeling.
“You like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, and you, dry-mouthed, nod your head. You grind again. Whimper.
“Been neglecting this pussy, huh?”
You shake your head. Joel touches your body, running his hands along your sides, gripping your waist. The next time you grind down, he helps, his biceps flexing, guiding your rhythm. Forward. Back. The muscle of his thigh tensing under you, his skin slick with your wetness.
He watches you, sees how close you are and how hard you’re biting your lip to keep quiet. Immediately, his thumb presses to your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth, and he slips it into your mouth. You meet his gaze as you suck it in, hands clutching his arm, hips faltering in the next few rolls.
When you come, Joel lays you back on the bed, spreads your legs, and slides back inside. He’s not fully hard, but it doesn’t matter because he fits, thick and slow, and the way he stretches you prolongs your orgasm so sweetly it nearly breaks you apart.
You feel him stiffening more with each thrust, and as he grows harder, he goes deeper.
“Fucking perfect,” he breathes into your ear, biting your neck. “You’re driving me outta my mind.”
Your smile wavers when, after a few more thrusts, he slips out and lies beside you, then shifts you onto your side and pulls you back against his chest. He drapes an arm over your chest, grips your thigh with the other, lifts it over his hip, and slides into you again. His movements pin you, keeping you from doing anything but taking it when his fingers find your clit again, even oversensitive as it is.
Your whole body shakes.
“Joel—”
“Come on, baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”
You try to jerk your hips away from his fingers as he rubs harder, faster, but there’s nowhere to go, and Joel doesn’t relent. He holds your thigh, keeps you open for him, slowing his thrusts just enough to drag it out. You grab the arm draped over your chest, twist your hips, and it’s almost too much.
Almost.
Because right before it crosses the line, you come. And then you go limp.
“Can I keep going?” he asks. “Want me to pull out?”
“No. Just… stay off my clit.”
The kiss he presses to your damp temple sounds like an “okay.”
You reach back, fingers slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and feel his ragged breaths against your neck as he keeps moving inside you. His next orgasm takes longer, but somehow it still only lasts a few seconds, and leaves you leaking all over again.
When it’s over, your ears are ringing, his body is hot behind you, and your heart won’t stop pounding.
Goddamn.
Thanks for your service, Chief.
You can’t stop staring at the top-left corner of the peach pie.
It’s not broken, exactly. The crust in that corner just sank a little lower than the rest, and it’s driving you nuts. You rotate the pie dish so the pristine edge faces front, hiding the flaw.
“Pie?” you offer with a smile as sweet as the amarena syrup your mom made, holding out a slice to the father and two sons approaching your stand.
Today is the neighborhood charity fair where your parents live. It happens every six months in the town square and has been around for maybe a decade. The goal is to raise funds for local nonprofits. Neighbors donate pies, sandwiches, roasted meats, inflatable toys for the kids. The whole thing.
When you were fifteen and a painfully annoying teenager, you thought wearing an apron and handing out pie was humiliating. Ugh, mom. Charity is soooo lame.
Ten years later, here you are: uneasy, borderline neurotic because the crust of the pie you helped bake has a deformed corner.
The father and sons leave with their slices in little styrofoam containers and colorful forks. You glance around.
Your mom is helping out at one of the roast beef sandwich booths since someone called in sick last night. Your dad’s at his own stand, trying to sell fishing gear, though bamboo hooks don’t exactly draw crowds.
Farther down the square, you spot the fire truck. Your heart does a little skip, part nerves, part excitement. The fire department’s on site for safety, at least for the first couple hours. But you haven’t seen Joel yet.
“Any pie here sweeter than you?”
You turn toward the front of your booth and find the fireman who looks like a knockoff Bradley Bradshaw. He’s wearing an Austin Fire Department tee, aviator shades, and a grin that’s way too… youthful.
Still, you smile back.
“Definitely. I’m pretty sure the pie also knows the number for the AFD’s misconduct hotline.”
“Kidding.”
“And because of that joke,” you say, grabbing three styrofoam containers, “you’re buying three slices to support the cause.”
He doesn’t even protest. Quietly, he waits as you cut the slices and hands you the money. You thank him with a sugar-sweet smile and a blown kiss.
Once he walks away, your eyes sweep the square again. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
And there’s the fire, staring at you from across the plaza, arms crossed under the shade of a tree. Joel’s in the same black Austin Fire Department tee, and you see his eyes dip briefly to read the name stitched onto your pink apron.
The Sweetest Bite.
That barely-there smile curves his lips.
You grab a styrofoam plate, cut a generous slice of pie, and pull five bucks from the back pocket of your denim shorts, dropping the bill into the flower-covered tip jar your mom set up.
Then you toss the apron onto the counter and ask your dad to watch the stand for a few minutes.
Joel doesn’t even see you approaching. He’s surrounded by three women asking what it’s like “to be responsible for a city like Austin.”
“Such a hard-working man,” you say, slipping in between two of them to hold out the pie. “Fresh, warm cream pie. A little thank-you for protecting the city.”
Joel looks from the pie to you. Your smile grows even sweeter. When he takes it, the women scatter.
“You got an endless supply of short shorts like that?” he asks, not even pretending to start eating. His eyes stay on the pie. “Cream pie.”
“My favorite,” you reply. And, about the shorts: “It’s summer in Texas.”
“Right,” he says to both.
You glance around. No one’s near. One of the other firefighters is tossing rings at a carnival booth.
“You should come to the barbecue at my place after the fair. Tommy’s going and I can ask him to invite you.”
“I’m not going’ to your house.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not buddying up to your parents. You’re out of your mind?”
“I don’t want you to be friends with them. I want you to sneak up to my room when no one’s looking.”
“No,” he says flatly, like the conversation’s over.
A few hours later, that victorious little grin creeps across your lips as you see Tommy walk through the back gate of your house.
And right beside him, carrying a cooler of beer, is Joel Miller.
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somebody else
clint flood x sex worker! female reader || one-shot || ao3 link
summary: By day, you’re a waitress, crushing hard on your handsome regular. By night, you’re a call girl. When Clint unwittingly books you for an evening, your two worlds collide.
non-smut tags: grief. romance. eventual sweetness. afab reader. late night heart-to-heart. banter. no y/n. age gap (early 30s reader). girldad Clint. takes place after Freaky Tales. moved to present day so they have phones. money troubles. mentions of infidelity (not Clint or reader). some body insecurity. reader’s physical appearance not described beyond some hair. reader can walk and kneel. smut tags: nervous, tender Clint who gets filthy as hell when his walls come down. mutual masturbation. excessive dirty talk. Clint likes to watch, and he’s kinda obsessed with your thighs. Clint orders you around. brief spanking. praise. pussy pronouns. cock pronouns. big dick Clint, and he’s got some tattoos. pet names (“gorgeous”, “baby”). not not a blowjob. spoiler alert he cums on your pussy.
wc: 16.2K 🫣
author's note: Freaky Tales is my favorite PP movie, so I've been wanting to write Clint for ages. This fic builds up slowly and steadily to the dirtiest smut I've ever written. The diner-core and themes of grief were influenced in part by @mcthsman’s Toska. so was the pussy slap. Check out Toska out first if you haven’t already - it’s fantastic.
MDNI banners by @\cafekitsune, dividers by @\saradika-graphics
You made up stories about all your regulars at the diner.
The punk kids who always paid with change, for instance. You guessed they were in love with each other but scared to admit it. And the girls who liked milkshakes and wrote lyrics on their napkins – they were an up-and-coming rap duo, about to get big. The tall guys who came in hungry and filled up the corner booth? They had to be second-stringers for the Oakland A’s.
And then there was him. The handsome father. He came by every day at 2:15, right at the start of your shift. Silvering hair, scar on his cheek, and those dark, sad eyes. You knew there was a story behind them.
He only ever ordered a black coffee for himself, and a sliced-up banana for the baby. He always said thank you. You liked those thank yous. His voice was full, and it sounded kind, but you tried not to notice. And you tried not to notice the slant of his shoulders, or his big, thick hands, because the left one always wore a silver ring.
Handsome Guy was married. Of course he was.
“You can still daydream, though. It’s not cheating if it’s in your imagination.”
This advice came from your shift-mate. Casey was a decade younger than you, but you were in the same year at Mill College. She never made you feel behind for it, and she’d gotten you the job at the diner. During the lulls, the two of you did problem sets together.
At the moment, there wasn’t much homework getting done. Handsome Guy had just pulled up, and Casey was craning over the counter to stare at him through the window.
“He’s in his leather jacket today,” she said. “Somebody should outlaw that thing. And he drives some kind of blue vintage Chevy.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you. “The seats in those cars go all the way back.”
Your brain conjured an image of your legs on either side of Handsome’s hips, those big hands of his on your waist. Your skin grew warm.
“Stop putting impure thoughts in my head. We have a whole shift to get through.”
Casey grinned. “I’m not allowed to notice a customer’s car? What’s so impure about that?”
You busied yourself putting on a fresh pot of coffee. Handsome never complained, but you didn’t want to charge him for boiled-down sludge. The bell over the door tinkled, and Casey let out a sigh.
“Damn,” she said. “Have you seen his butt? Why can’t he sit in my section, just one time?”
“You really want one of your four-tops taken up by a banana and a coffee? Twenty-five percent of $5.50 is, like, a dollar.”
“He tips twenty-five percent? My friend. Homewreck him.”
“Yeah, that’ll end well.”
“When it all goes down in flames, it’ll be a good distraction from finals.”
You felt a twinge of panic. Finals only mattered if you could scrape together the spring semester’s tuition.
“Funny,” you managed.
You dodged Casey’s eye. She was strapped for cash too, but it wasn’t the same. Her parents would cover her if she came up short.
You retrieved the highchair from the back room and made for Handsome’s table. He always sat in the same booth by the window. His daughter had big, curious eyes, and she gurgled as you came near, wrapping her tiny hand around one of Handsome’s fingers.
You bit back a smile and set up the highchair. Handsome glanced up at you, and something in his gaze softened.
“Thank you,” he said.
You liked the slow way he had of talking. It felt like all of his attention was here, like he never skipped over one thought to try and reach the next.
“No problem,” you said. “Coffee?”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
“It’s brewing. And the banana?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
He always said no, but today he hesitated.
“How come don’t you wear a name tag?” he asked.
What?
“Oh,” you said. “I always forget it. And it’s not like the food tastes any different if you know my name.”
Handsome moved his head, not exactly a yes or a no. He didn’t say anything. Was he asking for your name? Why did he want to know?
He was such a solid man, and up close, it was hard to keep your thoughts in a line. Those eyes of his were too damn warm.
Maybe he was waiting for you to leave. You’d been lingering for way too long, hadn’t you?
You tucked your pen behind your ear.
“I should go get your coffee.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thank –”
“Thank me? You said that already.”
The comment fell out before you could stop it, and you cursed yourself for breaking your customer service mask. Whatever ideas you had about Handsome, they were just that – ideas. He always paid in cash, so you didn’t even know his name, let alone whether he’d share your sense of humor. Chances were he’d decide you were a bitch, and you’d lose your measly $1.10 in tips.
But Handsome didn’t seem to mind. Something playful spread across his face, an expression you’d never seen him wear before.
“Okay,” he said. “I take it back.”
“You what?”
“I take it back. No thank you for you.”
You failed to hold back a surprised grin.
“Ungrateful bastard.”
Handsome lifted an eyebrow. “You talk like that to all of your customers?”
Was he… flirting with you?
You glanced at his hand before you could think better of it. Still married.
Handsome followed your eyes, and his body went rigid. He moved his left hand to his lap and stared at the table.
It wasn’t your problem that he was married. You weren’t going to let yourself feel bad for clocking him, no matter how ashamed he looked at getting caught.
So what if he was hot? The man couldn’t even cut up a banana on his own.
“Coffee will be right out,” you said.
Handsome nodded at the table, and you made for the counter. Casey’s eyebrows were in the sky by the time you got back.
“Don’t look now, but Hot Dad totally watched you walk away,” she said. “What the hell did you say to him?”
“Nothing,” you said.
You glanced up at Handsome. Your eyes met, and his gaze dropped to his phone. He chewed his lip as he typed, like he was guilty about something. Probably texting his wife.
You sighed. You knew it wasn’t that big of a deal – plenty of married guys flirted, and there was nothing necessarily wrong with checking out other women. It wasn’t like Handsome had asked for your number. A few years ago, you would have shrugged all this off.
A few years ago, you hadn’t realized just how many guys were cheaters. You’d liked Handsome more when he was a fantasy, when you could tell yourself he was better than the rest of them.
You untied your apron.
“I’m going to take my fifteen.”
Casey’s brow furrowed.
“Really? We just started.”
“Yeah, I need a minute. Mind covering my table? It’s just the banana and coffee. He takes it black, usually one refill.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
You thanked Casey, grabbed your cigarettes from the break room, and lit up outside. The buzz of nicotine woke you up, and you scolded yourself for taking your break so soon. The evening rush was terrible on Fridays, and now you’d have to marathon through it.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket. A notification from Illicit.
As escort services went, Illicit was bare bones. They didn’t run background checks on their clients. They didn’t schedule your meetups for you. But the cut they took was tiny, and at least they logged the locations of your dates.
You’d signed up as a last resort a few months ago, when a perfect storm of rent increase, car repairs, and an ER bill had cleaned through what little you had set aside for tuition. There was nobody you could have asked for help – you’d followed your ex out to California, and he was long gone now, living with the girl he’d said you were crazy for worrying about.
Stop. You didn’t need to be thinking about him today. The whole thing with Handsome had just gotten under your skin.
The message was from a new client, a guy who’d been reaching out on and off for weeks, without ever scheduling a date. For the last few days, he’d been radio silent. You’d thought he’d changed his mind.
Maybe something had changed it back, because a green check mark had appeared beside the guy’s name. He’d put money into his Illicit account. You clicked on the message.
Clint: I know it’s been a while, but I still want to meet you. Have you got any time tonight?
Clint: 10:00? For two hours?
You hesitated. Your shift ended right at ten.
Clint: I’ll pay double. If we don’t do tonight, I’m going to chicken out again.
Double pay. You couldn’t turn it down. Even if Clint wanted something awful in exchange, it probably wouldn’t be twice as bad as the average.
Angel: Ok. If 11 works, I can make it.
It had been impossible to choose the perfect call girl name, so you’d let the alphabet decide. Angel hadn’t been a bad pick, in the end. It seemed to send the right message.
Clint took a moment to respond.
You knew what was coming. The haggling. Some guys were open about it – asking to pay half now and half later, like you’d try harder if you had to earn it. That wasn’t too common. Most of the time, the men would just ask you to remind them the price, like it wasn’t listed clearly on your profile.
You never backed down, but you hated the implicit challenge – that you couldn’t be really worth what you charged.
Your phone buzzed again.
Clint F. sent you $500.00 – “11 it is.”
Well, fuck. He’d even tipped double – 25% of double.
Clint: Did you get it?
Angel: I did. Thanks. Not a lot of clients pay up front, and I hate having to chase them down about it.
Clint: I get it.
Clint: Is the tip good?
Angel: You’re good. Thank you.
Clint: You said that already.
Clint: I’ll send over my address. I’m near Lake Merritt. I can pick you up from the BART station there.
Illicit only tracked home addresses. Your gut said you could trust Clint, but that wasn’t enough to get you into his car. If your fantasies about Handsome were any sign, you weren’t exactly the best judge of character.
Besides, you didn’t live far from the lake. You’d probably be able to walk.
Angel: That’s okay. I’ll come to you.
Your phone buzzed again, and you checked the address. Sure enough, you and Clint were neighbors. Go figure.
You took a final, long drag of your cigarette. Five hundred dollars, and a client who seemed kind of decent. There had to be some sort of catch.
It was already 10:15 by the time you got back to your studio, and by then you reeked of fry oil. You turned up the shower to scalding and got to work scrubbing away the smell.
When you went out as Angel, you didn’t use your normal shampoo and conditioner. Everything she wore was scented like roses. All you had to do was inhale, and you’d feel like somebody else.
You needed the reminder. Angel was sexy in a way that you weren’t. She was nice. She never forgot to moisturize, and she was always freshly waxed. When she put on lingerie, she didn’t stare at herself in the mirror, finding all the places it dug in too tight and gapped too loose.
It didn’t come easily to you. You’d never really thought of yourself as sexy, or even especially beautiful. Not that you were ugly – with a little bit of effort, and the right makeup, you could make yourself pretty enough. But every girl could do that. You weren’t anything special.
When you first signed up for Illicit, you’d actually thought it would make you more confident. Your body was a commodity. It had to be valuable. But to most of your clients, all women’s bodies were commodities. You felt wanted sometimes, sure, but never desired.
You reached for the rose shampoo.
It was empty. Damn it.
You couldn’t wear mismatched scents – it would drive you crazy. You’d have to use only the everyday stuff. Citrus wasn’t as sexy, but maybe you’d get lucky and Clint would have a tangerine fetish.
You put the empty bottle back – you’d remember to chuck it tomorrow, really – and finished washing up.
It was always chaos getting ready in your studio. The room was tiny, and you’d never really set it up well. You knew you had it in you. You’d kept a good home when you were married. Maybe it was this place – this dark little go-between. It just didn’t feel like home.
Your dresser was jammed up against your bed, and it did double duty as a desk. You found your blow dryer on top of it, the cord half-buried by a stack of lecture notes. You worked it free, then sifted through your lingerie drawer.
Nothing extreme tonight. Exhausted as you were, you wouldn’t have the confidence to pull off a corset. You slid on mesh panties and a matching balconette. The bra was minimal enough to be comfortable, even if it didn’t push your cleavage up in the way your clients liked.
Hair and makeup was next – nothing heavy, the kind of “good girl” look that a man would expect from somebody named Angel.
10:46. You had a little bit of time. Clint had shelled out five hundred dollars. Maybe he deserved the fantasy.
You wriggled into a garter belt and a dark set of thigh-highs. The belt dug into your stomach, and the stockings got runs so fast that you hated wearing them, but they helped you feel a bit more like Angel.
Better. You kept the rest simple. It wouldn’t be on for long. Little black dress with a low-cut neck, and tall, heeled boots.
You looked too obviously like a hooker to walk around like this. You pulled your go-to coverup from your closet – a giant canvas coat, the one your ex had left behind – and threw it on over the dress.
In two and a half hours, you could go back to being you.
Walking up to a date was the part you hated most, and tonight was no exception. What if Clint had friends over? What if he hadn’t read the hard limits section of your profile?
You distracted yourself by studying Clint’s house. It was a two-story Victorian, but according to his instructions, he only lived downstairs. An old blue car sat in the driveway, and you were reminded for a moment of Handsome.
God, this had been a long day.
You stepped onto the porch and checked the time. 11:08. You set a two-hour timer and took off your coat. You rearranged your face into Angel’s. Then you knocked on the door.
It opened at once, and a ringing sound filled your ears.
Handsome stood on the other side.
What?
What was going on? Did you have the wrong house?
Handsome met your eyes, and his face went slack.
Some part of your brain noticed that he looked especially good tonight, in a tight dark sweater that stretched around his chest and arms. His hair was combed back, and he’d done something to his beard to make it all point the same way.
He was dressed up for something. No. Wait. Was he dressed up for you?
Were you the something?
Handsome looked from your face to your dress, and quickly back.
“Angel?” he said. “Are you… are you Angel?”
That voice didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t be saying that name. Static crawled up beneath your skin.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d messaged you while he was still in the diner, hadn’t he? How had he known who you were?
“You are,” he said. “Aren’t you? You’re her?”
Handsome’s eyes were wide. He took a step back, and for a moment he looked as horrified as you were.
The realization cut through to quiet your panic. If Handsome had planned this, he sure wasn’t acting like it. Your pulse began to slow, and you found your voice.
“You didn’t know?”
Handsome gave you an incredulous look.
“Does it seem like I knew?”
It didn’t. It really didn’t. Maybe he was lying, but you remembered how bad he’d been at hiding his ring in the diner. He didn’t seem the type to pull it off. You took in a deep breath. This wasn’t a trick. It was only a bizarre coincidence. You could deal with that.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “How did this happen? How are you her?”
Something about his spiral put you at ease. Clint, if that really was his name, didn’t have the upper hand. That meant it was up for grabs. You got to decide what happened next.
You looked into Clint’s eyes, and finally got a handle on what was happening. Clint was Handsome, and Handsome was a dick. He’d invited a call girl over so he could cheat on his wife. What had he said? It had to happen tonight? Was she out of town or something?
It didn’t really matter. Maybe you could care that Handsome was married, but you’d come here tonight to be Angel. Angel didn’t get to care that Clint was married.
“Everything is going to be fine,” you said. “I’ll never say a word about this. And if you don’t want to see me again, just get your coffee an hour earlier. I don’t clock in until 2.”
Clint nodded slowly. Some of the wildness faded from his eyes, and you thought you saw sorrow there again.
“You know what time I come in?”
“Clint. You come in almost every day, and you have the silliest order of all time. Do you not have coffee and bananas at home? Of course I remember you.”
You were mouthing off way too much – more than Angel would have – but the line was too blurry, and your blood was too hot. You couldn’t think straight if you were also trying to behave.
At least Clint seemed to have a thick skin. The edge of his mouth pulled upward.
“Fair enough,” he said.
He didn’t interrupt further, and you took another breath.
“So you and I are fine, moving forward. The only question left is what to do about tonight. I can go home, and Illicit can find you somebody else. They won’t refund your tip, but…” you had to say it. “But I can send you the extra $100, considering the circumstances.”
“Keep it,” he said. “It only seems fair. I put you out of work tonight, didn’t I?”
“Not necessarily,” you said.
Clint’s brow furrowed, and you hesitated for a moment. If you stopped talking now, you could accept his tip and head home early.
But another $400 sat on the table. You didn’t want to help Clint cheat, but if you left here tonight, that was two more meetups you’d have to do, and those guys wouldn’t be any better.
They definitely wouldn’t be better looking.
No. You couldn’t think like that. This was a job. This wasn’t a chance to get with Handsome. The guy you’d imagined didn’t exist.
“This isn’t what I expected,” you said. “But I don’t actually think it’s a big deal. Yes, we know each other, but not particularly well, and what happens here tonight will stay here. If you want to go through with our original plan, I’m fine with that, too.”
“You are?”
“I am. I’d actually prefer it.”
Clint fell quiet. He braced himself on the doorway and studied your face.
A strange feeling stirred inside your stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Clint was too good-looking. His face was too honest. When you looked back at him, it was hard not to only see Handsome.
Clint took a breath, and for the first time since his panicked once-over, his eyes dipped below your neck. He took in your exposed cleavage, and became very still. His gaze lingered on your hips, where the slinky fabric held close to your curves. His eyes found the bare skin of your thighs, and he made a soft noise. His throat bobbed.
Heat burned beneath your skin. He was such a big man. He’d always seemed so stoic in the diner. But here, tonight, he made no effort to hide all the ways he was affected.
“Okay,” he said quietly. He was still looking at your thighs.
It was hard to breathe when he looked at you like that.
“Okay,” he said again.
He tore his eyes back to your face and seemed to come back to himself.
“Want to come inside?”
You nodded. You were going inside with Handsome, and he still hadn’t taken off his wedding ring. Did that make this more or less fucked up?
He held open the door for you, and he let out a little huff of breath as you stepped in front of him. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze on your ass.
If you had any doubt left that Clint was married, his apartment erased it. The entryway led to an airy living room. A vintage table stood to your left, with brightly colored, mismatched chairs tucked around it. To your right, you found a long, leather sectional, decorated with a big throw made of granny squares. A wind chime dangled in the bay window, and in the lamplight you saw that the curtains around it were pink.
These decorations had not been chosen by a giant, scarred man who only ever drank black coffee. They’d been picked by the wife he was about to cheat on. It was hard not to be angry, especially when you saw signs of neglect around the place. The plants beneath the wind chime drooped yellow with overwatering, and dust had piled up around the moldings and windowsills, in all those hard-to-reach places that men never seemed to notice.
The door closed behind you. Clint held out his hand.
“Let me take your coat.”
You handed it over numbly.
There were a few rectangular patches on the walls where the paint looked a little too bright, as if pictures usually hung there and slowed the color from fading.
Had Clint taken down all the photos of his wife before you got here? But then why had he left on his wedding band?
You felt Clint’s eyes on you. He said nothing, but his body was stiff like it had been in the diner, when you’d first drawn attention to his ring.
There was a bench across from the coat closet. You sat down and unzipped your heeled boots. You expected Clint to watch as you revealed your thigh-highs, but he only stared around the room. His hand closed into a fist, then opened.
You rose to your feet.
“Here? Or the bedroom?”
“Not the bedroom.”
“Okay, then.”
You took a seat on the leather couch. Clint stayed standing.
“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he said.
He opened and closed his hand again. You felt a pang inside your chest. You knew he was being a jerk, but he just didn’t seem like one. He seemed… afraid. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to go through with this.
“We don’t have to do anything,” you said. “You can still change your mind. You paid for my time, but we can spend it however you want.”
He nodded. He took a seat on the far end of the couch. He still couldn’t seem to look at you.
“I want to do this,” he said. “I know this is the right thing to do.”
You bit your lip. You could feel yourself about to mouth off again. Angel would keep quiet, but… you looked at the sad, wilted calathea in the windowsill. Fuck it.
“Is this the right thing to do? I don’t think cheating ever really is.”
Clint’s attention snapped to you.
“Cheating?”
You gestured to his hand.
“Wedding band.” You motioned to yourself. “Hooker. Cheating. Unless you guys are poly, or have some kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement.”
“Oh,” was all Clint said.
He looked down at his wedding band and traced his thumb over the metal. His body seemed to shrink around itself.
“I’m not cheating on my wife,” he said. His voice shook, as if he didn’t quite believe the words. “She died last year. She was murdered.”
Those sad eyes of his. Oh. Fuck. You were such an idiot.
“Oh, fuck,” you said. “I’m such an idiot.”
Clint looked up at you in surprise, and your face burned. Now you were even more of an idiot.
You should say something better. There were things you were supposed to say when someone died, weren’t there? You were sorry for his loss?
You couldn’t say that. It felt completely soulless.
But Clint had wanted company tonight – he’d wanted it badly enough to pay double. You couldn’t fix his pain, but maybe he just needed you to see it.
“I knew there was something,” you said. “I see you every day at the diner, and I knew you were hurting. I’ve thought a hundred times about how I can make it better. And then I come in here and accuse you of cheating.”
Clint gave you a strange look.
“Today,” he said. “In the diner. You disappeared, and your friend took my table. You thought I was trying to step out on my wife?”
“Um. Yes. I’m sorry.”
Clint shook his head. “I should’ve said something earlier.”
“No,” you said. “I jumped to conclusions, and it was unprofessional. I owe you an apology for acting like such a dick.”
Clint made a sound in the shape of a laugh. “That wasn’t a very professional apology.”
“It wasn’t an apology at all, I guess. But I am sorry.”
“I know,” Clint said.
You gave him a small smile. He let out a sigh.
“This isn’t going too well so far,” he said. “Is it?”
You turned to sit facing him on the couch.
“I’m here for you,” you said. “You’re the one who decides what ‘going well’ means.”
“Okay,” he said. He slid his right hand through his left.
“It might’ve been a mistake,” he said. “Trying this.”
A suspicion formed inside your mind.
“Is this the first time you’ve… since…”
“Yeah.”
Oh, God. You never would have pushed to keep tonight’s date if you’d known. Was he just going through with this because he’d spent so much money?
“Do you… Is it too weird, that it’s me? If you really think this is a mistake, we should do the refund.”
“No,” he said. “I have to do this. I have to try. Something needs to change.”
“Okay,” you said. “I’ll stay.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes dropped to his hands, and quiet stretched between you. He didn’t move toward you on the couch.
Your instincts said not to rush him, but you only had so much time. He said he wanted to do this. Maybe you could help him remember why.
“It might help if you start by telling me what you want out of tonight.”
Clint nodded at his hands.
“Alright,” he said. “I thought tonight could be a… first step. I have these moments sometimes, where I’ll get excited to… see somebody. And then it hits me, what I’m doing, that I’m excited about somebody besides Grace, and I just…”
He cut himself off. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He gestured toward his chest.
You felt an urge to wrap your arms around him, but he’d left a couch’s worth of space between you for a reason. You stayed where you were.
“It might just be too soon,” you said. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”
“I need to be ready,” he said. He lifted his head, and you saw that his eyes were wet. He gestured again at his chest. “It needs to not be like this anymore. I need something good that doesn’t hurt. Even if I hate myself for wanting it.”
“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re not wrong for wanting to feel better.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But you do?” you said. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
You were being too glib. You regretted it at once, but Clint’s mouth twitched.
He was in there somewhere, a real person, buried by emotion. If you could draw him out, get him thinking about something else, maybe he could enjoy himself.
“So you want to feel good tonight,” you said. “Is there anything specific that you want to do with me?”
Clint’s gaze dropped to the stripe of thigh between your stockings and skirt. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Sure, he didn’t.
“You don’t know? Or you know, but you feel too guilty to ask?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You can be kind of blunt sometimes.”
Fuck.
“Sorry. I’m not big on half-truths. I usually do a better job of being polite.”
“I didn’t say you should be. But it’s surprising for somebody named Angel.”
You hesitated, and Clint’s eyes flickered with understanding.
“Your name isn’t really Angel, is it?”
You shook your head.
“You just told me you don’t like lying!”
A tiny, incredulous grin had appeared on Clint’s face. There he was.
“This isn’t a lie,” you said. “My name is Angel. Some of the time. Come on, you’re telling me your real name is Clint?”
He blinked. “Is it not supposed to be?”
“Wait really? Your name is Clint?”
“You thought I made it up?”
“Of course I did! Guys always pick the most macho, Old Hollywood names they can think of. Rock, Leroy, Rebel… Titan.”
“You’re lying about Titan.”
“I really wish I was.”
Clint chuckled, and you found yourself smiling. He was gorgeous when he laughed.
“Sorry,” you said. “It’s not good form to talk to you about other clients.”
“I don’t want good form,” he said.
“There you go. Telling me what you want. What else?”
He paused for a moment. “What would you do if you were on a date with one of those other guys right now?”
Most other guys got right down to the main event, but you didn’t think Clint was ready for that.
“Um. Probably a blowjob?”
Clint’s eyes snapped to your lips.
“Yeah?” he said quietly. “You’d take me in your mouth?”
Oh, fuck. He really needed a license for that voice of his.
“Does that sound like something you want?” you asked. “We can go slow at first, maybe just my tongue.”
Clint’s chest swelled, and he adjusted himself inside his pants.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Let’s try that.”
You got to your feet. “Do you want me to take my dress off?”
“Fuck,” Clint murmured. “I… Not yet. Yes, but it feels like too much.”
“Alright,” you said. “Keep telling me when something’s too much, okay?”
“I will.”
You walked over to his end of the couch.
Clint’s fingers pressed indents into armrest of the couch. He didn’t seem to know where to look – your face, your chest, your hands. His eyes darted to the empty wall, then back to you.
You took a step, and Clint’s knees brushed yours.
“Can you make some space?” you asked.
Clint spread his knees. You sank to the ground between them.
He felt so big up close. His bulky thighs seemed to surround you. Your hand reached out of its own accord to trace a swell of his muscle.
Clint inhaled sharply. His eyes were locked on your fingers. Slowly, you trailed your hand up the top of his leg.
“You’re so strong,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”
Clint’s brow creased, and you realized it probably sounded like a line. But it was true. What sort of life gave a man this kind of muscle? Roadwork? Construction?
But that scar on his face… the way he always paid in cash… and his massive hands, like they’d been swollen from years of impact. There was something dangerous about his strength.
Clint shifted in his seat. You let out a breath, then slid your hand farther up his leg.
Pressed on the inside of his thigh, bulging out against the denim, was the outline of his cock.
A whimper fell from your mouth before you could stop it. He was hard, and long, and straining to be released.
You looked to Clint. Was this okay with him? He was still staring at your hand.
“Should I stop?”
Clint hesitated, then shook his head.
You didn’t move.
“You promised to tell me if this was too much.”
Clint shook his head again. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. Something curled inside your stomach, the feeling that always came when you were Angel.
“It isn’t too much,” Clint said. The words were strained. “Please. Keep going.”
You brought your hand to his erection.
Clint shuddered. His cock twitched beneath your touch. The heat of him radiated out through the denim.
You gripped his shaft. Oh, God, he was big – girthy in a way that made you ache between your legs.
You glanced up at Clint. He’d gone very still. You swept your thumb over his tip.
His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.
He closed his eyes, and his mouth made a flat, tense line.
“Clint – ”
He pushed your hand away.
“Stop,” he said. “Stop. No. Please. I can’t have you touching me.”
He dropped your hand, and you brought it to your lap.
Your throat felt tight. Clint still wouldn’t look at you.
His hands shook at his sides, and he opened and closed them into fists. It was such a strange tic of his – like his body wanted to fight something that wasn’t there.
You sat back on your heels, but didn’t say anything. If Clint was anything like you, the panic would need a second to leave his system.
Slowly, his breath evened out. He ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes found yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You forced your voice to stay level.
“Don’t be. This is why you wanted a professional, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose it is.”
He wedged his hands into his pockets, then seemed to think better of it. He took them back out.
“It isn’t you that’s the problem,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“It was just, the second I felt your hands – ”
“It’s okay,” you said. “I understand. It didn’t feel right.”
His brow creased. “I don’t know if it did. I couldn’t pay attention to how it felt. For years, I only ever wanted one person, and I just kept thinking… I don’t deserve to feel this without her.”
“That isn’t true,” you said.
An emotion flickered across Clint’s face. “Maybe it is.”
You could tell he believed what he was saying. There was something getting in his way – something he’d tried and failed to power through. You kept quiet and let him wrestle with it.
“You’ve got to understand,” he said hoarsely. “It was my fault.”
He always spoke slowly, but now the words seemed to weigh him down.
“The kid who shot Grace, he was trying to punish me. And he was right to want me punished. I’m… I was a bad man for a long time.”
So he was some sort of criminal – or had been. Maybe it should have worried you, but you’d known already, hadn’t you? Illicit didn’t background check its users, and it attracted a certain sort of client. Technically, you were a criminal, too.
And Clint just didn’t feel dangerous. Your gut had been right when it refused to believe he was cheating. This time, you decided to trust it.
“I don’t believe you’re a bad person,” you said.
Clint shook his head. His eyes were dark pools.
“It should’ve been me who died,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have this life. What kind of a man would I be if I enjoyed it?”
Understanding washed over you. This was the thought that was strangling him. He didn’t just miss his wife – he owed her. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t even try.
But some part of him wanted to. He’d brought you here, hadn’t he? He needed something from you tonight.
You didn’t know if you could deliver. You didn’t how to make it right. It didn’t even feel okay to hug him.
“Tell me what you want,” you said quietly.
Clint sighed.
“I want you to get up off your knees,” he said. “It feels like you’re praying to me down there.”
This was definitely not the time to crack a joke about his God-tier cock. You kept your mouth shut for once, but maybe your face betrayed you, because Clint raised an eyebrow as you got to your feet.
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “Can we do that?”
“Of course.”
He pushed up off the couch. “Good. Want me to make you a drink?”
You were behind Clint when he stepped into his kitchen, so you saw the way his shoulders relaxed. He seemed easier in here than he had in the living room. Maybe he felt better when he was doing something normal.
And his kitchen was nice – small, but tidy, with bright, warm lights and a U-shaped wraparound counter. A highchair sat at the table, and the dishrack was full of tiny pink utensils. You smiled to yourself.
“Take a seat,” Clint said.
You boosted yourself up and sat on the counter.
Clint raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got chairs.”
“I noticed. I like it up here.”
He shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t complain about the view.”
You glanced down and realized your skirt had ridden up, so the hem only barely skimmed the top of your thighs. You didn’t pull it back down.
“It’ll take me a second to find anything to drink,” Clint said. “These days we’re only an apple juice and coffee household.”
“So you do have coffee at home,” you said. “And are those bananas I see above the fridge? What is it – do we just cut them up better at the diner?”
Clint began to riffle through the cabinets.
“I like to get out of the house,” he said. “You try having only a baby to talk to.”
“I’ve never seen you talk to anyone at the diner,” you said. “Unless you count me taking your order.”
Clint’s neck went pink, and he didn’t respond. He turned and reached up to open the high cabinet above the stove. The hem of his sweater rode up, and his undershirt lifted with it.
“Alright,” he said. “We’ve got whiskey, and we’ve got instant hot chocolate. Guest’s choice.”
Above the waistband of his jeans, his back was golden and ridged with muscle. A thick, pink scar reached down from beneath his shirt.
He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”
“Um. Either is good.”
He grabbed both, then put on the kettle.
While it boiled, he leaned back against the counter. He was on the opposite end of the U, directly across from you. His gaze fell on your thigh-highs, and he didn’t look up.
“We’re supposed to be taking a break,” you said.
“We are,” he said. “But… I want you to take those off.”
“Really?” you asked.
Most guys liked to fuck you while you still had them on.
“You told me to ask for what I want,” Clint said. “I want to see your thighs. All of them.”
“In a taking-a-break way,” you said.
He grinned. “Exactly.”
Something fluttered in your stomach. You unclipped your garters and rolled the stockings down your legs. Being careful not to make new pulls, you folded them into a pile, then set it on the counter beside you.
You felt a silly need to dodge Clint’s gaze. Your stockings were armor. Without them, there was no hiding the cellulite on your legs, and in your rush tonight, you’d left stubble around one of your knees. You didn’t exactly look like you were worth a thousand dollars.
The kettle whistled. Clint didn’t move. His eyes had gone black, and he was staring at your bare skin. You crossed your legs, and his gaze followed the new sliver of thigh you revealed.
Your heart stuttered inside your chest. His focus was so singular – it did something to you. But you knew he wasn’t ready to act on it.
“Clint,” you said.
He stirred and seemed to finally hear the kettle. He switched off the heat and poured two mugs of hot chocolate. He dolloped a healthy pour of whiskey into each.
“Is that any good?” you asked.
“We’ll find out.” Clint said. He picked up both mugs and crossed the kitchen to you. “Do you want the Lakeshore Diner one, or Bluey?”
“Bluey.”
Clint handed you the mug. “Careful. It’s still hot.”
It was, but not so bad you couldn’t hold it.
“It feels good,” you said.
Clint smiled softly. “Good.”
He made space on the counter and pushed himself up to sit beside you, close enough that his leg almost brushed yours. He cradled the mug from the diner, and his hands made it look small.
You nodded to it.
“Did you pay for that, or steal it?”
Clint grinned.
“If I confess, are you gonna to turn me in?”
“I might. But I have three in my apartment, so it’s a bit of a pot/kettle situation.”
“You’re a repeat offender?” he asked. “I knew you had a dark side.”
“Streetwalking isn’t a dark enough side for you?”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually walk the streets?”
“Um. For transportation.”
“Then we’re both streetwalkers,” he said. “You should be paying me for my time.”
“Not if you aren’t putting out, I shouldn’t.”
He let out a surprised laugh. “Fair enough.”
You traced your thumb over the handle of your mug.
“Do you want to talk about it more?” you asked. “The not-putting-out of it all?”
He shook his head. “Not right now.”
He took a sip of hot chocolate, and you followed his lead. The mixture was sweet at first, but it burned as it went down.
“Okay,” you said. “This is not as good as either whiskey or hot chocolate individually.”
“Yeah,” Clint said. “But it ain’t bad.”
You took another swallow, and heat spread out inside you. Clint’s shoulder knocked against yours.
“No,” you agreed. “This isn’t bad at all.”
Clint nodded, and silence fell between you.
You took slow sips of the hot chocolate. Clint probably thought he hadn’t made it very strong, but he was a giant man and you’d skipped dinner. You had to pace yourself.
“You smell nice,” Clint said. “You always do. Like you’re in a commercial for orange juice.”
You’d just taken a mouthful of hot chocolate, and it took all your effort not to spit it back out. You swallowed too fast, and your throat burned as you laughed.
“Is that a thing you look for in a woman? Market appeal?”
Clint had clearly watched your entire doomed swallow. A laugh sparked behind his eyes.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I meant…” he waved his hand. “Happy. Like those big groves of trees they always show, and people pouring really cold glasses for little kids.”
His cheeks were pink, and he seemed to be half laughing at himself. He was kind of a dork, you realized, underneath all his muscle.
“Okay,” you said. “Thank you?”
“Anytime,” Clint said. He leaned back against the cabinets and took another sip of his drink.
He smelled like aftershave, and a bit like mothballs. You wondered when he’d last worn this sweater – you’d never seen him in it at the diner. In the corner of your eye you could see him glancing at your legs.
Your whole body was aware of him, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing. You kept your attention on your mug. Bluey stared back at you.
“Is your daughter even old enough for this show?” you asked.
Clint shrugged.
“Not really. She likes it anyway, though. Little genius. Whenever it comes on, she’ll make this ‘oo’ sound at the TV.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing. Babies make a lot of ‘oo’ sounds, don’t they?”
Clint’s mouth twitched. “It’s a real specific sound. And the ‘b-l’ noise is a hard one for toddlers to make. Something about the way they move their tongues. She’s doing her best to say ‘Bluey’. I know my girl.”
“Does she say anything else?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s got a lot of opinions. You’d like her.”
He’d thought about you two together?
“What kind of opinions?”
Clint pointed at himself. “Da.” He pointed to the door. “Go.” He repeated both gestures. “‘Da go’. And when she means business, it’s ‘Da go go’.”
“She wants you to go away?”
“Nah. She wants me to take her to new places. She’s such a curious little kid – has to pick up every leaf at the park, always reaching for whatever I eat, like she’s gotta try it. I can’t wait until she can tell me what she’s thinking.”
Clint’s voice shimmered with pride, and an absent smile played across his face. He turned and caught your eye, and your heart seemed to tumble over.
For a moment, you wished this was an ordinary date, that you had an ordinary job, that he really was ready to move on, instead of just wanting to be.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
You couldn’t tell him that. You took a sip of hot chocolate.
“Where’s your daughter tonight?”
He pointed upstairs. “Landlords. They spoil the shit out of her. How about you?”
“Do I spoil your kid?”
“No. Have you got any kids of your own?”
You shook your head no.
“Do you think you will?”
The night was starting to veer into confusing territory. You could change the subject, but… would it kill you to play along?
“I’d like to,” you said. “My ex and I wanted to have them, but it was never the right time. Now I think we just weren’t the right people.”
“For kids?” Clint asked.
“For each other.”
Clint opened his mouth, then hesitated.
“What?” you asked.
“I wanna know about you,” he said. “But I don’t know if it’s fair to keep asking. It’s not what you signed up for tonight.”
“You paid good money for this conversation,” you said. “Ask away.”
Clint frowned. “If you don’t want to answer, just tell me.”
“I will.”
“Okay,” he said. “Were you married?”
You nodded. “We were really young.”
“And…uh…”
“What happened?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know, really. I quit school to stay at home, and then he was never there. I picked fights instead of saying I missed him. He, uh, he cheated. In the end. He had been for a while.”
You swirled the dregs of your hot chocolate in your mug. “It’s all a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”
“No,” Clint said quietly.
You glanced up at him. His brow was creased in the middle, and his eyes were dark. It would be all too easy to tip into them.
You busied yourself finishing your drink.
“It ended a while ago. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”
Clint didn’t press the subject, but you could feel him watching you.
“You do homework sometimes,” he said. “At the diner. Are you back in school?”
He’d noticed you doing homework?
“I am. I’m getting a degree in accounting.”
It wasn’t your favorite, but it would always pay the bills.
Clint looked at you sideways. “You don’t have the personality of an accountant.”
“What? I have the personality of a call girl?”
He snorted. “Definitely not. I don’t think call girls are supposed to tell off the guys who might be cheating.”
“I don’t make a habit of it,” you said.
“No?” Clint asked. “I’m special?”
Your face burned.
“I… I knew you before. It’s different.”
You resisted the urge to glance at Clint and focused instead on setting down your mug. “It does suck when the guys are cheating, though. I tell myself they’d just hire another girl if I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t take away the feeling that I’m hurting somebody.”
Clint fell quiet for a moment.
“I get it,” he finally said
He went to take a drink, then seemed to remember his mug was empty. He didn’t say more, and his gaze had turned inward. He traced his thumb over the knuckles of his right hand.
Was he thinking about his previous life – the bad man he claimed he’d been? The way he’d talked about his past felt so at-odds with the man sitting in front of you. But nobody was only one thing.
Clint caught you watching him.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
He hadn’t paid you to pry into his life.
“Come on,” Clint said. “I can tell that you wanna ask me something. If you don’t, I’m gonna feel bad for asking about you.”
“Okay,” you said. “For how long were you… doing other things?”
He nodded. “Almost thirty years.”
“You don’t seem old enough for that to be true.”
“The job chose me,” Clint said. “I was only a kid when I started.”
A tinge of sadness was back in his voice.
“Did you ever go to prison?” you asked.
“Twice. A long time ago.”
He searched your face, as if gauging your reaction. Was he worried about making you nervous?
“You can ask,” he said. “If you want.”
You could ask what he’d done, he meant. You wondered about it, of course. But did it really matter? He was somebody else now – a man who apparently hand-washed his daughter’s sippy cups. You’d already decided to trust him. And he was holding enough guilt as it was.
“Okay,” you said. “Did you get any prison tattoos?”
Clint looked at you in surprise. Then he began to laugh.
“That’s what you want to know?”
You shrugged.
“You’re not still doing… whatever put you in prison,” you said. “But if you got tattoos, you still have them. And you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot out.”
“Do I now?”
Clint was grinning at you, and your body felt warm – from the liquor, and maybe a little from all his attention. You weren’t drunk, not even buzzed, really, but your thoughts felt softer, a little safer.
“Come on,” you said. “Answer the question.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I got a few tattoos in prison. And a few outside.”
“Where are they?”
“The usual places,” he said.
“Like..?”
Clint held your eyes. He brought his hand to the inside of his forearm. Then his bicep. His chest, on the right side, where his sweater strained the most. The top of his thigh.
He hesitated, then touched the side of his stomach, right above his belt, in the place that led down to the vee of his hips.
It suddenly felt like a large portion of your insides had turned into liquid.
“Interesting,” you managed to say.
“Is it?” Clint said. His voice had gone very soft.
“You know,” you said. “I wouldn’t mind… if you wanted to show me. As a good, um, taking-a-break activity.”
Clint swallowed.
“They’ve gotten pretty old,” he said. “The tattoos. They might not be the kind of… tattoos… that you like.”
You held his gaze. “I very much doubt that.”
“Okay,” he said quietly.
He slid down from the counter and gave you a small, self-conscious smile. You felt a flutter of anticipation.
Clint pulled off his shirt, and you forgot how to breathe.
He took up more space like this – all the raw, bare strength of him, his thick middle and thicker chest, covered over by hair and crossed by scars.
And there was a softness to him, in his stomach, where he pushed out over his belt. Was this what he’d been worried about you seeing? It couldn’t be.
He felt so real, and he was so much a man – his body spoke to some animal need in yours.
“You’ve got to remember,” Clint said. “I got most of these more than twenty years ago.”
Right. The tattoos. You could see them in all the places he’d promised – fading blue ink, without color, in that old-school traditional style. A wolf’s head. A burning heart.
You gestured to a large, pinup-style portrait on his forearm. “Is that one the reason you always cover up?”
The girl was barefoot, and she wore only a high-cut swimsuit. She stood up on her toes, posing in a way that showed off a particularly thick set of thighs.
Clint grinned. “Kind of. But I don’t regret it. She’s good company.”
“I like her,” you said. “I like all of them.”
Especially the one inked above his hip – a knife, you thought, but you could only see the hilt of it.
Clint followed your gaze. “My body wasn’t like this when I got that one,” he said. “I was a cocky idiot. Didn’t really think it through.”
“No?” you murmured. You couldn’t stop looking at the knife. You traced it with your eyes until it disappeared beneath his belt.
Clint shifted his weight. “I know,” he said. “It’s –”
“Hot?”
How far did the blade go? If he fucked you tonight, the tattoo would point right to the place your bodies joined. Heat dripped into a pool between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together and forced your breath to steady.
“Fuck,” Clint whispered. “You turned on by it?”
You met his eyes, and the air around you seemed to pulse with static.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yes. You… you look good.”
“Me?” Clint said. “Fuck, gorgeous. Look at you.” He gestured roughly to the top of your legs.
Over the course of the conversation, you’d leaned back against the cabinets. With the hem of your dress rucked up as it was, you realized Clint had a direct line of sight to your panties.
By instinct, you shifted your legs closed.
“I didn’t say to do that,” Clint said. His voice was low and smooth all of a sudden.
You hesitated, then let your legs fall back apart. Clint’s eyes fixed on the place between them.
“Could you…?” he asked quietly.
He wasn’t looking at your face, but you nodded anyway. You took ahold of the hem of your dress and dragged it up until it sat around your hips. You took a breath, and spread your legs wide.
A low sound fell from Clint’s mouth.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Can see your cunt right through those panties.”
Your pussy throbbed with heat.
Without lifting his eyes, Clint moved as if drawn forward and rested his palms on either side of your hips. The long rectangle of his body surrounded you.
The room fell quiet but for his breath and yours. Surely he could see what he was doing to you – the wetness that was sticking to your panties.
“Clint,” you said.
He nodded. His eyes were still glued between your legs.
“Do you want to take a break from your break?”
He nodded again.
“Good,” you said. “That’s… good. Do you know what you want to do instead?”
Maybe he’d be ready to try again with the blowjob – yes, your mouth, on that weighty cock of his.
“You’re so fucking hot,” Clint muttered.
“Um. Thank you. But that’s not exactly an answer to – ”
“I want to watch you cum,” Clint said. “I want you to be my real life porn tonight.”
“Yeah?” you breathed.
Clint nodded. He grazed his thumb along the hem of your dress.
“I want you to take this off,” he said. “And I want to have a good, long look. And then I want you to fuck yourself, and I’m gonna watch.”
Oh. Oh, yes. Arousal flooded through you, and your nipples made stiff peaks against the mesh of your bra.
Clint’s eyes traveled in a line up your body, and a slow smile spread across his face as he took in your reaction. At last he met your eyes.
“Can we do that?” he asked. “I don’t know if I’m ready to touch you.”
You managed to nod.
“We can do that.”
Clint’s mouth twitched. “Good.”
He stepped back, and you slid to the floor.
“Here?” you asked. You turned to face him.
Clint nodded. He leaned his hips the counter.
With shaky fingers, you undid your zipper. You’d taken this dress off dozens of times, but tonight somehow felt like the first.
It was hard to look at Clint again, so you focused on his hands where they held the edge of the counter. You let your dress fall to the floor, and Clint’s knuckles whitened.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
You met his eyes, and his chest rose and fell. His gaze traveled down to your mouth, to your breasts, where the shadow of your nipples pushed against your bra. It trailed over the place between your legs, down the length of your thighs and back up.
You felt a needy flicker in your core.
Clint nodded to your garter belt.
“Take that off.”
You undid the belt, and it dropped on top of your crumpled-up dress.
“Better,” Clint murmured. “You’re so fucking pretty.”
Maybe it was just that honest voice of his, but it was easy to believe that he meant what he said. For a moment you felt a strange clutch of sadness.
Clint brought a broad hand to his crotch and began to palm himself over his jeans. Oh, fuck.
“Show me your tits,” he said. “Play with them for me.”
You took off your bra, and Clint groaned when your breasts spilled free. Was he always this expressive?
You slid your hands up over your stomach – it was prickled with goosebumps – and cupped your own breasts.
Clint took in a heavy breath.
You kept your eyes on him and rolled your thumbs over your nipples. It wasn’t much, but your body was wound tight, and you shuddered at the bolt of pleasure.
“Yeah,” Clint murmured. “That’s it.”
He was stroking his erection now, and you could see it, swollen and taut against the front of his jeans.
A whimper drifted from your mouth.
Clint followed your eyes, and a knowing look spread over his face.
“You like him, huh?”
“Just… just a suggestion,” you said. “You wanted real-life porn. If you were watching porn, wouldn’t you be...”
“Go on.”
“I mean, you wanted to feel good tonight, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” Clint said. He was grinning now.
“So you shouldn’t… hold back… from that.”
Clint’s grin widened, and he brought his hands to his belt.
“Okay, gorgeous,” he said. “You want a better view?”
“Please?”
“You gonna keep giving me what I want?”
“Clint,” you moaned. “That’s literally my job. Please.”
A laugh spilled from his mouth, and he began to unbuckle his belt. Anticipation pooled between your legs.
Clint shucked off his jeans, and his bare thighs slid into view. They were corded over with muscle, and some big animal was inked onto one of them. A panther, maybe, or a bear?
You didn’t look long enough to tell. You couldn’t, because Clint was wearing dark gray briefs that hugged tight to his hips. They were made of a soft, stretchy material, and the outline of his erection strained pornographically against it.
Oh, God, he was big. Even beside his massive hand. And at his tip, oh fuck, the fabric was stained dark. He was leaking already for you.
The ache between your legs was almost painful now. You acted without thinking, and slid your fingers down to relieve it.
Clint sucked in a breath. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Oh, fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
You shot a glance at his hard-on. You had some idea.
Clint seemed to follow your thoughts, and his eyes sparked with amusement.
“Yeah, okay,” he admitted. “Little tease.”
Something warm curled up inside your stomach. A small smile played around Clint’s mouth.
“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough of that. Next time you play with her, I want a better view.”
Reluctantly, you slid your fingers from your panties.
“Clean them off,” Clint said. His hand dipped into the waistband of his briefs and began to move along the outline of his cock
You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Desire throbbed in your throat, and thoughts slipped from your mind like water.
Every time Clint stroked his fist, the veins in his forearms rippled.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Put your fingers in your mouth. You can pretend it’s him if you want.”
You did as he said, tasting your own slick, and Clint made a low, approving noise. The sound seemed to shiver through your body.
Clint gestured with his chin. “Turn around for me now.”
As soon as you did, Clint let out a loud groan.
“Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect body. Even hotter than I thought you’d be.”
You heard him push up from the counter. He stepped so close you could feel the heat of him, his hand hovering behind your ass. The cadence of his breath had grown heavy.
You squirmed with the need to do something, to jump forward to the main event.
You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your panties.
“Do you want me to take these off?”
“Not yet,” Clint said. “Not here. Go lie down on the couch.”
He walked behind you the whole way into the living room, then had you lie down on your stomach, with a pillow beneath your hips. The leather was cool against your skin, and the pillow tilted your pelvis up, so your soaked-through panties were on full display. You rested your cheek on your hands, and kept your eyes on Clint.
Maybe you were imagining it, but he seemed to be unraveling. He’d stopped stroking himself, and his voice was ragged now, more rasp and need than substance. His eyes slid over the length of your body.
You scanned him for any of the warning signs you’d seen before – for the tic he had with his fists. You didn’t find it, but that didn’t mean he was okay.
“This isn’t too much?” you asked. “We can stop anytime.”
You weren’t actually sure if you could stop – your core pulsed so needily that you were half-convinced you were dying – but you’d figure out how, if you had to.
Clint looked you in the eye, and shook his head no.
“Not too much,” he rasped. “Ain’t nearly enough.”
He walked up to the middle of the couch. It was hard to see him properly from this angle, so you felt the heat of him first, and then the brush of cotton. There was something firm beneath it – his erection, grazing against your hip.
It was nothing. The smallest amount of contact, and he’d probably done it on accident. But your hips still twitched, rocking up and back against nothing.
Clint grew very still.
And then you felt his hand. His touch was warm – finally, he was touching you – and he didn’t bother to be gentle. His hand slid up around your leg, and he squeezed a fistful of your thigh.
“Fuck,” he growled. “Can’t fucking help myself anymore.”
He reached up to manhandle your ass, then lifted his hand and spanked you - a hard, fast slap on each of your cheeks. His palm came down again, and this time it landed squarely between your legs, smacking you hard over the damp patch on your panties.
A hot shock of pleasure sang through your pussy, and a moan dribbled out of your mouth.
You spread your legs apart and waited for more, but Clint only stepped back. He seemed to be catching his breath.
You whined, and Clint met your eyes.
“Was that okay, gorgeous?”
You nodded. “Until you stopped.”
Clint smiled. “Yeah?”
“You realize… you realize you’re torturing me, right?”
Clint’s gaze softened. “I don’t wanna be,” he said. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now.”
“Fuck,” you mumbled. “The torture continues.”
“Poor girl,” Clint murmured. He walked to your end of the couch and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
Something was melting inside you, something important, some structural part of your mind that knew all of this was a job. You held Clint’s eye and tried to cling onto the remains of it.
“I… I understand,” you managed to say. “I only want you to do what feels good.”
“Yeah?” he said quietly. “That’s the only thing you want?”
You hesitated. He was close to you now, and his briefs were at eye-level. You were only human, after all.
Clint looked at you knowingly and took ahold of his erection.
“You wanna meet him?” he asked.
“Oh god,” you mumbled. “Please.”
Clint freed his cock, and your brain dissolved.
He had a man’s cock – long and veiny, and thick enough to split you in two. Precum leaked from its tip, and when you whimpered, it twitched in response.
“Fuck,” Clint muttered. “He likes you.”
Oh, hell, were you in trouble. There was a reason Clint wasn’t going to fuck you tonight. There was definitely a reason. Wasn’t there? Was it a good one?
Clint wrapped a hand around his shaft and began to work himself in slow, long strokes.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
You obeyed at once.
He was so girthy that you didn’t know if you’d be able to take him, especially like this, with your head crooked to the side. But fuck, you were down to try.
Clint stepped toward you. He was close now, close enough that you could lean forward if you wanted to and run your tongue over him. Your tongue slipped from your mouth, and you looked up at him, pleading.
He took a slow breath. Some emotion crossed his face, and he groaned in frustration. He reached out with his free hand and dragged his thumb over your bottom lip.
“Your mouth looks so fucking soft, gorgeous. I bet it feels even softer.”
“Please,” you whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”
“Yeah?” Clint said. “Want my cock in your mouth that bad? Or you just want your holes to be filled?”
He pushed his first two fingers between your lips. Then he added a third.
You could feel yourself leaking through your panties now, making a slick mess on your thighs.
Clint’s fingers were thick, and long, and they felt huge compared to your own. You swirled your tongue around them, and a soft noise vibrated up from your throat.
“This okay?” Clint asked.
You managed a nod. It wasn’t his cock, but it was more than you’d hoped for. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him.
Clint began to finger your mouth. He stroked himself with the other hand, and could almost imagine it was his shaft sliding over your tongue.
You looked from Clint’s cock to his face, and felt a rush of warmth. Despite his words, despite the crude way he was touching you, his eyes were soft, full of something like admiration.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Giving me just what I need.”
You flushed at his praise. He slid his fingers from your mouth and brought his cock to hover right beneath your mouth.
“Spit on him, baby.”
You did as he said, and he moaned softly, fisting his cock tight as he smeared your saliva along his shaft. The tip of him was angry and red, and leaking all over his fingers.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Clint. Just for a minute.”
He hesitated, then tapped the tip of his cock against your lips. You opened your mouth and licked up a salty drop of precum.
Clint inhaled sharply.
“Oh, fuck,” he said. “He likes you so much, baby. He’s gonna like your cunt even more.”
He stepped away, and you ached at the loss. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Clint walked back down to stand behind your hips. You craned around to watch. His thick fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties. He hesitated, and you realized he was taking in the mess on your thighs.
“Look at that,” Clint murmured. “She’s getting jealous, huh? All hot for me, and I ain’t even taken a good look.”
Desperation coiled tight inside you. You arched your hips up from the pillow, and Clint dragged your panties down. For a moment, the mesh clung to your slick. Then cool air hit your aching pussy.
You were bare before Clint. He let out a moan.
“Oh sweet girl,” he muttered. “Fuck, is she pretty.”
He pulled your panties all the way off, then got onto the couch and kneeled in between your thighs. His bare legs brushed warmth into yours.
His cock glistened between his legs. That slutty knife tattoo pointed right to his base, where Clint was wrapping his hand at this very moment. He slid his fist over his shaft and stared at your pussy.
“I want you to spread her open.”
You did as he asked and reached your arms back. The angle was awkward, and you had to face forward to do it, so you couldn’t watch Clint’s face as you pulled your folds wide for him to see.
It was enough only to hear him – the heavy groan that tore from him, and the lewd, slick rhythm of his fist on his shaft, his strokes becoming ever more frantic. A fresh wave of arousal leaked from your entrance, and Clint sucked in a breath.
“Wettest little cunt,” he said. “You been like this for me all night?”
You’d never in your life been turned on like this. Your body felt so hot, so frayed with passion, that it was all you could do to breathe. Your clit pulsed sharply, and your entrance clenched around nothing.
“Oh yeah, she wants him. That needy little hole, just needs to be fucked, huh?”
“Clint,” you gasped. “Please. I need it.”
“Turn over,” Clint gasped. “Roll over, baby. I wanna see your face.”
With some maneuvering, you adjusted to lie on your back, the pillow still propping up your hips. Clint settled back between your legs, and your whole body ached at the sight of him – broad and bare, his mouth parted and his eyes dark, and his fist working over his length.
“Oh, God,” you mumbled. “You look so good right there.”
Clint grinned. “I look good? You look fucking perfect.”
Warmth pooled inside your chest, and you felt a hazy urge to sit up, or, no, to pull Clint down, to feel the press of his body over yours. You blinked it away.
“Tell me what you want,” you said.
He answered at once.
“Touch yourself, baby. Anything you want. Make yourself cum for me.”
“I want your cock,” you complained. “Want you to give it to me.”
Clint closed his eyes for a long moment, and a breath slid out of him. His fist slowed, and you realized with a surge of arousal that he was trying not to finish.
His stomach tensed, and veins stood out in his forearms. He was close, and you felt drunk on it – this huge, gorgeous man, coming undone at only the sight of you. He made you feel perfect.
You brought both your hands to the slick between your legs, and gasped. You were so sensitive now that the slightest brush of your clit sent a ripple through your body.
Clint opened his eyes, and they flashed with appreciation.
You drew a tender circle around your clit and sighed with relief. For easier access, you spread your legs wide, hinging an ankle on the back of the couch. The pose was obscene, but you were too far gone to care – and yeah, you wanted Clint to see.
Clint let out a strangled grunt. You were spread-eagle now, your pussy just one thrust away from his cock. That tattoo on his hip quivered with tension, and you ached to trace it with your fingers, to take ahold of Clint’s base and guide him into you.
A bright knot of pleasure began to tighten inside you. You knew what you liked, and you knew you’d finish fast tonight.
Clint stared, trancelike, at your pussy. He was jerking himself even more slowly now, his fist hardly moving, and you realized he was waiting for you to catch up. It felt a little sweet, and more than a little filthy – like he needed to see what he’d done to you.
“You feel good?” he asked. “Tell me how good you feel, baby.”
“Yes,” you panted. “And no. I’d feel better with your cock inside me.”
Clint shuddered. His fist sped up again, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.
“Yeah, gorgeous? He’s a lot bigger than that needy cunt of yours. She’d have to stretch real big for him.”
“I can take it,” you breathed. You worked your fingers faster over your clit.
“That – fuck – how you like it, baby? Like your holes stretched all the way open? Want my cock so deep you can’t even breathe?”
Oh, fuck. Your legs shook with pleasure, and you slowed your fingers.
You closed your eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet.
“Don’t stop,” Clint begged. “Wanna see you.”
You held his eyes and resumed your pace on your clit. He was breathtaking, really – all tense muscle and rippling blue ink, panting now, and jerking himself fast.
“God,” you mumbled. “I wish you could cum inside me tonight.”
Clint shuddered. He grabbed one of your thighs and held on tight enough to hurt.
“Fuck,” he panted. “Oh, fuck. If you – nngh – keep talking like that, I’m gonna fucking cum.”
“Yeah?”
Clint nodded. His jaw clenched.
“Yes,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. I wanna – fuck – I want –”
“Tell me.”
“I wanna cum on your cunt,” Clint gasped.
Holy fuck. Oh, God.
“Yes,” you said. “Yes. Oh, fuck, please. Please.”
Clint’s hand sped up, and the slapping of his fist filled the room. His whole body was shaking now, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it seemed he had to strain for the words.
“Yeah? You want my cum all over her?”
He was so goddamn hot like this. You angled yourself so your pussy was right beneath him and held yourself open with your fingers.
Clint’s fingers tightened on your thigh. His chest heaved. He let out a final strangled moan, and then you felt the hot spatter of his release.
He came for a long time. His cum coated not only your pussy, but your inner thighs and low belly. It dripped down your center and ran up onto your stomach.
Clint’s breath evened out, and he looked up, dazed, at the mess that he’d made.
“Oh, yeah,” he panted. “Look at her.”
Need fogged over all your senses. You slid your fingers back between your legs, and smeared Clint’s cum over your clit.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Your cunt was made to take my cum, huh? I wanna –”
He cut himself off.
“What?” you asked. “Tell me.”
He met your eyes. “I want to take a picture,” he said. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”
An image popped into your mind of Clint, home alone, jerking himself off to a picture of your pussy – to a picture of what he’d done to your pussy.
“Fuck,” you gasped. “Do it.”
Clint stilled. “Yeah?”
“Please,” you said. “I – fuck, I’m close – I want you to. Just don’t get my face.”
“Good thing I didn’t cum there, huh?”
You moaned. “Stop – stop putting ideas in my head.”
Clint grinned. He leaned over to the end table and grabbed his phone, then aimed the camera in between your legs.
He stared at the screen, and his eyes darkened.
“Goddamn is she pretty.”
The shutter clicked, and you whimpered. You worked your clit frantically, and felt your orgasm mounting. Your hips twitched on the pillow.
Then Clint touched you. He reached out with two broad fingers, and spread your pussy open.
“There I am,” he muttered. “Dripping right into your cunt, ain’t I?”
He held the camera close, and it clicked again. Your body began to shake.
Clint trailed his fingers through the mess on your thighs, gathering up his cum on his fingers.
“Gonna put this all where it belongs,” he said. “Okay, baby? Can I give you my cum?”
Oh, fuck. Did he mean –
“Wanna fuck you with my hand,” Clint said. “Fill up this hole like she needs.”
White spots flickered on the edges of your vision.
“Please.”
Clint rumbled in approval and pushed a single, impossibly thick finger inside you. The stretch seared through you, deep and perfect.
“So soft,” Clint murmured. “So fucking tight. She’s taking it so good.”
He curled his finger upward and the pad of it found that sensitive place. He began to stroke you, pleasuring you from the inside, keeping time with your own rhythm on your clit. Tension coiled between your legs.
Clint worked in a second finger, then, without waiting, a third. He felt huge inside you – so thick it would have hurt, if you weren’t so wet.
Your toes curled. Your back arched up off the couch.
Clint held up his phone once again and centered the camera on your entrance.
“Oh, fuck, baby. Your cunt is pretty when she’s full.”
The shutter clicked, and the tension inside you snapped.
You came all at once, a thousand nerve endings dissolving into pleasure. Your thoughts fuzzed, your blood blazed, and a broken whine fell from your throat. For a moment, you thought you might be crying.
Your orgasm burnt itself out, and you collapsed, breathless on the leather. Clint slid his hand from your pussy, and you took long swallows of air as your pulse steadied. Your face was wet. You really had cried.
The strange sadness you’d felt earlier had somehow worked its way into your chest. You looked around for Clint.
He gazed back at you from the other side of the couch, his phone forgotten and his eyes soft. He leaned back in his seat, and you realized he was caught in between your legs.
He didn’t seem to mind. You’d stretched out one leg across his lap at some point, and his hand rested just beneath your knee.
“God,” you said. “You made me cum so fucking hard.”
“I saw. You looked real good doing it.”
“You… you looked real good doing it, too.”
Clint let out a low chuckle, and you felt his chest vibrate between your legs.
“I hope… I hope you’re not too attached to this pillow,” you said.
Clint grinned. “Hated it.”
You laughed. Clint’s hand slid gently down your leg.
Since when was he touching you? And since when did it feel normal?
You sighed. Your body felt so heavy now, and Clint’s hand was so very warm.
“Are you sleepy?” Clint asked, and you realized your eyes had closed.
“A little. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You should rest for a minute.”
You shook your head. “Can’t. Unprofessional.”
“I won’t tell,” Clint murmured. “You’re doing what I want tonight, and I want you to feel good. Take a break, baby.”
Baby. It felt different, hearing him say it like this, outside the heat of the moment. Good, and a little painful, right in the center of your chest.
You’d think about it later. Clint was touching you with both hands now, drawing warm lines up the side of your body.
“Okay,” you mumbled. “You win this time.”
You closed your eyes again. Then something occurred to you.
“Clint. Was this an okay first step?”
You felt his laugh more than you heard it this time.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This was okay.”
You sank back onto the soft leather and let your mind float. The lulls between your thoughts grew longer and longer. You could feel the steady rhythm of Clint’s breath.
A sound blared from somewhere. An alarm. Your alarm?
The glow slipped from your mind, and you remembered where you were – a client’s house, and you’d burned through all the time he’d paid for.
You opened your eyes and pushed yourself up to a seat. Clint met your gaze, and his brow creased.
“My phone,” you said.
“Is it in your coat?” he asked. “I got it.”
He began pushing to his feet, untangling himself from in between your legs. Your body felt cold in all the places he’d been.
You were being ridiculous. You had to get up.
“It’s okay,” you said. “Let me.”
Clint didn’t argue. You followed the ringing to the closet and fished your phone from the pocket of your coat. You stared at the time. 1:08 AM.
“Everything good?” Clint asked.
You closed the closet door, clutching your phone in your hand. “Yeah. It’s my alarm. I’ve been here for two hours.”
Clint nodded. He glanced at your hand, then directed his words at a lamp on the end table.
“Right. We’ll get you out of here fast.”
“Okay,” you said. “Yeah.”
“There’s a bathroom down the hall where you can wash up. Towels are in the cabinet.”
“I don’t have to. You’re not a dick if you send me home like this.”
“Yeah, well. Agree to disagree.”
You had a routine for the end of your dates. Settle up, get dressed, get home, get showered. It didn’t involve going deeper into your client’s homes, and it definitely didn’t involve caring whether or not they met your eyes.
But a moment alone would be good. You could get your head on straight. You made your way down the hall, and Clint stood in silence behind you.
Beside Clint’s bathtub, there was a box of tiny rubber toys – about a million of them. You saw a pair of pastel duckies and imagined Clint, elbow-deep in suds, swimming them around for his daughter.
He hadn’t told you her name, you realized. Or his last name. He didn’t even know your first.
You looked at your reflection and understood why he’d insisted you clean up. Makeup ran in streaks down your face, and there was dried cum all over your stomach and legs.
You found a towel in the cabinet like he’d said. You ran the edge of it under the faucet, then began to wipe the mess away. Maybe he’d meant for you to take a shower, but it felt way too intimate to do that here. Not in that bathtub, not when you were already staying past your welcome.
A sharp feeling pressed up inside your chest.
You knew what this was. You felt vulnerable after sex sometimes – especially after you came. This was only hormones, and it was to be expected. You’d be perfectly fine in the morning.
The hollow feeling clutched suddenly tight inside you, and maybe you knew where it came from, but it wouldn’t go away. Tears burned behind your eyes, and your face twisted. A hoarse noise pushed up from your throat. And then the sobs came, silent and open-mouthed, each one shaking your chest.
You curled your naked body around the towel and waited it out, praying that Clint wouldn’t hear you.
This would pass. Your body was just confused.
You were fine. You were always fine, in the end.
Tonight wasn’t any exception. You rode out the surge and regained control of your body. You checked your reflection, and it was impossible to tell which tears were new. Clint wouldn’t know anything had happened. You ran fresh water over the towel and scrubbed off your face as best you could.
When you emerged from the bathroom, the living room was empty. The pillow you’d defiled was gone from the couch, and your dress and lingerie sat folded in a pile on the coffee table.
A stack of bills had been set on top of your bra. You counted them out. Fifty dollars.
What the hell? Clint had already paid double. You didn’t need more of his money.
You set the cash aside and put on your clothes, minus the garter belt and your ruined panties. The sound of a faucet running came from the kitchen. You followed it and found Clint washing out your mugs.
His back was to the door, and he seemed not to hear you enter. A pair of pajama pants hung from his hips, and he’d thrown on a thin white t-shirt. Muscles shifted beneath it as he scrubbed, and steam drifted up from the faucet.
Why was he scrubbing? You’d only had hot chocolate.
He washed the same mug for a long time without stopping. It wasn’t until you said his name that he switched off the water.
Clint placed the mug back in the sink. He dried his hands off on his pants and brought them to his face for a moment before he turned.
“Hey,” he said.
His voice sounded strange. You opened your mouth to point out the dish towel he could’ve used. Then you saw that his eyes were red.
“Hi,” you said. You walked over to lean on the counter beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Clint shook his head. “Can’t really afford another conversation.”
It had the cadence of a joke, but neither of you laughed. You set the fifty dollars on the counter.
“Then why did you give me this?”
“12.5%,” Clint said. “Double. It’s almost 1:30 already. I kept you here too long.”
“Don’t be stupid,” you said. “I’ve been cleaning up for the last fifteen minutes, and I fully fell asleep before then. I can’t charge you for that.”
“I took pictures,” Clint said.
“I begged you to take them.”
“I came all over you.”
“I begged for that, too.”
“But that’s your job. I know you charge extra for shit like that.”
You did, actually, but not as much as he’d paid. And it wasn’t the point.
“I’m not charging you,” you said.
“Then call it a tip.”
“Clint. Why are you trying so hard to give me your money?”
He paused, and his eyes found yours.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I had a good time tonight.”
“So did I.”
Clint gave you a sad smile. "You don’t need to say that.”
“No,” you said. “Really. Do you seriously think Iwould bother lying to you? If I’d had a bad time, I’d be home by now. And there wouldn’t be pictures on your phone.”
“Do you want me to delete them? You weren’t in your right mind when you agreed.”
“Not unless you want to. And it’s fine if you do. I know photos go against our whole ‘what happens here stays here’ agreement.”
“Right,” Clint said.
He fell quiet. His hands were pink from the water. He still wore his ring – he hadn’t even taken it off to do the dishes.
He’d lost his wife only a year ago.
You were standing here too long, weren’t you? You’d done your job.
“I’m going to leave,” you said.
Clint nodded. Then he reached for your hand.
His skin was warm and damp from the faucet. He swept his thumb over your knuckles, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“What if I don’t want you to go?”
Your throat felt tight.
“I also don’t want me to go,” you admitted. “But… I don’t think you want me to stay.”
Clint’s brows pulled together. He dropped his eyes and nodded slowly.
“Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t know.”
You squeezed his hand.
“We could do this again? If there’s a first step, there’s got to be a second, right?”
“I don’t know if I can afford that anytime soon.”
You’d meant you could do it for free. You opened your mouth to say as much, and a web of questions tangled around you. What were you going to do, half-date Clint while he was still in the throes of his grief? While you were making a living as a call girl? When there was a little kid involved?
Each one of you was kind of a mess. Together, right now, you’d be a disaster.
You swallowed a heavy feeling.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” you said. “When we got started tonight, you told me there was somebody new in your life, right? Somebody who made you want to take this first step. Maybe the second step can be with her.”
Clint looked at you strangely. He was quiet for a long time.
“Right,” he said finally. “That’s right.”
“Good,” you managed to say. “Thank you, then. For tonight.”
Clint didn’t let go of your hand. With single long motion, he pulled you into his chest.
The warmth of him surrounded you. He smelled like clean laundry, and his body was solid. You melted against him with a sigh.
He slid one hand around your waist. The other cupped the back of your head, and he held you close. You tightened your arms and clutched two fistfuls of his shirt.
You stayed like that longer than you should, the drum of Clint’s heart sounding low beneath your cheek.
Saturday afternoon was close enough to Saturday morning that the diner still bustled with the breakfast rush. Bacon sizzled on the grill and hashbrowns flew from the kitchen. A ton of hashbrowns, really. You guessed that most of the patrons were hungover.
A newborn wailed somewhere in Casey’s section, and nobody was happy about it. Two red-eyed teenagers had already migrated over to your tables, and you didn’t think they’d be the only ones.
Every booth by the window was filled, including Clint’s. But the family who’d taken it was almost done – their plates were empty, and when you offered to refill their coffees, all they wanted was the check.
Not that it mattered. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t get your hopes up. Last night had been confusing, and Clint might not want to come back to the diner. You had to be okay with that.
And, yeah, on your way out the door today, maybe you’d made one little decision, one thing you thought he might like.
But you’d be fine if he didn’t show.
You grabbed the family’s check and took a look at the clock. 2:10.
This was about to be the only open booth in your section, and it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
Fuck it. You set a Reserved sign on the table.
Casey greeted you with a knowing look when you came back behind the counter.
“We don’t take reservations on weekends.”
“It’s a one-time thing.”
“Uh-huh. A one-time thing that drives a blue Chevy?”
You stacked up an armful of menus. “It’s good business to look after our regulars.”
Casey nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I’m sure that banana revenue is make-or-break.”
“Shut up,” you muttered.
Casey laughed. “I’m not judging. Hot Dad is hot enough that you’re only being a little insane right now.”
You were being a lot insane, but you didn’t want to dwell on it. You got to work taking the teenagers’ orders. Short stack, eggs, double hashbrowns.
The bell over the door rang, and you spun your head around. It wasn’t him – just the three ladies from the nail salon around the corner. It was only 2:13.
By 2:20, Clint still hadn’t come. Your section clattered with conversation, and Casey’s was starting to fill up too. She looked at the empty table by the window, then back at you.
You’d brewed fresh coffee at the start of your shift, but the pot was already empty. You put on another.
2:28. You were being stupid now. Clint lived so close that he couldn’t be stuck in traffic. You needed the tips from his table, and your manager would start asking questions if he noticed the sign.
At 2:35, you opened up the table. Three men in Warriors colors claimed it at once.
You got the kitchen working on their burgers. You weren’t going to think about the pit in your stomach.
“He’ll come by tomorrow,” Casey said.
You nodded, but you felt certain he wouldn’t. He’d probably come and gone already before your shift.
It was easier this way. In a few days, when you’d gotten a little more sleep, the crush would be out of your system.
You considered taking your fifteen, but you didn’t want to strand Casey with the diner as packed as it was. Instead, you kept yourself busy. You double-checked every order as it came in. You refilled the ketchup bottles. You kept the coffee brewing and cleared empty plates before the busboys could get to them. When the punk kids once again paid with coins, you sorted each one out into the register.
You were sliding the last nickel into place when Casey closed the drawer for you.
“I need your help,” she said. “Hot Dad is here and he won’t take a seat in my section.”
You whipped your head up. There he was, taking up an absurd amount of space behind the hostess stand. His daughter squirmed in his arms and grabbed at his collar with chubby little hands. He didn’t seem to notice. He met your eyes, and his mouth lifted into a smile.
He’d come. He was late as hell, and he was getting in the way of the customers, but he was here.
You left Casey at the register and set off across the diner. Customers tried to catch your attention, but you only barely heard. A busboy swerved out of your path. The long row of booths passed behind you, and you came to a stop at the hostess stand.
This close to Clint, everything else faded. He was back in his usual flannel. His chest rose and fell beneath it when you met his eyes.
“Hey.” His voice was a low, warm rumble. You felt it in your stomach.
“Hi,” you said. “I heard a rumor that you’ve rejected some of our finest tables.”
“I don’t like those tables,” Clint said. “They’re not my table.”
“Yeah, well. Your table is full.”
“I noticed. Can’t believe you gave it away.”
“I gave it away half an hour ago. I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Somebody threw a temper tantrum on our way out the door. Sugar crash thanks to her babysitter.”
His daughter chose that moment to snuggle up against him, smushing her tiny cheek into his chest. She looked up at you with big, dark eyes. Oh God, they ran in the family.
“I don’t know,” you said. “She looks pretty innocent to me.”
As if to prove your point, her mouth stretched into a yawn.
“Don’t fall for it,” Clint said. “She had me on the ropes ten minutes ago.” He looked down at her. “Hey, Emily,” he said softly. “Tell the nice lady what you did.”
She blinked sleepily. “Da.”
“She’s trying to say she screamed out a lung.”
“Oh, obviously,” you said. “But it’s a hard sound for toddlers to make, right?”
Clint grinned. “Exactly.”
He looked back up to you, then caught sight of something on your uniform. He froze.
You felt a nervous little rush in your chest.
“Hey,” Clint said. “You remembered your name tag.”
“I… yeah. I thought maybe… some customers… would want to know.”
“That’s good,” Clint said quietly. “I’m happy for… them.”
There was no reason for the giddy feeling inside you. Nothing had changed since your conversation with Clint last night. Nothing had really changed since yesterday.
You let out a shaky breath.
“Okay,” you said. “Well. Can I get you set up at one of the other tables?”
Clint looked over to Casey’s side of the diner, where two booths were still free. The newborn had finally stopped crying, but it was taking the crowd a moment to reset.
“Those tables aren’t in your section.”
“No. But it’s the same banana you’d get from me.”
“That’s alright,” Clint said. “I’ll stick with my normal spot. I don’t want any other, uh, table.”
He held your eyes carefully. A warm feeling bloomed inside your chest.
“That table isn’t ready,” you said. “It’s going to be a long time before it’s ready. And you might not be ready. To, uh, sit at it.”
A smile played at the edges of Clint’s mouth.
“I know,” he said. “But I want to stick around. I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be worth the wait.”
If you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖💖
end notes: If you liked the way Clint ordered reader around, I did something similar in part 3 of my completed series what you can't have. Cameraman!Joel is a similar pining-y, flannel-clad dad, so you may like that one.
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How can you love somebody like me? - Javier Peña x f!reader
Rating: Explicit, MDNI WC: 3K Summary: “So you’re trying to say that it’s my fault? Is that what you want to say? It’s my fault that as soon as I turn my back you go and stick your cock in someone else's pussy?” You don’t even have the strength to scream right now. Your voice comes out rancorous but low, hoarse, like a blown growl. Oh, you’re not going to accept being lectured by him, fuck no. “No, I’m just saying -” he tries to explain and you glare at him, making the words die in his mouth. "What?" “Fuck, I'll never change,” Aka Javier is cheating on you and you can’t take it anymore. Tags: angst, smut, unprotected p in v, established relationship, cheating, mention of oral (f receiving), biting, scratching, kissing, angry sex, a lot of struggles, pain and arguing, mention of shower sex, reader is only described having hair, breasts and pussy, no other details added, mention of Steve, dirty language, Javier is really bad at feelings (canon to me lol), some messages written in Spanish (translation provided between brackets) A/N: I wanted to repost this fic for a while, I was pretty proud of it at the time so here we go. Originally written for a challenge hosted by @/jolapeno, who sadly deactivated. Edited by the adorable @aurorawritestoescape, inspired by this song. Special thanks to the amazing @baronessvonglitter who translated three sentences from English to Spanish for me ♥️ Thanks to anyone who will read this, I really hope you like it! dividers by @/saradika-graphics
“Why the hell am I here? Was I the only available hole this week?”
“No,” he whispers.
“So what?”
Javier came back and found you in the middle of the room.
You were brandishing his phone like a sword in the air, the banner of everything that was wrong.
His face went pale when he saw you like that.
Eyes wide open.
Mouth agape.
He tried to say something but you immediately hit him with a vomit of words.
“I know what you’re doing,” you hiss under your breath, feeling your eyes sting.
Javier is a marble statue in front of you, his lips pressed together, his absent eyes not even looking at you, staring at a spot behind your shoulders, his arms abandoned along his sides.
He seems anchored to the ground.
His last words to you still burn on your skin like a fire you cannot extinguish.
A heavy silence between you fills the air of the room and makes it unbreathable.
“Fuck, Javier, talk to me,” you whisper angrily.
You clutch his phone in your hands, so tightly that your knuckles are white from exertion, as if you were clinging to it to keep yourself from falling off a cliff.
“You knew I was no good,” he says sternly.
You have been in this room for two days.
Officially, Javier has to stay here because one of the henchmen of the new drug lord in town is set on taking him out.
Unofficially, he has you infiltrating the room.
Typical Javier, spending his time under protection fucking someone.
You foolishly almost believed it was romantic, until this morning.
“So you’re trying to say that it’s my fault? Is that what you want to say? It’s my fault that as soon as I turn my back you go and stick your cock in someone else's pussy?” You don’t even have the strength to scream right now. Your voice comes out rancorous but low, hoarse, like a blown growl.
Oh, you’re not going to accept being lectured by him, fuck no.
“No, I’m just saying -” he tries to explain and you glare at him, making the words die in his mouth.
"What?"
“Fuck, I'll never change,” he shrugs as if it were a truism that only you can't grasp.
His eyes shift to the ground, dull and absent.
“You don't change because you are convinced that you can't,” you admonish him, feeling anger rising from your chest.
"That's not true," he murmurs, keeping his gaze on the crimson and gold carpet that lies at your feet.
“Yes, it is,” you insist, ”and you seem to like to think of yourself as an incurable asshole.”
He still fails to see the real problem, the elephant in the room that lives and thrives among you.
"Then you tell me, if you think you know me so well,” he asks with defiance.
“You bet I fucking know you,” you lash out. “You think you're so mysterious and complicated?! Well, news flash, I've seen plenty like you. You’re just another man. You're not even that, you're a child. A child who's afraid of his own shadow when it comes to relationships.”
“Don’t fucking analyze me,” he hisses, finally setting his eyes back on you.
Raven, angry and fearful. He knows you can read him like an open book and this unleashes an awareness upon him that crushes him to the ground.
You bitterly laugh, “Truth hurts, huh? I know something about it”.
The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens, his nostrils flare, and his mouth tightens into a line so thin you think he’s about to burst. He stays quiet instead, eyes back on the damask carpet decoration.
“Yes, Steve, I'm fine. That jerk won't find me here, and anyway it's full of police outside the door.”
A pause and a sigh.
”No, no one followed her, they don't know who she is.”
You stood behind the half-closed bathroom door listening.
You smiled.
His voice sounded softer when he talked about you. You lulled yourself into that feeling.
Until you heard something else.
A booming laugh.
Water ran in the shower, tiny droplets coated the wall as the mirror fogged up.
“Whatever. Of course I'm still screwing around. At least, I was doing it before that asshole started chasing me,” his voice suddenly lowered so you took a chance and opened the door a little more. You wanted to make sure you heard right.
Your hand trembled against the doorknob, you grabbed your wrist to hold it steady.
“You idiot,” he scoffed. “Yeah, we'll be in touch.”
Suspicion. The black wing of a crow that had been wrapped around your heart for a long time.
But then why did it hurt so much?
You allowed yourself to hide it in a part of your brain where you never looked-that was a mistake. Making the hunch barely a firefly when it was supposed to be a bright neon sign.
He always places the phone with its screen down when you go out to dinner, softly smiling at it when he checks it after a few vibrations, telling you “it’s Steve” when you ask.
But you know that crooked smile.
He dodges when you ask him about his day "oh work, you know, just work."
He tells you he is with Steve but you hear female voices in the background.
Every time you try to confront him it always ends the same way, him telling you, “you’re paranoid, there’s no one else, just you, baby. You’re the only one I want.”
And then he fucks your doubts into oblivion.
You heard the thud of the phone on the blankets. And then Javier calling you.
You swallowed the gall rising from the walls of your stomach and just smiled when he joined you in the bathroom and suggested that you shower together.
You wanted some proof before you charged him.
If there was anything you had learned from being with him, it was that hard evidence was the key. So you played cool.
He fucked you against the shower wall and you moaned into his neck.
He licked your pussy like a man starved and you just bit your lips until you felt iron on your tongue.
He kissed you with that liar's mouth, and you let him.
And you fell asleep beside him, on the unmade bed of your uncertainties.
This morning someone from outside called him into the hallway to report the latest movements of the guy who was looking for him.
His phone was on the bedside table.
It was like a magnet, pulling your hand to it.
You were almost sure you knew his unlock code ‘cause you had watched the movements of his finger many times.
You tried twice without success.
The third time you let out a long sigh, visualized in your mind the movement one more time and unlocked it.
You were in.
Your heart was beating wildly in your chest as your fingers swiped and clicked on the screen.
And there they were.
Dozens and dozens of messages and pics exchanged with 4 different women.
You scrolled through one of the chats with a certain Maria, who regularly sent him pictures of her tits and her legs spread wide, her pussy in the shot.
There was sexting, arranged dates, same promises he gave to you, things you never asked for but he kept repeating like a broken record. Even the same pet name.
It was all written in Spanish, which was basically your second language so you understood enough to be shocked.
Blood simmered in your veins, a jolt in your heart, throat dry.
Your finger furiously scrolled through the chat, finding tons of messages he had sent her while he was with you.
You switched to another one and you found pretty much the same. And yet another, message after message containing flirting and explicit sex.
“Cada vez lo haces mejor con la verga” (“Oh Javi, you keep getting better and better with that cock of yours”)
“Mi coño te necesita, cariño, ¿puedes venir?” (“My pussy needs you, darling, can you come over?”)
“No puedo dejar de pensar en tu enorme verga goteando sobre mi.” (“I can’t stop thinking about your huge cock dripping on me”)
And the more you scrolled, the more a question formed in your brain, rumbling through your temples like a deafening drum.
Was he ever sincere with you?
When he looks up at you again, you see it. A veil of fragility in the dense blackness of his gaze.
He looks almost helpless. “I know you tried,” he admits, ”You tried harder than anyone else.”
“Apparently it was no use,” you chastise him.
He doesn’t reply.
Instead he comes closer and closer.
You pull back, responding to his every step forward with a backward one.
“Please,” he whispers.
“No.”
“Don't do that.”
“You have no right to tell me what to do,” you bark.
”I know...”
“Fuck off, Javier, leave me alone.”
You pull back until you hit the wall behind you.
Javier approaches, bending slightly to reach your mouth, his mustache brushing against your Cupid’s bow and you don't even have the strength to turn your face away anymore.
When your lips collide you let it happen.
It’s like when you drink too much Tequila.
It burns on your tongue, leaving you almost anesthetized as soon as you down it, and then an aromatic taste wafts into your mouth; it is lysergic, unusual, unmistakable.
You love it, so you keep doing it.
Javier is the same.
He's sharp, stiff at the edges, burns like fire, but he has an aura that you won’t mistake for anything and he hypnotizes you. He’s not like anyone else, despite what you told him. There is an underlying despair in him, a cry dying in his throat, “How can you love someone like me?”
He says it only with his eyes but you hear it clearly.
He is a time bomb that explodes in your heart every time he touches you. So you keep doing it.
“Fuck,” you whisper against his lips.
“Yeah…I know. I’m not worthy.”
And yet, you’re still here.
You let him peel off your every layer of clothing, to leave you naked and vulnerable in front of him.
You do nothing when he undresses too. Hastily taking off his shirt, fumbling with the button of his jeans, nervous hands and short breaths.
It is like some mind fuck game, intoxicating, dangerous, capable of leaving permanent marks.
He lowers his jeans just enough to free his cock, no boxers. Always ready.
His hands run over your hips and you groan.
His tongue slides over your neck, his eyes closed, his breath heavy and warm on your skin.
He makes you cry, but you don't say no.
His lips latch onto your nipple and adrenaline rushes through your veins up into your head, hitting hard like a jackhammer.
You don’t pull back anymore, you push your tit into his mouth so eagerly you feel his teeth closing on your bud and you whine in pleasure.
His growing erection leaks against your center. You are trapped. Not so much because you are between him and the wall but because you no longer know how to get him out of your head.
Right now it doesn't matter how much it hurts.
He slides his hands down your thighs and you know what he wants, without needing to speak. You wrap your legs around his waist. He kneels on the bed with you still clinging to him, you lie back on the soft blankets that smell of you both, arch your back and press against his cock. You folds splayed and dripping for him.
His fingers go up your rib cage, stop under your breasts and grasp there, he draws you back to him and your mouths collide again.
You let his tongue enter. You let the fleeting pleasure of this instant take over all the no's you know you have to say.
There’s no right kind of love here, this room is drowned in angry sex.
Angry at how you can never say no to him, angry at how he makes you feel, angry because you know that no one has ever fucked you the way he did, invading your body with a pleasure so addictive that it makes you sick. Angry because maybe he's right, he can't change.
You break the kiss and bite on his shoulder, a small act of revenge that really does no harm compared to your bleeding heart.
Your hands grasp on the golden skin of his back, leaving marks with your nails digging into it, your miserable attempt to leave marks on him in return.
You moan convulsively under his touch, your mouth wide open against his, your tongue desperately seeking him out.
His hands tighten on your ass, lifting you slightly, his cock slides over your wet opening, a guttural sound comes out of the back of your throat without you being able to hold it back.
You want him inside you.
You need him inside you.
And it’s wrong, and desperate. It’s masochistic.
You don’t even care for his jeans’s zip scraping your skin.
The thin line between pain and pleasure is so blurred now.
It’s a pathetic shit show of need and urgency.
You’d walk away from any other guy but Javier is the person you can never have just for yourself and at the same time he is the only one you want.
He is the knife and the wound at the same time.
When he asks “Whose pussy is this?” in his deep groaning voice that fucks directly with your brain, you can only reply “yours.”
Digging your nails deeper, biting more, wailing louder but just pleading with him.
You take his shaft in your hand and rub it against you in blind desperation, wetting it with your juices.
He groans into your ears while his hand reaches for your nipple and his big strong arm holds you close.
You are sitting on his thighs, your legs crossed behind his back.
His fingers pinch your nipple as you don't stop stroking his big throbbing cock.
Just put it in there. You think. I just need to feel your flesh against mine, inside me, claiming me like the rag doll that I am now.
Stupid bitch trying to have you when you’re damaged like a shattered glass, when you can bring nothing than heat to my body and freezing ice to my heart.
“Fuck me,” you groan.
He pushes against your core, entering you with one deep thrust.
Your pussy is weeping so much it doesn’t even hurt.
You clench on him with all the strength you have, chocking his cock with your walls.
“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re gripping me so hard, baby. There’s nothing you want more than this, huh? Me fucking you raw?”
“Shut up,” you hiss.
He starts moving, pumping into you as his hand reaches for your clit, brushing it in circles.
You whine, clinging onto his back, your face hidden in the crook of his neck.
You can’t look him in the eye, you can’t face your own shameful reflection in his pupils, you can’t think of anything else than this pleasure firing your body, your limbs, your mind.
Your pussy never gets the memo when it comes to him. She just clenches, and cries and asks for more.
At the verge of your brink, when you’re so utterly overwhelmed you could swear, you’re about to jump out of your skin, you hear it.
It’s the softest whisper on your skin, so low you barely catch the words, “I love you”
You cry a single tear that slides down the column of his neck, it could be mistaken for a bead of sweat so easily and Javier doesn’t notice it. But it’s there. You’re crying again.
You come, weeping.
Grasping to him like your last shred of hope.
But there’s no hope anymore.
You know you can’t go on like that.
You cried before. You argued before. It’s all useless.
A devastating orgasm shoots through you, leaving you without defense.
It’s the last thing you want but you need to get it over with.
You lie on the bed, feeling his last twitches inside you, his cum dripping onto your walls, his cock pressing against that spot that belongs only to him.
He lies down on you, gently crushing you with his weight, his sweaty skin against yours, the smell of your orgasm filling your nostrils.
You’re hopeless and breathless.
He's still inside you, like he doesn't want to leave.
You know you have to.
Eventually he shifts, lying on the other side of the bed muttering, “god, you really are something else.” He takes the pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and lights one, taking a long drag.
“I'm not enough,” you want to scream looking at him through the cloud of smoke enveloping him. “Or maybe you're not, for me.”
When he is about to fall asleep, you get up. You pick up your clothes off the floor and put them on silently.
“Where are you going?” he grunts.
Does he think he has solved it? Does he think you will forgive him as you did the other times?
"You only ever tell me the truth when you think I won't hear it,” you breathe, before coming out of the door without turning your back.
You leave him there, wondering what you were referring to, lost as he makes you feel.
There will be two broken hearts.
You know he loves you and you love him.
He is convinced that he doesn’t deserve you and pushes you away every time you get close to his soul.
He knows that you see him clearly; that scares him.
You are tired of fighting for the both of you.
You push the elevator button under the gaze of an unsuspecting policeman who urges, “Where are you going, miss?”
“I'm leaving.”
“Do you need someone to accompany you?”
“No, thank you.”
“Someone could follow you,” he counters.
“No one knows me, you don't have to worry.”
You wait for the elevator, still hoping to see his ruffled raven hair poking out the door, his voice calling to you, his hand tightening on your wrist.
None of this happens.
The only ones who will follow you are your ghosts.
Thank you so much for reading, comments and reblog are always appreciated, let me know what you think! ❤️
For the Hour
Being a hooker in Jackson isn’t glamorous, but it pays in coffee, bullets, and the good kind of winter gloves. So when your regular—Tommy—asks if you’d see his brother, you don't hesitate in saying yes.
omg this is literally 11k words im ded - warnings: literally porn with a plot, sex work (mention of terms hooker etc), explicit smut (18+), unprotected sex, age gap (Joel is in his 50s), subby!Joel energy, soft dom reader, emotional vulnerability, Joel has a bad back and feelings, praise kink.
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You caught your breath as the last wave of pleasure ebbed from your body, chest rising and falling in a slow, quiet rhythm while Tommy lingered there a moment longer, his breath warm against your neck as he let out a low groan, still half-drunk on the high you’d given him. The morning light filtered in through the tattered blinds, casting soft golden slats across the tangled mess of limbs and discarded clothes strewn across the hardwood floor. Somewhere, from the corridor or maybe the neighbors', drifted the scent of burnt coffee—bitter, familiar, grounding.
Tommy sat up with a grunt, running a hand through his damp hair as he muttered, “Shit,” under his breath, his voice still heavy with sleep and satisfaction. He glanced over at you with a lazy grin, tugging his jeans from the floor. “Remind me to come by more often.”
You laughed—quiet, genuine—watching him as he passed you a towel and leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek. It wasn’t part of the deal, not really. But then, Tommy had always blurred the lines—sweet in the way men like him weren’t meant to be, not in this town, not in your world.
“You’re already my best customer,” you murmured, eyes gleaming as you took the towel and began to clean yourself up, your voice laced with a teasing fondness, the kind reserved for people who came back again and again not just for the sex, but for something else they couldn’t name.
He stood with a quiet exhale, tugging his flannel over his broad shoulders, his belly soft where it peeked above the denim as he buttoned his jeans. His eyes lingered on you a second longer, not quite lecherous, not quite innocent either—just… watching, like he didn’t want to leave just yet, like he hadn’t quite figured out what you meant to him.
He watched you, gaze lingering over the bare slope of your chest, the way your skin caught the muted morning light spilling through the cracked blinds, casting golden lines across the sheets like something sacred.
You didn’t bother covering up—not with Tommy. The two of you had done this too many times, in too many rooms, on too many mornings like this, for there to be any shame left between you. There was something quiet in it now, a kind of unspoken understanding that had formed over time—not love, not quite friendship, but an intimacy that lived in the space between laughter and the sound of a zipper being drawn.
As he buckled his belt, fingers fumbling slightly around the worn leather, he cleared his throat like he was trying to shake something from it, something heavier than dust.
“Do you, uh…” he started, then hesitated, licking his lips like the question might taste strange coming out. “Do you have an age limit or somethin’?”
You tilted your head, brow lifting in easy amusement as you smiled faintly. “Sorry?”
He laughed, soft and awkward, and rubbed the side of his nose—a nervous little tick you’d seen before, like his body gave him away even when his voice didn’t. “I mean—with what you do,” he said, trying to sound casual but missing the mark by an inch. “With your… services. You got a limit, or...?”
“For my services?” you repeated, feigning offense, a teasing lilt in your voice as you leaned back against the headboard. “You make it sound so formal.”
“Quit,” he muttered, a laugh under his breath, but there was something beneath it—something that wasn’t quite a joke.
You smiled at him again, slower this time, more real. “Not really,” you said with a shrug, reaching for the towel more out of habit than modesty. “As long as they’re sweet... can get it up... and make sure they pay well.”
Because in Jackson, payment wasn’t green bills or cards anymore—those belonged to a world that had crumbled with the last election and the first outbreak. Now, people paid in what mattered. A tin of that good jam made from the summer’s last raspberries. A half-empty bag of coffee beans that still smelled like mornings from before. Gloves thick enough to survive the frost that rolled in from the mountains. Cans of peaches, salt for the roads, shotgun shells, antibiotics, clean socks. Favors. Names. Protection. A seat near the fire.
He chuckled at that, the tension easing from his shoulders like you’d let him off some invisible hook.
You tilted your head again, watching him as you sat forward slightly, your hair sliding over your shoulder in a loose, dark curtain. His eyes caught on it—just for a second, but enough to notice.
“So,” you said softly, the teasing edge slipping just slightly from your voice, replaced by something gentler—curiosity with a tilt of wariness, a shift in the air between you. “Why’re you askin’?”
Tommy exhaled with a quiet huff, running a hand back through his hair and catching the loose strands that had fallen from his ponytail, fingers dragging through it with a kind of frustrated carelessness.
“It’s just…” he started, voice trailing off before picking back up again with a sigh. “My brother. Joel. I think he could, you know—benefit from... all this.” He gestured vaguely in your direction, hand cutting through the air as his eyes flitted across your still-bare body, lingering but not ogling, like he was trying to make a point without being crude.
Joel.
The name landed with a quiet thud, familiar but unexpected.
Of course you’d seen him around—Jackson wasn’t big enough for anyone to stay invisible for long. He was older, that much was clear; wore the years like a weight across his shoulders and a scowl that never quite left his face. Always furrowed at the brow, jaw set like he was bracing for a blow that hadn’t come yet. Handsome in a rough-edged, quietly dangerous way—not like Tommy, whose smile came easy and whose touch always felt a little more like comfort than command.
Sometimes, when you looked at them side by side, you forgot they were cut from the same cloth. Same blood. Same broken world.
You let out a breath of laughter, amused and maybe a little intrigued, as you rose to your feet, the light catching along the soft curves of your body, bare and unashamed, each step toward him slow and fluid, the kind of motion meant to be watched. Your hips swayed with the ease of someone who knew exactly how she moved, your skin still flushed from the morning, the remnants of pleasure humming faintly in your limbs. Sensual without trying to be. Just a woman in her own skin.
“Your brother,” you said with a soft, knowing smirk, brushing your fingers gently through the messy strands of hair that had fallen across Tommy’s forehead, still damp with the sweat of sex and sleep and something in between. The gesture was easy, instinctive—your touch lingering only a moment before it drifted lower, settling at the nape of his neck where your fingers curled loosely, not to pull him close, but simply to stay connected. “Doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d pay a visit to a hooker.”
Your voice was teasing, light on the surface, but there was something deeper threaded beneath it—some quiet question you didn’t ask aloud.
Tommy’s hands found your waist without hesitation, as if drawn there by muscle memory more than intent. His touch was broad, familiar, grounding—palms warm against your skin, a little rough from the kind of labor this world demanded of men like him, the kind of years that wore into the bones. There was nothing hurried about the way he held you, nothing that spoke of possession in the traditional sense, but it was there nonetheless—a kind of unspoken tether, something formed not from love or lust but from routine, from comfort, from the simple ache of being human in a place that had taken too much.
Whatever this was between you and Tommy—it didn’t have a name. There’d never been promises or claims, no plans made or futures built. But the line between business and something softer had blurred a long time ago, and neither of you had ever bothered to draw it back again. It was easier this way.
He looked down at you, lips quirking into a crooked grin that didn’t quite make it to his eyes, which always seemed just a little too tired, like he hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in years. “Yeah,” he murmured, the words softer now, almost thoughtful. “He ain’t. But maybe that’s exactly why he needs it.”
You hummed quietly in response, letting your hands slide from his neck down to his chest, fingers resting lightly over his heartbeat. You tilted your face up to meet his, chin angled just slightly, and the distance between you felt at once too close and not close enough.
“He’s fifty-six,” Tommy said, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth crooked and amused, eyes crinkling just a little as he shook his head. “Old bastard,” he added with a chuckle, like he was fond of the man but couldn’t help teasing him anyway, like it was easier to speak in jokes than admit the weight behind the thought—that time had moved on without asking, and they were all just trying to catch up.
You let out a dramatic gasp, sharp and playful, one hand flying to your chest as though genuinely scandalized, though the glint in your eyes gave you away immediately. “Tommy,” you said, drawing out his name in that mock-offended tone you knew always pulled a smile from him, “what kind of girl do you take me for?”
Your voice was honey-drenched, rich with pretend indignation, all wide, fluttering eyes and arched brows, even as you stood in front of him still completely bare, the golden morning light licking across your skin like it had been invited.
Tommy’s grin tugged crooked across his lips, slow and easy, like it had nowhere else to be. “The kind of girl who says she’s shocked,” he drawled, eyes dipping meaningfully down your body, “while standin’ butt-naked in my arms.”
And then, as if to punctuate his point, he gave your ass a firm, unapologetic slap, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Now put some clothes on,” he added, voice light but still edged with that gravelly fondness he tried to hide. “Before I end up stayin’ another hour and missin’ patrol—again.”
You yelped, laughing as you twisted away from his touch, jumping back into the warmth of the tangled bedspread, sheets twisted like vines beneath you. His handprint still tingled on your skin, a reminder of how close things could still burn even after the fire was out.
Tommy bent to grab his jacket off the chair, slinging it over one arm as he turned toward the door, but then paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder with that half-smile he always wore when he wasn’t quite sure how to say what he meant.
“So, Joel?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t trying to care too much. “You’ll see him?”
You met his gaze, all ease and softness now, letting your weight sink back into the bed as you pulled the sheet loosely over your thighs. You smiled, slow and sure.
“I’ll see him.”
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Tommy sat at the far end of the Tipsy Bison’s bar, his knee bouncing beneath the table with a restlessness that betrayed more than he meant it to, jittery and twitchy like the truth was sitting in his lap and he didn’t know where to put it. His beer sat mostly untouched in front of him, beads of condensation sliding lazily down the bottle’s neck, forgotten. Across from him, Joel nursed his second glass of whiskey with the kind of single-minded focus that suggested he was trying not to think too hard about anything else.
Joel was mid-grumble, voice low and gravelly, muttering into his glass like it had personally offended him. “These kids on patrol,” he said, shaking his head, “they’re damn near still in diapers—think they know everything, but can’t read a fuckin’ map to save their lives. I had to double back twice today. And my knees…” he trailed off with a grimace, reaching down to rub one as if the act alone could conjure youth. “Shit don’t work like it used to.”
Tommy blinked, and then—without really meaning to, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them—he blurted, “Hey, you should go see this masseuse I know.”
Joel paused mid-sip, squinting over the rim of his glass like Tommy had just spoken in tongues. “Masseuse?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said, trying to sound casual but already feeling the weight of what he wasn’t saying begin to gather in his chest. “She’s real good. Works outta her place. Kinda… therapeutic.”
It wasn’t technically a lie. You did use your hands. You did know how to relieve tension. But if Joel had even the faintest idea of the things you did inside that soft little house of yours—the same one with the blue curtains and the jasmine Tommy had planted out front in exchange for a particularly memorable morning—he would’ve spit his drink out on the floor, gotten up, and walked home on those bad knees just to scold Tommy like they were kids again.
Because Joel, bless him, would’ve done what Joel always did—squint real hard, say something like “Jesus Christ, Tommy,” then go on about morals and dignity and how the world’s gone to hell.
So no, Tommy didn’t tell him everything.
Didn’t tell him about the soft, lilting laugh you had, or the way your door was always unlocked for him. Didn’t mention the way you said his name when he showed up late, or the sweet little things you did with your mouth that had nothing to do with pressure points. And he sure as hell didn’t mention the way you made him feel—warm and wanted and like the end of the world hadn’t already come and gone.
“Why the hell would I need a massage?” Joel muttered, voice rough as gravel as he leaned back in his chair, scowl etched deep between his brows. “What I need is for people to stop assignin’ me shifts with goddamn teenagers who can’t tell north from their own ass, and a patrol route that doesn’t run me straight into a fuckin’ ravine.”
Tommy scoffed, lifting his beer but not bothering to drink from it, eyes rolling as he shook his head. “You just spent the last thirty minutes complainin’ about your back, Joel.”
Joel shot him a look—sharp, defensive—the kind that had scared men once, back when fear was still a luxury. “That don’t mean I want some stranger touchin’ it,” he said, shoulders stiffening as he reached instinctively for his glass again. “Ain’t lookin’ to have someone mess it up worse than it already is.”
Tommy flinched at the word—touching—and it landed wrong, punched straight into his gut like a sucker hit. Not because Joel meant anything by it, but because he did. And before he could shut it down, there it was again—you—bent over him, lips parted, breath hot against his neck, your hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slow like you had all the time in the world. The soft sound you made when you sank down on him, the way your tits bounced against his chest, warm and slick, and how your fingers dragged down his spine, nails scratching just enough to make his hips jerk. His cock twitched, hard and immediate, a pulse of heat shooting through him that had no place in this conversation.
He cleared his throat, forcing himself back to the present. “Come on,” Tommy urged, voice lighter now, too easy to be innocent. “She’s real good. Not just in the way you’re thinkin’, either. She’s sweet. Quiet. One of those girls you don’t really notice till you do, and then it’s like you can’t stop.”
Joel arched a brow, unimpressed, suspicion already creeping into the lines of his face. “That so.”
“Yeah,” Tommy said quickly, pushing past the moment. “Real good hands. Knows what she’s doin’. And I’m tellin’ you—first one’s on the house. She won’t even charge you.”
Joel grunted, unconvinced, but didn’t push the conversation away completely. He just shifted in his chair, bones cracking, and muttered something under his breath about not likin’ surprises.
And Tommy—well, Tommy just smiled into his beer again, trying not to think about how you’d looked the last time he left your place, tangled in sheets and flushed with sleep, calling his name like it was something soft.
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Joel stood stiffly on your porch, the wood creaking beneath his boots as he pressed his thick fingers into the knot burrowed deep in the side of his neck, muttering low, gravel-soaked profanities beneath his breath—half at the knot, half at Tommy, and half at himself for agreeing to this in the first place. The porch was too damn pretty for cursing—lined with flower boxes overflowing with jasmine and wild mint, and some old rocking chair that looked like it had actually been made for sitting, not surviving.
He knocked twice—sharp, reluctant—and already regretted whatever the hell Tommy had gotten him into.
The door swung open almost immediately, like you’d been waiting on the other side, like you’d known he’d hesitate and come anyway.
Joel failed—spectacularly—to hide his reaction.
Tommy had mentioned you were a woman, sure. He had not mentioned that you were the kind of woman who made men forget how to breathe. The morning light spilled in behind him, framing you in gold like some holy sin, soft and warm, the robe you wore cinched lazily at the waist like it wasn’t trying to hide anything, just loosely draped to suggest comfort—but his eyes caught the line of your collarbone, the way the fabric parted ever so slightly, and dropped, uninvited, to the swell of your cleavage.
He clenched his jaw, hard.
What the fuck kinda masseuse looks like this?
He’d been expecting someone else entirely—some no-nonsense, middle-aged woman with short gray hair and orthopedic sandals, maybe a raspy smoker’s laugh and a mug that said #1 Back Cracker, someone who would offer him over-steeped tea and tell him stories about her son in the army or her time stationed in Kabul. He hadn’t planned for this—for lace peeking out from under your robe, for legs bare and smooth in the glow of a Jackson sunrise, for you smiling at him like you already knew he didn’t have the guts to walk away.
“Joel, right?” you asked, your voice light, almost teasing, as you leaned a little deeper into the doorway, the name tasting curious on your tongue. “Tommy’s brother?”
“Oh—yeah,” Joel said quickly, the syllable catching on the rough edge of his throat as he blinked like he was just remembering where he was. His boots scuffed slightly against the floor as he shifted his weight, shoulders twitching with a discomfort he clearly didn’t know how to hide. “I, uh… Tommy said you do massages.”
The words came out like a question, like he wasn’t entirely convinced of the truth himself—and maybe he wasn’t.
You paused, something flickering behind your eyes as your lips parted—then closed again. A breath. A scoff. Quiet, sharp, and laced with a kind of tired amusement as your gaze flicked briefly to the floor. Of course Tommy hadn’t told him the truth. Of course Tommy had sent his older brother to your door with that same boyish grin and a half-assed lie, hoping Joel wouldn’t figure it out until it was far too late to back out gracefully.
He hadn’t told him that this wasn’t just a massage.
He hadn’t told him that he was coming over to have sex with a woman—with you—and not in some hurried, transactional way, but slow, deliberate, intimate. The kind of encounter that lingered on the skin long after the door closed behind them.
You bit your lip without thinking, the movement soft and sensual, more out of habit than seduction—but it was still enough to make Joel glance away, like he’d seen too much too quickly and didn’t know where to look anymore.
“Well,” you murmured, shifting your weight from one bare leg to the other, the silk of your robe whispering across your thigh like it, too, was trying to decide what kind of evening this was going to be. “Come on in.”
You didn’t confirm or deny his assumption—just stepped aside and let him walk into the space where everything might change.
And Joel—standing there on your pretty porch, fingers twitching at his sides, jaw locked and eyes anywhere but your mouth—hadn’t figured out how to say no.
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Joel stood stiffly in your bedroom, hands twitching uselessly at his sides, his body held like a man trying not to breathe too deeply in someone else's space—already half turned toward the door, as if he could will an exit into existence before you returned.
His eyes moved over the room like he was trying not to look at anything too closely, but there was no hiding the tension in the line of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched every few seconds like he was already regretting stepping foot inside.
The room wasn’t what he’d expected—and not just because it was your bedroom, though that alone had made his pulse stutter. That part could’ve been explained away, justified somehow—people did all kinds of things out of their homes in Jackson. But it was the way the space was set up that made his throat feel dry.
The bed, wide and inviting, draped in soft cream linens that looked freshly smoothed, was positioned at the center of everything, with candles flickering gently along the dresser, casting long golden shadows across the floor. There were no towels. No oils lined up neatly on a cart. No clinical sterility to hide behind. Just plush throw pillows, lace-trimmed curtains, a faint trace of perfume lingering in the air, and the undeniable hum of something not quite professional.
And you—Jesus Christ, you—had offered him coffee or water, your voice light and easy like it wasn’t a loaded question, and he, too dazed to think, had said yes. You’d disappeared into the kitchen, and he’d barely exhaled since. He wasn’t sure if he was sweating or just uncomfortable in his own damn skin, but every part of him was screaming that he didn’t belong here—that you were too pretty, too soft, too young to be touching a man like him.
You, meanwhile, were grateful for the excuse to step away, your heels silent as you moved through the house, trying to get your own heart rate under control.
You knew it wouldn’t take Joel long to figure it out—that you weren’t really a masseuse, that this wasn’t some wholesome back-cracking session with a side of eucalyptus oil. That lingerie didn’t belong under robes worn for healing. And yet here you were, wearing it anyway, lace brushing against your skin with every step, wondering how long it would take before he got up and left.
When you stepped back into the room, he was still standing—just as rigid, just as uncertain. “Sit,” you said gently, offering a small, practiced smile, your tone breezy enough to keep the moment from collapsing under its own weight. “Please.”
Joel nodded once, tight-lipped, and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed like it might burn him. His knees were wide, his elbows stiff, his eyes trained directly ahead—on nothing at all—like he was trying very hard not to see any part of you.
You approached slowly, extending the glass of water toward him, the condensation already beginning to bead along the side.
He took it with a quiet murmur of thanks, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment—just a flicker, but enough for you to feel the heat of him, the way he flinched ever so slightly like he wasn’t used to being touched without intention.
“So, uh…” Joel began, voice low and hesitant, the sound rough like it had scraped its way out of his throat. He rubbed a hand along the side of his neck, eyes flicking briefly up to yours before landing somewhere over your shoulder, already looking like he regretted speaking at all. “How long you been doin’ all this?”
The words hung awkwardly in the air between you, heavy with implication but wrapped in a poor attempt at small talk—something Joel Miller was not known for. You could tell it took effort for him to say anything at all, that his instinct was to sit in silence and let the tension pass like a storm front, but some part of him—some flicker of politeness or nerves—had nudged him into conversation.
Your eyes widened just a little, caught off guard by the question, and then you blinked, like you needed a moment to remember who you were supposed to be in this room. “Oh—yeah,” you said, stumbling just slightly over the words. “Since I got to Jackson, really. Started pretty soon after I arrived.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. You had been doing this since you arrived—though massage had never been the core of it.
Joel nodded slowly, his brow furrowing with thought, and you could see him working through the gaps, filling in the blanks with whatever image he had in his mind. “So you, uh… didn’t have any proper trainin’? From before?”
You shook your head, lips parting as your answer tripped a little over your breath. “No. I—uh. No, it’s all… self-taught.”
His eyes lingered on you for half a second longer than necessary, then shifted away again, landing on the corner of the bed, then the curtain, then the floor—anywhere but you. “Right,” he said finally, like it was the only thing he could think to say, like maybe he’d already asked too much.
The silence that followed wasn’t cold, but it was thick with uncertainty—his, mostly. His knee bounced once. His fingers tapped the glass in his hand. You could feel the weight of his restraint like smoke in the room, curling into the corners of the furniture, slipping under your robe.
You took a small step forward, smoothing your hands down the front of your robe out of instinct rather than necessity, and offered him a gentle smile—nothing suggestive, just a flicker of softness to meet his discomfort.
“Okay,” you said, voice quieter now, almost tender. “It might be easier if you take your shirt off.”
Joel’s eyes snapped back to yours—not wide, not shocked, just hesitant. Cautious in a way that wasn’t rooted in modesty but something deeper, older, worn thin over time like denim at the knees.
Still, he nodded, slow and uncertain, and reached for the buttons of his flannel, hands broad and calloused, fingers stiff with age and overuse. They moved with that steady, familiar rhythm of a man who'd spent most of his life taking off shirts for work, not for anyone watching. The ache in his knuckles—probably arthritis—tugged at him with every movement, but he didn’t stop.
He just tried not to think about how long it had been since anyone had seen him like this—shirtless, stripped down, exposed in a way that wasn’t about survival. He tried not to wonder whether his body, changed by time and burden, would make you flinch. Whether the soft at his waist, the scars, the salt-and-pepper spread of hair across his chest would make you look away.
You turned away—not out of modesty, not to create distance, but to offer him something rare in this kind of space. The grace of privacy. The freedom to choose, or not choose.
Behind you, there was a quiet rustle—cloth shifting, boots scuffing gently against the floor, the faintest creak of the bed frame as his weight shifted.
“I’m ready,” Joel said at last, his voice low and gruff, the words shaped more like a sigh than a decision, like he was forcing them through clenched teeth.
You turned around slowly, hands folded softly in front of you, gaze lifting to meet him—and stilled for just a moment at the sight.
He was broader than Tommy. Thicker through the chest and shoulders, his body weathered with age and labor in a way that wasn’t unkind, just honest. The kind of build earned from years of carrying things—wood, gear, grief. His torso was lined with muscle that didn’t try to impress, but spoke of endurance, strength without vanity. Sparse hair dusted across his chest, silver threaded through dark, and a thin scar trailed down from his left shoulder toward his ribs, pale and healed and unspoken.
You cleared your throat gently, “You can lay on your tummy,” you murmured, voice soft, quiet.
He nodded once, eyes flicking away from yours, and with a heavy breath he lowered himself down, letting out a grunt as he adjusted his limbs, clearly not used to surrendering his body to anything but pain or sleep.
You dipped onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight as you knelt beside his frame, your knees brushing the sheets. He was tense—every muscle held taut, like even now, he didn’t know how to truly let go.
You reached out carefully, hands warm and deliberate, and let your palms press gently against the slope of his shoulders. The moment your skin touched his, he flinched—not sharply, not out of fear, but with the quiet recoil of a man unused to kindness. Of someone who hadn’t been touched gently in years—not without urgency, not without purpose.
“That hurt?” you asked softly, letting your fingers still against his back, giving him space to answer.
“No,” he murmured, voice muffled against the pillow, gruff and strangely quiet. “It’s just—”
You waited. He didn’t finish.
So you started to move again, slow and careful, letting your hands glide over the broad expanse of his shoulders, down the rigid line of his spine, easing into the hard knots along his lower back. His skin was warm, rough in places, scarred in others, but beneath your fingers you felt something deeper—a kind of held breath, a body that had been bracing for too long.
And then—just there—just below his ribs, your thumbs pressed into a tight knot of muscle and he let out a sound. Low. Unintentional. Somewhere between a grunt and a breathless sigh, like the smallest piece of him had slipped loose without his permission.
You paused.
Not because he told you to, but because something in the room shifted—just slightly, but enough. The silence grew thicker, not with discomfort, but with heat. A different kind of tension settled beneath your palms, no longer just physical but charged.
You leaned forward, just barely—close enough that your breath warmed the curve of his neck. “That okay?” you asked, your voice low, velvet-soft.
He nodded, but didn’t speak.
So you let your hands drift lower. Slower. Testing. Exploring. And when your fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans, you felt him tense again—but not the same way. Not from pain. Not from unease.
From want.
A breath caught in his chest. His fingers curled in the sheets.
Still, he didn’t stop you.
You let your hands linger at the small of his back, then slowly, deliberately, splayed your palms across the wide stretch of his hips, fingertips grazing just beneath the worn hem of his jeans. The heat coming off him was no longer the warmth of skin—it was heavier now.
“Turn over,” you murmured, your voice barely more than breath, a suggestion wrapped in silk.
Joel hesitated—but only for a beat—before he shifted beneath your touch, his breath hitching slightly as he rolled onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. His chest rose and fell with quiet tension, each breath like he was trying to steady something inside of him that had already tipped. His hair was mussed from the pillow, his ears flushed red, and he wouldn’t quite meet your gaze—his eyes somewhere near your shoulder, like he couldn’t decide if this was the moment he should speak or simply stay.
You looked at him—really looked—and it hit you with a kind of quiet intensity you hadn’t expected. Rugged. Shy. Ruined with restraint. For one suspended second, you felt your breath catch—your body going still with the weight of what you were about to admit.
“I’m not really a massage therapist,” you murmured, the truth threading from your lips like smoke, soft and unembellished.
Joel’s brow lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise ghosting across his features—but he didn’t flinch, didn’t yell, didn’t get up and storm out the way you thought he might. He didn’t raise his voice or accuse you or spit something cruel. He just sat there—this man you’d heard whispered about around town, the one with the sharp jaw and the sharp aim, the one who’d killed infected like it was nothing, like breathing—and he blushed. His ears pinked. His throat bobbed. And for a man who was supposed to be all grit and gravel and gunpowder, he suddenly looked so soft.
Your gaze dropped.
And there it was—undeniable, obscene even—his cock straining thick and swollen against the front of his jeans, the fabric doing a poor job of hiding just how wrecked he already was. You could see the wet spot where he’d already leaked through, dark and damp and desperate, the denim pulled tight across the aching outline of him like his body couldn’t help betraying how badly he wanted this. How badly he wanted you.
“Shit,” he muttered, voice low and cracked, almost pained, one hand dragging down his face like he could scrub the arousal off with enough pressure. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
The apology hit your chest like a bruise—small and self-conscious and entirely Joel. Like he couldn’t imagine that his desire was allowed, like he thought being this turned on was somehow shameful. Like he wasn’t sure if wanting made him pathetic.
It was so different from Tommy.
Tommy never apologized for being hard. He wore it like a joke, a badge, always ready with some cocky little line—“That one’s your fault, sweetheart”—as he adjusted himself without blinking. He got hard, you both laughed, he’d kiss your shoulder or slap your ass and go right back to whatever he was doing, comfortable in his skin, in his want, in the way he took up space.
You reached for him before that shame could bloom any further, your hand wrapping gently around his wrist—steadying him, grounding him—and you leaned in close, voice soft and sure and edged in something deeper.
“Don’t,” you whispered, letting your fingers slide slowly up his forearm. “Don’t apologize.”
Your gaze dropped again, drinking in the sight of him—his flushed neck, the way his thighs had tensed, how his cock twitched hard under your stare like it hurt to be untouched.
And then—without breaking eye contact—you sank slowly to your knees between his thighs, the sheets rustling beneath you as your robe slipped open just enough to reveal the tops of your breasts, the soft glow of your skin catching the light. Joel’s breath hitched sharply in his chest, and he didn’t move—didn’t lean in, didn’t pull away—he just watched, wide-eyed and stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like he was afraid that moving might wake him up.
“That’s why I’m here,” you murmured, your voice low, velvet-smooth as your fingers glided up the inside of his thigh. You could feel the heat radiating off him now—thick, pulsing heat—and you swore his legs trembled just slightly under your touch, like his body had been starving for this, aching longer than he’d ever dared admit. “To take care of you.”
You reached for his belt then, undoing the worn leather with slow, reverent hands, letting the soft clink of the buckle echo in the stillness. He sucked in a breath at the sound alone, as though it unraveled something inside him.
Before you even freed him, you pressed your palm gently over the bulge in his jeans—and fuck, he twitched beneath your touch, cock rock-hard and leaking, the wet spot soaking through the denim where he’d already been dripping for you.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word trembling out of him like he wasn’t even sure he was allowed to say it. “This—this ain’t right.”
You looked up at him from between his legs, your position deliberate, your eyes steady and warm. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t shy away. You just smiled softly, your voice velvet-wrapped and laced in heat. “Why not?”
Joel’s gaze dropped—first to your mouth, then to your hand still palmed over the thick, pulsing bulge in his jeans. His chest rose in quick, shallow breaths, like he was trying to breathe through wanting. “You’re—fuck—you’re a hooker?”
His voice cracked on the word, like it embarrassed him to say it out loud. Like it made him feel ashamed to be this turned on by someone he wasn’t supposed to deserve.
But you didn’t pull back.
You didn’t offer shame or explanations. You kept your hand right where it was—pressing gently against the thick, leaking shape of his cock—and leaned in, close enough that your breath warmed the sensitive skin of his thigh through the fabric.
“I’m here,” you whispered, slow and steady, “to make you feel good.”
Joel opened his mouth, ready to argue, to throw up some sad scrap of pride or guilt—but you didn’t let him.
You kissed him instead.
Right on the inside of his clothed knee, a soft, filthy little kiss that made him twitch beneath your palm. So gentle. So patient. So goddamn unfair to a man who hadn’t been touched like this in years.
“Stop thinking so much,” you murmured, your lips brushing against him again. “Let me take care of you.”
There was a pause. A long one. You could feel it pulse between you—hesitation, thick and tight, the kind that came from deep inside a man who hadn’t let himself need in a long time. The want was there, throbbing—pressed up against years of restraint, of pride, of silence. But then Joel looked down at you—eyes wide, pupils blown, a little wild with it—and he nodded. Once. Sharp. Like the motion hurt.
“Okay,” he said. Then, barely audible—“Please.”
God, his voice on that word—so wrecked, so raw—you could’ve come from the sound alone.
You smiled, slow and warm, something curling in your chest, deep and satisfied. “Good boy.”
The words slipped out before you even thought them through—instinctive, soft, teasing. But the moment they left your mouth, you saw it hit him. His jaw clenched, his chest stilled, his breath catching like you’d yanked the air right out of him.
His eyes flicked away immediately, like he wasn’t sure what just happened or why it made his cock twitch so hard it strained visibly against his jeans. But it did. And he felt it.
He was so different from Tommy.
Tommy never waited. Never asked. He’d grip your thighs, mutter something cocky like “Bet you’re already wet for me,” and be halfway inside before you could catch your breath. He took control like it was his birthright—rough palms, fast kisses, always in command.
“Let’s get these off, huh?” you said gently, already reaching for the button on his jeans, your fingers working with slow precision, deliberate and unhurried, like you were unwrapping something rare.
He didn’t stop you. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, chest bare, arms braced behind him, watching you with a look that was part surrender, part disbelief.
You pulled the denim down, inch by inch, and then his boxers—already damp with arousal—until both were gathered around his thighs.
And then his cock sprang free.
Fuck.
It slapped up toward his stomach with weight, flushed and hard and glistening at the tip, fat drops of pre-come already trailing down the shaft. Not as long as Tommy, no—but thicker, meatier, with veins you could trace with your tongue and a curve that made your cunt clench just looking at it. The kind of cock that filled you. That stretched you.
Your mouth watered.
And below it—God. His pubes were wild, a thick thatch of dark hair streaked with silver, coarse and completely untouched, like he hadn’t even thought to groom because he never imagined someone might want to see him like this. And that happy trail? Not neat. Not delicate. Just a messy line of hair leading down from his soft stomach to the base of his cock—feral, raw, real, like the rest of him. This wasn’t a man who prepped for pleasure. This was a man who had been surviving.
And still—he was so fucking hard for you.
Visibly twitching with every breath you took.
Your hand found his thigh first, the heat of him pulsing beneath your palm, solid and thick beneath your touch. You let your fingers trace the curve of his muscle, the hair there soft and coarse at once, and you felt the faintest tremble as you leaned in closer, your breath warming the head of his cock just enough to make him twitch.
“You’re so big, Joel,” you murmured, your voice slow, low, reverent, like you were saying it just for him and no one else. “You’re already dripping for me, baby,” you added with a little smile, dragging your thumb across the head—slow, teasing, making his hips jerk like he hadn’t even meant to move.
His breath caught, chest rising like he’d been hit, eyes locked on you in disbelief. “Christ,” he rasped, the word escaping him like it physically hurt to hold it in. His hand twitched where it braced against the bed, knuckles white, jaw tense, his eyes dragging over you like he was afraid to blink and miss anything.
Then, softly, sweetly—you tilted your head, lips just brushing the inside of his thigh.
“Do you want me to use my mouth?” you asked, the question falling from your lips like silk, delicate but charged, heavy with intention.
Joel opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed hard.
“I—” he stammered, and then exhaled like it cost him something. “Shit… can I… can I see you first?”
The request was so gentle, so earnest, it cracked something inside you. There was no demand in it. No entitlement. Just the soft ache of a man who hadn’t been given softness in a long time, if ever. He wanted to see you. Not just touch, not just take—see. He wanted you to be real to him, wanted to remember how you looked in this moment, flushed and glowing and his, if only for now.
You couldn’t help but smile. “See me?” you echoed softly, lifting your eyes to meet his.
He nodded—barely—a small, shaky dip of his chin like anything more might shatter the moment. And when he spoke, his voice was rough, low, wrecked, caught between awe and the kind of ache that sat low in a man’s belly. “Yeah… if that’s okay,” he said. “I just—fuck. I wanna remember it.”
You straightened slowly, your breath soft and even, fingers slipping to the sash of your robe. The silk felt cool against your skin, a faint whisper as it slid beneath your touch. You untied it with quiet grace, letting the knot fall loose, the fabric parting to reveal the delicate lace beneath—your lingerie soft and sheer, clinging to you like second skin.
Joel’s eyes were on you now—truly on you—and the way he looked made your stomach flip. Not hungry. Not greedy. Just wide-eyed and reverent, like you were something holy he didn’t know how to touch without ruining.
You stepped closer.
His hands rose slowly, hesitantly, the way a starving man might reach for fruit he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. His fingers brushed your hips with the barest pressure—calloused and trembling, like even that much contact might be too much. His thumbs ghosted along your skin, just beneath the lace, pressing in gently like he needed proof that you were real and not some fevered hallucination his mind had conjured from loneliness and want.
“This okay?” he asked, voice rough but quiet, like it hurt to say aloud—like he was asking permission just to want you. His eyes lifted to yours, and they were so fucking open, something vulnerable flickering there, raw and unguarded, as if a single word from you might send him crumbling.
You nodded, slowly, letting your smile bloom soft and slow—something deeper than heat, something that said yes, I want this too.
Your fingers threaded into his hair—thick and unruly, streaked with silver at the temples—and the second your nails grazed his scalp, he broke. Not loudly. Not all at once. But in the way his breath hitched, in the way his knees seemed to go soft beneath him, in the way his entire body leaned into your touch like it was the first good thing he’d felt in years.
His shoulders dropped like a weight had slid off of them, like your hands alone were holding him upright. He didn’t move his own—just kept them resting on your hips, loose and trembling, like he was scared if he held tighter, you might pull away.
And when you tugged gently at the strands, he let out the softest, smallest sound—a whimper, barely there, but so raw it made your chest ache.
He tilted his head into your palm like he couldn’t help it. Like your touch was oxygen. Like he needed it more than he needed to come.
Like he’d been waiting for this—not just your body, but your hands, your care, your permission to be held—for far, far too long.
“You can take this off,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your fingers toyed with the straps of your lingerie. “If you want.”
He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly, his eyes flicking up to yours again—wide, hesitant, a little stunned.
“You sure?” he asked, and God—his voice when he said it, thick with that gravelly drawl and threaded with something so soft it made your chest ache. His eyes were almost pleading—puppy-dog eyes, sweet and unsure, hidden under all that gruff exterior. The kind of look that said he wanted it so badly he couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.
“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding as your teeth grazed your lower lip, voice as open and bare as the skin he hadn’t touched yet. “I want you to see me.”
His eyes stayed locked to yours, dark and wide and uncertain, but he nodded—just once, soft and small—his voice barely audible as he whispered, “Okay.”
You moved slowly, carefully, like the moment might break if you shifted too fast. Your knees sank into the bed, and you straddled him gently, your body folding around his like a promise, like something he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn’t stop wanting. His cock—hard and flushed and waiting—pressed up against the thin fabric between your thighs, heat meeting heat, and you felt him twitch slightly, breath catching in that way that made you ache for him.
He was still so nervous, so unsure, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want this, if you truly meant what you’d said—so you leaned in and kissed him, soft and slow, your mouth brushing against his like you were giving him time to change his mind.
He didn’t.
Joel kissed you back with a kind of desperation that nearly undid you—like he was starving for it, like every nerve in his body remembered what his mind had forced itself to forget. His lips were rough, a little clumsy, but so eager, so full of want it made your knees weak. His hands gripped your hips first—tight, tentative—but then one of them slid slowly up your back, the movement stiff and unpracticed.
You felt his fingers fumble at the clasp of your bra.
Slow. Awkward.
A clink. A pause.
Then another tug that clearly wasn’t going anywhere.
You smiled into the kiss, unable to help the way your lips curved gently against his. The affection in your chest bloomed too big to contain.
“Need a hand, baby?” you murmured, teasing soft and warm.
Joel froze.
Literally froze, like you’d just caught him red-handed doing something far more scandalous than trying to get your bra off.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—cheeks flushed, lips kissed raw, brows furrowed in mortified concentration. His hand was still awkwardly stuck on the clasp like it might bite him.
“Shit—God, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice hoarse, the shame already rising like a tide in his chest. “It’s just… I haven’t—fuck, it’s been a while. A long while.”
Your heart swelled. Not with pity—but with something softer. Deeper.
“It’s okay, Joel,” you whispered, your voice like balm, soft and steady. “You don’t have to be perfect.”
He huffed quietly, almost laughed—but it didn’t carry humor, just something strained and bruised, something that lived in the hollow of his chest. He shook his head, gaze dropping as he muttered, “I’m sure the other men you’re with…”
“Joel,” you said firmly, cutting him off before the sentence could reach its end, your voice soft but full of weight. You leaned in a little, pressing your forehead gently to his, forcing him to look at you, to feel how present you were. “I’m not thinking about anyone else right now but you. Okay?”
His breath shuddered out of him in response, his eyes closing like he was holding that truth against his ribs, trying to believe it. After a moment, he nodded, the smallest, quietest movement—just enough to say he heard you. Just enough to say okay.
You smiled at him then, slow and warm, and leaned back just slightly. “Now,” you murmured, fingers slipping behind your back with practiced ease, “let’s get this off.”
Your hands worked quickly, but not rushed—there was no shame in the movement, no hesitation, no apology. Just the quiet, practiced confidence of a woman who knew exactly how powerful she was. The clasp of your bra came undone with a soft snap, the straps sliding down your arms with sinful grace before the lace slipped away completely, falling to the floor like it had never deserved to touch your skin in the first place.
And then—you were bare.
Joel’s breath caught so violently in his chest he almost choked on it.
Your tits were fucking perfect. Full and high, soft but heavy, flushed with heat, nipples tight and begging to be sucked. Lit by the golden light filtering through the room, they looked practically edible—glistening, mouth-watering, obscene in how pretty they were. They swayed gently with every breath you took, right at his eye level as you sat astride him, so close he could’ve buried his face between them and died happy.
But he didn’t.
He just stared.
Wide-eyed, jaw slack, pupils blown so dark they nearly swallowed the color. Like he wasn’t sure whether to worship or drop to his knees. Like it was his first time seeing a naked woman and you were every fantasy he’d ever had—all of it—wrapped in silk, sweat, and sin.
And fuck, the way he looked at you?
It made you wet. Soaking. Aching.
Because his gaze wasn’t greedy. It was wrecked. Full of awe. Full of reverence, like you were something holy and he was already praying.
His tongue flicked out, instinctive, desperate—wetting his lips like he could taste you just from looking.
And finally—hoarse, broken, like it physically hurt to say it—he murmured, “You’re… beautiful.”
You smiled at him then, your hands still resting gently at the back of his head, your fingers idly curling through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re handsome,” you said, and meant it—because even flustered, even blushing, even sitting there with guilt in his eyes and wonder on his face, Joel was beautiful. In a way he didn’t know how to carry. In a way you ached to show him.
He shook his head a little at that, bashful, like the compliment didn’t belong to him, like he didn’t know where to put it.
You leaned in slightly, shifting your weight just enough to press your chest a little closer to him, your breasts soft and warm in the space between you, your skin nearly touching his. “You can touch them,” you whispered, your voice low, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as your breath shivered across it. “I like when people use their mouth.”
Your fingers slipped deeper into his hair, gently tugging at the roots, anchoring him in the moment, steadying him against the flood rising between you.
“Whatever you wanna do,” you whispered. “It’s yours.”
His breath shuddered in response—just a single exhale—but it sounded wrecked, like you’d just undone something in him that had been locked tight for years.
His hands rose slowly, big and broad and calloused, shaking just slightly as he brought them to your chest. And when he finally cupped your tits—gently, reverently, like they might melt in his palms—you swore you saw his lips part in pure awe.
His thumbs brushed over your nipples—light, tentative—and his gaze flicked up to meet yours, wrecked and open and begging for approval.
You nodded.
And he leaned in.
Your fingers tangled tighter in his hair as his mouth closed around your nipple, warm and wet and so gentle at first, like he was still afraid he might do it wrong. But the moment he sucked—just a little, just enough to pull a quiet gasp from your lips—you whimpered, the sound leaving you before you could stop it, breathy and broken and so full of want it made his cock twitch against the inside of your thigh.
He froze for just a heartbeat, pulling back only slightly to glance up at you, lips still parted, a little swollen now, his eyes dark with something soft and searching.
“Am I…” he paused, his voice rough and low, so unsure, like the words tasted foreign in his mouth. “Am I doing good?”
God. God.
Your chest rose with the breath you sucked in, your eyes already glossed with it, your lip caught between your teeth as you nodded—hard, fast, desperate for him to understand just how much he was ruining you.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hips already rocking forward, chasing friction. “Fuck, Joel… you’re making me feel so good.”
His eyes widened slightly at the praise, his breath catching in his throat, like he didn’t know how to carry those words—but needed to.
You cupped his face then, pulled him back to your chest, your thighs squeezing tighter around him as his hands cradled your hips and his mouth returned to your breast with more purpose now, more hunger.
He moaned against your skin, low and desperate, sucking softly, his tongue flicking over your nipple just to hear the way your breath stuttered.
“Shit,” you breathed, voice barely holding together, your body already flushed and trembling from the way he touched you like you were something precious, something sacred he didn’t know how to handle but wanted to try.
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your thumb brushing gently over his flushed cheek, your chest still rising fast from the weight of his mouth. “Lie down,” you murmured, the command soft but firm, wrapped in something far more tender than dominance. “Get comfortable.”
Joel obeyed without a word, shifting beneath you with a quiet grunt as his back met the sheets, but his eyes—God, his eyes—never left you. They dragged down your body like a prayer, following the way your hands slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slowly, baring yourself to him inch by inch until there was nothing left between you. His breath hitched audibly when he saw you, the heat of your pussy glistening in the low light, your thighs already slick with want, your confidence quiet but undeniable.
You crawled back onto the bed, slow and deliberate, your knees parting as you straddled his thighs again, his cock thick and flushed and waiting, twitching slightly where it rested against his stomach. Your breasts—red and swollen and slick from his mouth—bounced gently with each movement, catching the light like they’d been made for him.
And then—just as you were about to reach for him again—Joel sat up.
“Wait,” he said, voice low and rough, and a little breathless.
You stilled, your hands settling on his chest, your brows lifting slightly. “Yeah?” you murmured, brushing your thumb along the curve of his shoulder.
He looked at you—so shy, so unsure, like a man who didn’t know if he was allowed to ask. His cheeks were flushed, his lashes low, his voice softer now than you’d ever heard it.
“Can I…” he hesitated, swallowed. “I don’t think I’ll last long if you—if you use your mouth. Can I just—can I be inside you?”
You smiled, “Of course you can,” you whispered against his mouth, your lips brushing his with a sweetness that made him sigh into you, the sound barely audible but heavy with relief, like the permission alone had eased something he’d been holding for far too long. “I want you to.”
But before he could move—before he could even think—you reached down, your hand slipping between your bodies, finding his and lacing your fingers together. Gently, deliberately, you guided his hand downward, slower than necessary, not for hesitation but for effect—for connection—until his fingers rested at the slick heat of your entrance.
“Here,” you said, voice breathy, your eyes locked to his. “Feel.”
Joel’s eyes snapped to yours, wide and glassy, full of disbelief, like he hadn’t expected you to give him this, too. His throat worked around a hard swallow, the tips of his fingers twitching against the soaked warmth of your cunt, already glistening for him.
“For me?” he asked, the words almost reverent.
You nodded, biting your lip, your breath hitching as his fingertip brushed just barely against your entrance. “For you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with heat. “I’m so wet, Joel. For you.”
He made a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat—part groan, part plea—and you could feel how badly he wanted this, how hard he was fighting to hold on to whatever control he still had.
“I—” he started, and then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Shit. My back’s bad. And my knees—”
You smiled, warm and teasing, as you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, your voice turning playful as you reached for his cock and lined him up against your soaked entrance. “Gonna make me do all the work, huh?” you teased, your hips already rolling slightly, letting the thick head of him slip just barely into your folds.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, flustered, completely undone now, blinking up at you like you’d just caught him stealing something precious.
“I’m joking, Joel,” you said with a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping into his hair, your lips brushing his as you began to sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch burning in the most perfect way. “Relax. Let me bounce on your cock.”
Joel exhaled like he’d been punched in the chest, his hands gripping your hips instinctively, not to control—but to anchor. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and filled with something that looked dangerously close to awe.
And then you sank down—fully—his cock stretching you wide, thick and throbbing and buried so deep it felt like you couldn’t possibly take more.
Your cunt clenched tight around him, soaked and fluttering with every inch he filled, your thighs trembling from the fullness. You held still, just for a moment—breathing with him, grounding yourself—as your body adjusted to the sweet, overwhelming ache of having all of him inside you.
And Joel?
He fucking unraveled.
His head tipped back against the pillow, jaw slack, throat arched, eyes squeezed shut as he let out the most broken, shaky moan you'd ever heard tear from his chest.
“F-fuck—oh my God,” he gasped, the words tumbling out of him like they weren’t meant to be said out loud. “Fuck—sweetheart—I—I can’t—”
His hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what to do with them—torn between holding you down and worshipping you. His whole body trembled beneath you, his thighs tight, chest rising in frantic, ragged bursts like he was trying not to cry.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed again, voice high and wrecked, cracking under the weight of it all—awe, hunger, helpless fucking need. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight—so warm—I can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t—”
He looked up at you like you were about to ruin him—eyes wide and glossy, mouth open, chest rising fast.
“Please,” he whimpered, voice shaking so badly you felt it in your cunt. “Don’t—don’t move yet. I—I need a second.”
You nodded gently, cradling his face, letting him breathe through it—letting his cock throb deep inside you as your walls fluttered around him, gripping like a fucking vice.
But when he finally exhaled, when the tension in his shoulders dropped just enough—you moved.
A slow, teasing grind of your hips. One long, drawn-out rock that pressed your clit right against the base of his cock, dragging every inch of him against the softest, tightest parts of you.
Joel gasped.
His eyes slammed shut, his fingers digging into your hips like he didn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.
“You okay, baby?” you whispered, lips brushing his cheek.
He nodded—too fast, too desperate—his head barely bobbing before he choked out, “Yeah, just—fuck, slow down—please. I ain’t gonna last long if you—”
You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, anchoring him in the heat between your bodies, and whispered against his lips, “That’s okay. You don’t have to last long, Joel.”
Another grind. Wetter this time.
His breath hitched violently.
“Just let me make you feel good.”
And then you rolled your hips again—slower this time, deeper—and his hands shook on your skin, his whole body going tight beneath you as he gasped and swore again, his voice barely holding together.
“Goddamn,” he groaned, one hand slipping up to your waist, fingers trembling, the other rising to your chest like he couldn’t help it. You guided him, curling his hand around your breast, moaning as his thumb grazed your nipple.
“Touch me, Joel,” you whispered. “Just like that. You’re doing so good.”
And he was—his cock throbbing inside you, his mouth open, eyes wide and overwhelmed, his voice breaking as he tried to keep himself from losing it. But your pussy was gripping him so tight, soaking and pulsing and grinding down with every slow, filthy roll of your hips—and he was ruined.
“Shit—darlin, please—I can’t—” Joel gasped beneath you, voice catching as his fingers dug into your hips, trying desperately to still you, to slow you down, to regain any control over the way your body was grinding down onto his, slick and hot and perfect around him. His head fell back against the pillow, his chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut like he was holding on by a thread.
But you didn’t stop.
You moved faster now, hips rolling deep and steady, your thighs trembling from the pace, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. Joel’s hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, like he could physically slow you down—but even as his fingers dug into your skin, his hips bucked up to meet you, chasing your rhythm like his body had stopped listening to him.
“Darlin’,” he gasped, voice fraying, wrecked, “you gotta stop—I’m serious—fuck, you gotta slow down or I’m gonna—”
But you didn’t stop.
You moved harder.
And Joel’s breath hitched, eyes wide, mouth open like he was trying to warn you and couldn’t remember how.
“Shit—shit,—stop movin’—I can’t—I’m not gonna hold it—fuck, I’m gonna come—you’re gonna make me come.”
His voice cracked on the last word, his grip trembling as he tried to slow you, tried to guide you off him—but his cock twitched violently inside you, and his hips snapped up in betrayal, chasing that edge like he couldn’t help it.
And then he broke.
With a sharp, shuddering gasp, his whole body arched beneath you, thighs shaking, eyes squeezing shut as he came hard, release spilling into you in thick, pulsing waves. His hands clamped down on your hips, not to stop you anymore—but to hold on, to anchor himself as the pleasure tore through him, brutal and sudden.
His jaw clenched, breath catching in his throat as he moaned low and hoarse, like he was in pain from how good it was.
You gasped softly at the warmth spreading inside you, the way his cock twitched with every pulse of it, the way he moaned your name—broken, wrecked—like a prayer against your collarbone, his breath shuddering as it spilled from him.
And then—he pulled you in.
His arms wrapped tight around your waist, dragging you down against his chest, like he needed you closer, needed to be grounded in the heat of your skin. His face buried in your neck, breath ragged, hot and frantic, his whole body still trembling with the aftershocks. He held onto you like he thought he might float away if he didn’t—fingers digging into your back, too tight, too desperate.
You didn’t move.
You just stroked your fingers slowly through his hair, soft and patient, cradling the back of his head like he was something fragile, like you were holding a man coming undone quietly in your arms.
And Joel? He didn’t even lift his head.
He couldn’t.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven waves, his cock still buried inside you, twitching with sensitivity, every part of him too much—too raw, too fast, too gone. He pressed his face deeper into the curve of your neck, like maybe if he hid long enough, you wouldn’t see how red his cheeks were.
“Fuck,” he rasped finally, voice hoarse, choked, mortified. “I—shit. I’m so sorry.”
The words were slurred, mumbled into your skin, thick with shame, like they physically hurt to say.
“I didn’t mean to… I mean, I wasn’t trying to—fuck, I didn’t think I’d—”
He cut himself off, groaning in frustration, still unable to look at you. Like he was bracing for disappointment. Like you were gonna laugh. Like he’d failed some unspoken test.
“I didn’t mean to come that fast,” he whispered. “That’s… not how I wanted to do this.”
“Shh,” you whispered softly, stroking his hair a little slower now, your touch more comfort than seduction. “You don’t have to be sorry, Joel.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing his sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, your gaze tender, reverent. “You did so good for me,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth, your voice a hush of affection. “Made me feel so good. So warm.”
His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unsure, and when he looked at you—really looked—he almost broke again.
“Look at me,” you whispered, thumb brushing his cheek. “Please.”
And when he did, you kissed him—slow, deep, soft enough to make him sigh against your lips. His mouth opened to you like instinct, and he almost whimpered into it, the sound desperate and sweet, like his heart was leaking out through the press of your mouths. He held onto you tighter then, arms curling around your waist, pulling you down against him like he didn’t want any space left between your bodies.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment.
He just breathed.
Held.
Tried to remember what it felt like to be this close to another person without losing something.
And then—so quietly you almost missed it—he whispered, “I don’t wanna go.”
The words cracked something in you. Not lust. Not even longing. Just something bare and soft and aching.
You kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and whispered back, “Then don’t.”
And he didn’t.
He stayed.
Wrapped around you, still trembling, still catching his breath, holding you like you were the only safe place left in the world.
˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖
TY FOR READIN - LET ME KNOW UR THOUGHTS IN THE COMMENTS !!!!
soft launch
pedro pascal x yn!supermodel - social media au | request — here
fc: bella hadid
─── pedro masterlist !
note — (as always manips made by me🤍) always love a good pedro request ❤ ty for the request hope you like🤍 !! likes, reblog's and comments are always appreciated 🤍
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yourinstagram <33
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user1 notting hill my beloved
bff cutie bug 🐞
user2 always will forever be that girl 😍
user3 are we soft launching?? because who is that man
->user4 her past two posts have been soft launching... ->user5 well they gotta be famous so i wonder who it is
user6 omg the little goats
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pascalispunk days filled with love
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user1 getting that first picture framed
user2 secret gf and your bf there.... greedy
user3 the puzzle,,, such a endearing old man
user4 respect to him for knowing how to soft launch
->user5 he definitely had help 😭 ->user4 true 🤭
user6 oscar is such a cutie
user7 y/n in his likes and pedro in her likes.. im putting 2 and 2 together
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Liked by user1, user2 and 1,837,975 others
enews Y/n L/n and Pedro Pascal were seen leaving the same party in New York and it has the internet playing detective. The two have been hinting at being in a relationship on Instagram and this past week fans have noticed similarities between the posts.
Recently resurfaced picture shows they were first introduced at the beginning of the year at the SNL50: The Anniversary Special and have many overlapping events.
What are your thoughts on the rumors?
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user1 no clue but they look goo asf
user2 wait they have a picture together??!!!? 😭
->user2 yeah they're def dating ->user3 im still skeptical, because she's like the most recognizable model and he's a famous actor... how haven't they actually been pictured together?? ->user2 that's the only thing thats making me have doubts tbh ->user4 they could easily just have the same friends so obviously they hang out sometimes ->user5 i think people see two hot people and automatically assume they're dating
user6 what if they're dating different people but the people are friends and everyone's just assuming they're dating 😭😭
user7 ehh not convinced but also wouldn't be surprised
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luxpascal_ wonderful few days 🎄
tagged yourinstagram and pascalispunk
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user1 so cute
yourinstagram 🎄❤ liked by luxpascal_ !
->luxpascal_ ⭐❤ ->user2 lux hard launching them wasn't on my bingo card lol
user3 well this answers some things 😭
pascalispunk ❤❤ liked by luxpascal_ !
user4 i guess my invite was lost
bff cutest family ❤ liked by luxpascal_ !
user5 that first picture 🥰
user6 our present was finding out they're dating
user7 so jealous but happy for those two
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✎…… another fic with bella as the fc 😭
i hate finding fc sometimes so i go back to the basics 😔
