Summary: You only meant to surprise and comfort Sinclair Bryant with a quiet evening by the fire, candlelight flickering softly around the library, but you didn’t expect it to become one of the most loving and sinful nights of your life… and the beginning of a future neither of you was afraid of anymore.
Author's note: Hey guys 🤍Okay, so apparently disappearing for months and then returning with candlelight, emotional damage, yearning, and Sinclair Bryant behaviour is just who I am now 😭 I swear, at this point it feels like I’ve been playing hide-and-seek with you guys. But after seeing all the love you guys have been giving Sinclair, I thought it was only right to launch him first, hehe. I hope you guys enjoy this soft/sinful little chapter, and let me know what you think! 😉
Warnings: Smut and Fluff
Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x Fem Reader
Part 1 and Part 2 here
Cross-posted on AO3
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After the under-the-desk incident with Sinclair, things didn’t rush forward the way you might have expected.
They softened instead.
Sinclair’s restraint didn’t disappear; it shifted. His affection found quieter ways to surface, gentler but more constant. Mornings began with longer kisses, the kind where he lingered just a second more than necessary, his forehead pressed to yours as if memorising you before the day stole him away.
When you walked together, his arm would settle around your waist without thought, his thumb tracing absent circles at your side. Sometimes his hand rested at your shoulder, grounding, protective. Sometimes he pulled you close in the kitchen, pressing a kiss to your hair as you worked.
He touched you more.
But he never pushed.
You felt it, the hesitation beneath the warmth that you thought was resolved. The carefulness. As though some part of him was afraid that if he took one step too far, one touch, everything might shatter.
And that was how you knew.
You were going to have to take the reins again.
Friday came quietly.
You woke to soft morning light filtering through the curtains, Sinclair already dressed for work, propped slightly against the headboard beside you. One hand idly caressed your hair while the other held a book, some car magazine he’d half-read, half-forgotten. When he noticed you stirring, his gaze softened immediately. He leaned down, kissing you slowly and familiarly, his palm cupping your cheek.
“Lucky thing,” he murmured, voice still husky with sleep. “An unexpected day off.”
You smiled, fingers curling into his sleeve. “Someone has to keep the house from missing you too much.”
He laughed softly and slipped out of bed, and you followed him downstairs, already moving in sync. Making his morning coffee had become a ritual, the exact grind he liked, the precise splash of milk, and the little spoon of sugar you pretended not to notice he needed. When you handed him the mug, he kissed your knuckles before taking a sip.
“I’ll be late,” he said gently. “Dinner with partners. Dreadful thing.”
You tilted your head, feigning seriousness. “Try to survive.”
“I’ll do my best.” Another kiss, longer this time. “Don’t wait up.”
You watched him leave with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, because you already had a plan.
The house felt different when Sinclair wasn’t in it.
Quieter. Bigger.
But still warm, still alive, thanks to Mrs Lora. The radio hummed softly through the halls as she baked, the scent of sugar and spice clinging to the air. You spent the morning together, sharing breakfast, laughter, and small, easy conversation. You helped her tidy the house, despite her protests; that was just who you were. You ate lunch together too, and when the afternoon settled, you began preparing dinner.
The library was your destination.
Sinclair’s favourite room — dark wood, leather-bound books, the fireplace waiting patiently beneath tall windows. You set up the candles carefully, one by one, placing them where the glow will soften the room rather than overwhelm it. Cushions were arranged by the hearth. A blanket folded neatly nearby.
Mrs Lora watched you from the kitchen doorway, drying her hands.
"So", she said gently, “you are planning something.”
You laughed under your breath. “Is it that obvious?”
She reached out and squeezed your hand. “He has carried his heart very carefully for a long time. He has suffered enough. I’m glad you’re here for him, honey.”
You thanked her softly, and when everything was ready, you sent her home with food packed neatly for her husband, one last small act of care.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” she said, smiling. “Enjoy your evening.”
Once the door closed behind her, you finally let yourself breathe.
You showered, changed, and slipped into Sinclair’s long white shirt, the fabric hanging loose and familiar against your skin. By the time dusk fell, the house was ready.
And dark.
He had woken before you, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to.
The light had not yet fully broken through the curtains, leaving the room in that soft grey-blue quiet where everything felt suspended, and you were curled toward him, breathing slow and even, one hand resting lightly against his ribs as though even in sleep you refused to let him drift too far.
He didn’t move.
He rarely did, not when you were like this, warm, unaware, close in a way the world never saw, because there was something quietly sacred about these moments, something he had come to value more than he ever expected.
Careful not to disturb you, his fingers moved gently through your hair, his thumb tracing the curve of your temple as though committing it to memory rather than simply touching it.
Something had shifted in him recently.
Not desire, that had always been there, but awareness. Of how deeply it ran. Of how easily you had become something essential rather than incidental since the under-the-desk incident.
It unsettled him.
Not enough to pull away, but enough to make him quieter about it.
When you stirred, he softened immediately, the instinctive guard slipping without resistance as he leaned down to kiss you slowly, letting it linger just long enough to say what he would not put into words.
Stay.
“Lucky thing,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “An unexpected day off.”
You smiled at him, and something in his chest tightened—not painfully, but with a kind of quiet certainty he was still learning how to carry.
He took longer than necessary getting ready, adjusting his cufflinks with unnecessary precision, lingering near the bed under the pretense of reading when in truth he hadn’t taken in a single word.
He only stayed because you were there.
Because leaving felt… less appealing than it should have.
Downstairs, he watched you move around the kitchen in that effortless rhythm you had built together, the way you measured the coffee without looking, the way your fingers brushed his when you handed him the mug, as though these small, ordinary moments held more weight than they had any right to.
He kissed your knuckles without thinking.
Grounding himself.
“I’ll be late,” he said gently, already knowing he disliked the sentence.
Obligations waited for him. Expectations. A version of himself that existed long before you softened its edges.
“Don’t wait up,” he added, though he didn’t mean it.
He never did.
Part of him always hoped you would.
When he stepped out the door, he glanced back once.
You were standing in the hallway light, watching him.
And for a brief moment, one he didn’t allow himself to dwell on—he nearly turned around.
Nearly stayed.
But instead, he carried the image of you with him.
All day.
The dinner had been tedious from the start.
Sinclair sat at the head of the polished table, a glass of amber liquor resting between his fingers as conversation moved steadily around him—contracts, numbers, projections, expansion. He contributed where necessary, nodding at the appropriate moments, offering precise and controlled input when required.
But his mind was elsewhere.
It kept drifting back to you.
To the way you had looked at him that morning—sleepy, warm, wrapped in his shirt. To the way your fingers had curled around his sleeve when he kissed you goodbye.
He checked his watch once.
Then again.
A partner laughed loudly at something trivial, and Sinclair offered a polite smile, lifting his glass to his lips, though he barely registered the taste.
Distracted.
Unsettled.
Wanting to leave.
He wondered if you were asleep already, or if you had waited up like you sometimes did, curled into the armchair with a book you weren’t really reading. He wondered if the house felt quieter without him.
The thought settled low in his chest.
When the evening finally began to wind down, he didn’t linger.
He excused himself with practised ease, shook hands, offered composed farewells, and the moment he stepped outside into the cool night air, he exhaled more fully than he had all evening.
He wanted to go home.
Not to the house.
To you.
The road home stretched dark and quiet before him, headlights cutting clean paths through the night as the steady hum of the engine filled the silence, and somewhere between one turn and the next, his thoughts arrived home long before he did.
He found himself imagining it without effort.
Slipping inside quietly so he wouldn’t wake you.
Setting his things aside with practiced care.
Pushing open the bedroom door just enough to see you there, asleep and undisturbed, your breathing slow and even beneath the covers.
He would brush the hair from your face.
He always did.
He would slide into bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you gently against him just to feel your warmth, your presence, something real after a day that had felt increasingly hollow without it.
Even if you didn’t stir.
Especially if you didn’t.
There was something deeply grounding about holding you when the world wasn’t watching, when there were no expectations placed on him, no roles to perform, no versions of himself to maintain—just quiet, steady certainty.
He hadn’t realized, until recently, how much he had come to rely on that.
On you.
The gravel crunched softly beneath his tires as he turned into the estate, the familiar path unfolding before him—but almost immediately, something felt… off.
The house was dark.
Completely dark.
Not dim, not partially lit, but absent of even the smallest glow—no lamp left on in the hallway, no soft kitchen light, no quiet flicker behind drawn curtains.
He slowed instinctively, his gaze lingering on the windows as though expecting something to change.
Mrs Lora would have gone home by now, yes, but you?
You never left the house like this.
There was always something.
A light. A sign. A presence.
His fingers tightened slightly against the steering wheel before he consciously forced them to relax, pushing the unease aside even as it settled low in his chest.
Don’t be absurd.
And yet—
The stillness of the night pressed in around him as he stepped out of the car, the air quieter than usual, the estate holding that strange, suspended silence that made even the smallest sound feel out of place.
He approached the front door, keys cool in his hand, and unlocked it with measured ease before stepping inside.
“Y/N? Hello?”
His voice carried faintly through the hallway, brushing against polished wood and empty space, echoing just enough to remind him how quiet it truly was.
For a brief moment, there was nothing.
Then—
“Library, Sinclair.”
Your voice reached him from deeper within the house, calm and composed, not softened by sleep, not distant or distracted, but deliberate in a way that made him pause where he stood.
Something in the tone.
Something in the timing.
It wasn’t wrong.
But it wasn’t ordinary either.
And that alone was enough to sharpen his attention.
His gaze shifted toward the faint line of light spilling from beneath the library door, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he moved toward it, each step steady but more aware now, more attuned to the subtle shift in the atmosphere.
He reached the door and paused only briefly.
Then pushed it open—
And stepped inside.
You were sitting on the windowsill, book open in your lap, pretending to read while you waited for Sinclair.
When headlights suddenly swept across the room, your heart leapt.
You closed the book at once.
A quick glance around, everything in place.
Candles arranged, table set and fire ready.
As you were doing so, you heard the front door open.
“Y/N? Hello?”
His voice echoed faintly down the hallway.
From the shadows, you called back, calm and composed, “Library, Sinclair.”
You heard his footsteps approaching down the hallway, steady, unhurried, the familiar rhythm of leather soles against polished wood, and your pulse quickened despite all your careful planning.
Moving swiftly but silently, you slipped behind the library door, pressing yourself against the cool wall just as the handle turned.
The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, the sound stretching in the quiet like a held breath, and the moment he stepped fully inside, you reached out without hesitation and turned the key behind him.
The lock clicked.
Soft.
Final.
He hadn’t noticed yet.
You didn’t speak.
Instead, slowly, deliberately, you stepped away from the door and crossed the room with unhurried grace, the hem of his shirt brushing against your thighs as you moved.
You paused beside the largest candle, the thick ivory pillar set at the centre of the table, taller than the rest, waiting.
You struck the match.
The flame flared briefly, bright and sharp in the dimness, before settling into a steady glow.
You held it to the wick.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
It caught.
And the flame rose, tall, confident, golden, brighter than the others.
One by one, you moved to the remaining candles, lighting them in a slow procession, allowing their glow to build gradually until the entire room softened into warm amber.
Firelight bloomed outward in waves.
Across the towering bookshelves.
Across the polished wood floor.
Across the small table set neatly by the hearth, sandwiches arranged, tea waiting, glasses catching reflections like molten gold.
And finally,
Across you.
Standing calm. Certain. Unmistakably intentional.
His shirt hung loosely on your frame, the sleeves pushed back just enough, the fabric falling to mid-thigh. Your bare legs caught the candlelight, skin warmed by the glow and shadowed by flickering fire.
The windows had been left slightly ajar, just enough to let the cool night air drift inside, carrying with it the distant hush of the river and the quiet murmur of evening beyond the estate.
Only then did you see him.
Not directly.
But in the dark reflection of the window glass.
He had stopped moving, completely.
Frozen where he stood.
You could see his silhouette first — tall, still and then the way his head tilted slightly, trying to understand what he was looking at.
Trying to understand you.
Then you turned to face him.
Not abruptly but not shyly as well.
Slowly, as though you wanted him to see every second of it.
The firelight caught the curve of your cheek first, then your mouth, then the steady calm in your eyes. You let him look. Let him take in the sight of you standing there, composed and deliberate, wrapped in nothing but his shirt and candlelight.
His coat slipped from his fingers as though gravity had suddenly doubled. It slid from his shoulders, half-caught in his hand before falling carelessly against his arm, entirely forgotten.
For a moment, he simply stared.
You stepped toward him.
Not hurried but measured.
Each step soft against the wooden floor, the hem of the shirt brushing your thighs as you moved through the golden glow.
“Come here, Sinclair,” you said gently, your voice low enough that it felt like it belonged only to the two of you. “Relax. Take off your coat. Let’s have some time together.”
He blinked, actually blinked like a man who had walked into something too carefully crafted to be accidental, too intimate to be coincidence.
Slowly, almost mechanically, he finished shrugging off his coat and placed it over the back of a nearby chair. His movements were controlled, but his eyes betrayed him.
They never left you.
Not once.
“I… wasn’t expecting this,” he admitted at last, his voice quieter than usual, stripped of its usual polish.
“I know,” you replied with a small, knowing smile. “That’s rather the point.”
You gestured toward the table beside the fire, where the candlelight shimmered against glass and porcelain.
“Mrs Lora helped me,” you continued lightly. “Grilled chicken sandwiches. Chamomile tea. I even packed some up for her and sent her home early. Thought you might be hungry after your night out with your partner bros.”
A faint, reluctant huff of laughter left him, warm and disbelieving.
“They are not my ‘bros,’ darling,” he corrected, straightening slightly out of habit. “They are associates.”
“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, stepping a little closer. “Very serious. Very corporate. I’m sure you discussed spreadsheets and world domination.”
Sinclair's gaze swept the room, then slowed, assessing.
The candles, fire, carefully set table, the locked door.
And then it returned to you where something in his expression shifted with less confusion and more awareness.
You closed the remaining distance between you until only inches separated your bodies. You could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, the subtle rise and fall of his breath.
Your hand lifted slowly between you, not rushed, not hesitant, but deliberate, until your fingers found the front of his shirt.
For a moment, you didn’t move.
You simply let your fingertips rest there, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the solid reality of him standing so close.
Then, you smoothed your hand downward, intentional in every inch.
Your palm flattened lightly against his chest, gliding over the fine cotton as though confirming he was real, as though grounding both of you in the weight of this moment.
He didn’t stop you and didn’t even flinch.
But you felt the subtle change in him, the way his breath deepened, the way his shoulders tightened just slightly beneath your touch.
“Think whatever you want,” you murmured, your voice no longer playful but steady, layered with something quieter, something far more certain.
Your fingers traced absent patterns against his shirt, slow enough to be distracting, gentle enough to be dangerous.
Then you let the silence stretch.
Just long enough for him to feel it.
“But tonight…” you continued, softer now, your tone dipping lower as though the words themselves carried weight.
You lifted your eyes to his fully, not glancing, not shy, holding him there with your gaze.
“…you’re mine.”
The words did not leave you in a rush or with sharp insistence; they settled between you instead, warm and absolute, carrying a quiet certainty that did not need to be raised to be understood.
His breath faltered, not from surprise, not from protest, but from something far deeper and more intimate, a subtle yielding that seemed to unfold within him before you could even see it in his expression.
The air between you shifted almost tangibly, thickening as though the room itself had grown attentive to the moment that it wrapped itself around the two of you.
The way he looked at you, god.
Like you’d just stolen the ground from beneath his feet.
You both settled near the fireplace, close enough to feel its warmth but not quite touching at first. The food you had carefully prepared remained mostly untouched on the table beside you, the steam long since fading from the tea as it cooled unnoticed. Neither of you seemed to care. The world beyond that room had dissolved into something distant and unimportant.
Firelight flickered across Sinclair’s face, softening the lines that usually held authority and restraint. Without his coat, without his tie, without the weight of expectation pressing against his shoulders, he looked younger somehow. Gentler. Less like the man who commanded rooms, and more like the man who let you see him when no one else could.
Yours.
After a quiet moment, you rose and crossed the small space between you. He watched you carefully, almost reverently, as though you were something fragile—or something sacred.
You lowered yourself in front of him, kneeling slowly, your hands sliding over his thighs with deliberate intention, feeling the warmth of him even through the fabric. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though he wanted to touch you but wasn’t certain he had permission.
You reached for his hands and guided them upward, placing them firmly on your hips and holding them there.
“Sinclair,” you whispered softly.
He swallowed, his throat working under your gaze.
“You keep stopping yourself,” you murmured.
“I—” he began, but the words stalled.
“You don’t have to be afraid with me.”
The fire cracked behind you, and his thumbs tightened unconsciously against your waist. You leaned closer, brushing your nose lightly against his.
“Let me choose you,” you breathed. “The way you’ve been choosing me every single day.”
His eyes closed briefly, as though the simple honesty of that hurt him more than anything else could. When he opened them again, they were glassy, unguarded.
“I’m afraid,” he admitted quietly.
Your heart tightened.
“Of what?”
His voice came out rough, stripped of polish. “I’m afraid of wanting you this much.”
Oh.
Oh, Sinclair.
You cupped his face immediately, your thumbs resting gently along his cheekbones.
“How can you even think that?” you whispered. “Do you know I thank my lucky stars every day for that lunch we shared? For you? For getting a man like you?”
Your thumb brushed softly along his cheek.
“It’s me who worries I don’t deserve you. Not the other way around.”
His breath trembled faintly, and you softened further.
“I know someone hurt you,” you continued gently, “and I hate that she made you believe loving someone is something dangerous.”
You pressed your forehead to his.
“But I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?”
You guided his hands tighter against your hips, grounding him.
“Feel me. I’m yours. No one else. Just you.”
Then you kissed him.
Slowly. Warmly. Without demand.
There was no hunger in it, no urgency, just certainty. And that certainty was what undid him.
His hands finally moved of their own accord, sliding up your waist and pulling you closer as though he could not bear even an inch of space between you. His kiss deepened—not rough, not wild, but desperate in its tenderness, like a man who had starved himself of something essential and finally allowed himself to taste it.
When you shifted into his lap, he did not protest. He did not hesitate. He simply wrapped his arms around you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder and breathing you in like you were home.
For the first time since you had known him…
Sinclair stopped holding back.
Somewhere between breaths and soft, lingering kisses, his hands tightened slightly at your waist, not possessive but certain, as though something inside him had finally settled. Then he shifted, gently, carefully, as though you were something precious, and lowered you onto the thick rug before the fireplace, the wool warm from the heat and soft beneath your back.
“Sinclair—” you began with a soft, half-laugh, but the sound faded when you saw his expression.
The hesitation was gone.
What remained was want—raw, honest, and no longer hidden.
His knuckles brushed your cheek as though he needed to be sure you were still there.
“You make it very difficult to behave,” he murmured.
Your heart fluttered wildly. “Then don’t.”
That was all the permission he needed.
He leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, as though memorizing the shape of you. His mouth traced from your lips to your jaw, then down along the curve of your neck, never rushing, every kiss lingering like a confession.
His hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms grazing your skin in a touch that was grounding rather than greedy.
“Still okay?” he whispered against your collarbone.
You nodded immediately. “More than okay.”
A quiet breath of relief left him, as though he needed to hear that more than he needed anything else.
The shirt slipped away somewhere between kisses, forgotten beside you, and the cool air against your skin made you inhale sharply—but his hands followed at once, warm and steady, reverent in their touch.
Not consuming.
Reverent.
Like he could hardly believe he was allowed to hold you this way.
“God…” he murmured softly, his voice almost breaking. “You’re…”
The words failed him.
Instead, he let his lips trace slow paths across your shoulder and down your stomach, every place he touched turning warm beneath his mouth. Your fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close.
That was when you realized something important.
He wasn’t trying to take.
He was trying to give.
Always giving. Always careful. Always putting you first.
And so you smiled quietly to yourself.
With a playful shift of movement, you rolled, reversing your positions so that he lay beneath you, blinking up in mild surprise. You straddled his hips, leaning down just enough for your hair to fall around his face like a curtain.
“I think,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his, “it’s my turn.”
His throat bobbed. “Your turn for what?”
You kissed him once, soft and deliberate.
“To take care of you.”
Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, unhurried and teasing as you eased the fabric from his shoulders along with his trousers. The reaction was immediate, he shivered beneath you, this man who commanded boardrooms and unsettled executives reduced to quiet vulnerability under your touch.
“I’d like to give back that massage you gave me,” you murmured.
His hands found your hips automatically. “Darling,” he said hoarsely, “you don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
That silenced him instantly.
You pressed a kiss to his chest, then another, your hands smoothing over his shoulders as your thumbs worked gently into the tension you knew he carried daily. He melted beneath you, a soft, helpless sound slipping from his throat as your lips followed the slow path your hands created.
You deliberately skipped the places he expected, brushing past instead of settling, teasing without cruelty.
“Cruel girl…” he murmured faintly.
“You’re tense,” you whispered against his skin. “I’m helping.”
“You’re doing the opposite,” he breathed, though he made no attempt to stop you.
By the time you lifted yourself to look at him again, he appeared utterly undone, hair disheveled, breathless, eyes dark and soft and entirely yours.
And then, slowly, carefully, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast, he shifted once more.
His hands slid to your waist, drawing you closer until his forehead rested against yours. Instead of rushing forward, he began with something far more dangerous.
He kissed you once.
Soft.
Then your cheek.
Your jaw.
Your throat.
And with each kiss, he murmured quiet confessions against your skin.
“Thank you… for the coffee every morning…”
Another kiss.
“For waiting up for me…”
Another.
“For choosing me…”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Sinclair—”
“For loving me when I don’t quite know how to deserve it.”
And that—
That was what undid you.
He didn’t stop kissing you.
His lips moved slowly over yours, down the curve of your jaw, lingering at your throat as his hands trailed lower — fingertips tracing warm paths over your stomach, dipping lower with deliberate slowness that made your breath shudder.
“Sinclair…” you whispered, over and over, like a prayer.
He smiled faintly against your skin, pleased by the sound of his name falling from your lips.
His touch grew more purposeful, coaxing, patient, making sure you were ready, making sure you felt nothing but him.
“Oh, darling,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint, “you’re ready for me.”
You arched toward him at the sound of that tone alone, your fingers sliding through his hair before drifting lower, finding him and stroking slowly, wanting to feel him the way he was making you feel.
A low sound escaped his throat.
“Sinclair… I want you. Please… I want you now.”
He stilled at that.
Not teasing, but steady.
He lifted himself slightly, adjusting so he hovered between your thighs, one hand cradling your cheek. His eyes searched yours — dark, intense, but soft in a way only you ever saw.
“I love you, my darling.”
Your chest tightened. “I love you too.”
When he finally pressed forward and joined with you, you both gasped softly, the sensation overwhelming in the most beautiful way.
He moved slowly at first.
Gentle.
Measured.
Like he was afraid to rush something sacred.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you.
The firelight flickered against the walls, shadows shifting as your bodies moved together in a steady, unhurried rhythm.
His lips brushed your neck, your collarbone, whispering your name against your skin.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
You did.
And the intensity in his eyes stole the air from your lungs.
The pace shifted, not frantic, but firmer, more demanding. The slow control gave way to raw need as your breathing grew uneven.
“Sinclair…” you whimpered.
His grip tightened around you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Always.”
The pressure built between you, tightening, coiling.
“Darling… I’m close,” you whispered, voice trembling.
“Me too,” he breathed,voice strained..
His pace quickened just slightly, not frantic, just deeper, more certain, and you clung to him, pulling him closer still.
“Together,” he murmured.
He moved deeper, closer, pulling you firmly against him as the tension finally snapped.
The release hit like a wave crashing against stone, powerful, overwhelming, stealing the world away for a few suspended seconds.
You clung to him through it.
He buried his face against your neck, holding you tightly as both of you trembled, breathing ragged and uneven.
When it passed, he didn’t pull away.
Instead, he wrapped his arms around you tightly and rolled onto his side, dragging you with him so you were tucked safely against his chest.
Your fingers traced slow circles over his skin as your breathing gradually steadied.
The fire burned low and the world felt quiet again.
He pressed a soft kiss into your hair.
And neither of you let go.
For a long while, neither of you moved.
You lay tangled together on the rug, the fire now burning low, the air warm and heavy with contentment. Sinclair’s arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against your back as though he was still convincing himself you were real.
You pressed a soft kiss against his collarbone.
He hummed in response.
And then—
Your stomach growled.
Loudly.
You froze.
There was a beat of silence before Sinclair’s chest began to shake with quiet laughter.
“Darling,” he murmured against your hair, “are you hungry?”
You groaned softly, hiding your face against him. “Maybe a little.”
“My sandwich,” he said solemnly, glancing toward the untouched table, “has been calling to me for quite some time. I’ve been attempting to ignore it out of devotion.”
You laughed, swatting lightly at his chest. “Devotion?”
“Yes,” he replied seriously. “Very heroic of me.”
Reluctantly, the two of you rose, gathering discarded cushions and straightening the rug with soft smiles that wouldn’t leave your faces. Instead of abandoning the room for morning chaos, you found yourselves cleaning together — blowing out candles, stacking plates, wiping crumbs from the table.
At some point, Sinclair handed you his shirt with a quiet, knowing look.
You slipped it on, the fabric still warm from him, sleeves swallowing your hands as the hem brushed mid-thigh. He paused just to look at you, not teasing, not smug.
Just… soft.
“You look rather pleased with yourself,” you murmured.
“I am,” he replied simply.
It wasn’t glamorous.
It wasn’t dramatic.
But it felt… intimate.
Domestic.
Like something permanent.
Afterwards, you showered, separately this time, though he lingered by the doorway with a fond expression that made you blush, and eventually fell into bed wrapped around one another, sleep claiming you almost instantly.
He had expected many things when he walked through the front door that evening.
A quiet house.
An empty bed.
Perhaps finding you asleep upstairs with a forgotten book beside you, curled beneath the blankets while a lamp burned softly nearby.
But not this.
Not your voice calling for him from the darkened library.
Not the sight of candlelight warming the room in soft amber waves.
And certainly not you standing there in his shirt beside a carefully prepared table as though the entire evening had been created solely for him.
At first, he had assumed the power must have gone out somewhere on the estate, that perhaps you had chosen the library simply for the warmth of the fire and the comfort of candlelight.
But then he saw the table.
The tea.
The food untouched and waiting.
You waiting.
And he realized none of it had been accidental.
You had planned this for him.
No one had ever done that before.
Not without expectation.
Not without wanting something in return.
But you had looked at him that night as though loving him had been reason enough.
And somehow, that stayed with him far more than the intimacy itself.
Because long after the fire dimmed and your breathing softened against his chest, what lingered most in his mind was not desire, but the quiet realization that someone had finally created softness for him instead of demanding strength from him.
Overnight, something inside him had quieted.
The fears. The hesitation. The constant instinct to hold part of himself back in preparation for loss.
You had touched every guarded part of him with steady hands and asked for nothing except honesty in return.
And if he could have done anything in that moment, he thought he might have stayed there forever, wrapped around you on the rug beside the dying fire, listening to your sleepy laughter and feeling your heartbeat against his chest.
Or perhaps he would have lived through that evening again and again, exactly as it was, just to watch you look at him that way one more time.
Because for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, home no longer felt like a place.
It felt like a person.
You woke to the faint sound of Mrs Lora’s radio drifting up from downstairs, something cheerful and familiar humming through the house.
You reached beside you.
Empty.
The balcony doors were slightly open, curtains moving lazily in the morning breeze.
Curious, you stepped outside onto the upper balcony, and that’s when you saw him.
Below, in the garden just beyond the terrace, Sinclair stood in the early sunlight, sleeves rolled to his forearms, carefully arranging breakfast on a small table he had carried out himself — fruit, fresh bread, tea already poured, everything placed with meticulous care.
For a moment, you didn’t call out.
You just watched him.
The way the light caught in his hair. The way he adjusted the plates like it truly mattered.
And then you leaned over the railing slightly.
“Is that for me,” you called softly, “or Mrs Lora?”
He looked up immediately.
He turned at once, eyes softening when he saw you.
“For Mrs Lora, obviously,” he replied gravely. “She is an angel, and even if I attempted to charm her, she would refuse me out of loyalty to Mr Alfonso.”
You laughed.
“Will you come down, my darling?” he added, holding out a hand.
You quickly freshened up, pulling on soft sweatpants and a jumper before hurrying downstairs. Mrs Lora glanced at you knowingly from the kitchen.
“Sinclair is not going anywhere, darling,” she said warmly.
You only grinned and continued outside.
For a moment, he was nowhere in sight.
And then—
Strong arms wrapped around you from behind, lifting you clean off your feet as he spun you once in the morning air.
“Good morning, my dear,” he murmured against your ear.
You turned in his arms, mirroring his tone perfectly. “Good morning, my dear.”
You both laughed.
He kissed your temple before guiding you to the table.
The dock shimmered in the distance, children’s laughter echoing faintly from somewhere down the shoreline. Birds called from the trees, and the sunlight painted everything gold.
You ate slowly, knees brushing beneath the table.
At one point, Sinclair reached across and took your hand.
His thumb traced over your knuckles thoughtfully.
“I think,” he said quietly, watching the light dance over the water, “I would very much like to wake up like this for the rest of my life.”
Not dramatic.
Not on one knee.
Just steady.
Certain.
He turned to you then, expression soft but serious.
“If you’ll have me.”
There wasn’t even a pause.
You were already moving.
You lunged forward, knocking your chair back in the process, tackling him around the shoulders so suddenly that his own chair tipped backward onto the grass with a startled thud.
“YES,” you laughed breathlessly, half on top of him now. “Yes, yes, obviously yes!”
He burst into laughter beneath you, arms wrapping around your waist as he steadied you both on the ground.
“I shall take that as agreement,” he managed.
You kissed him — quick, bright, full of sunlight and joy.
That’s when the back door flew open.
“What on earth are you two doing?” Mrs Lora called, hands on her hips, though her smile betrayed her amusement.
You turned, still half draped over Sinclair.
“We’re getting married!” you announced.
Sinclair blinked up at you. “We are?”
You looked down at him. “We are.”
He smiled slowly.
“Well then,” he said, brushing hair from your face, “I suppose we are.”
Mrs Lora clucked affectionately. “I leave you alone for one evening…”
And as the morning sun carried your laughter across the garden, neither of you was afraid of forever.
Sinclair had been awake for some time before the rest of the house began to stir.
The morning light spilled slowly across the room, pale gold slipping through the curtains as he lay on his back, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist while the quiet weight of the previous night settled warmly in his chest.
For once, his mind was not crowded with unfinished thoughts or restless hesitation.
It was simply… calm.
Beside him, you shifted slightly in your sleep, pressing closer without waking, and he felt something dangerously close to wonder at how naturally the two of you had begun fitting into each other’s lives.
He glanced toward the balcony doors where the early morning breeze moved the curtains softly, and for a moment he considered staying exactly where he was.
Staying in bed.
Staying wrapped around you.
Staying inside this small, quiet version of the world the two of you had somehow created together.
Then his gaze drifted toward the terrace below, still washed in pale morning light, and a thought surfaced so suddenly that it almost made him smile.
Breakfast outside.
Something simple.
Something for you.
The idea settled immediately, warm and certain in his chest.
Carefully, so as not to wake you, he slipped from bed and pressed a soft kiss into your hair before stepping onto the balcony, the cool morning air brushing against his skin as the first traces of sunlight stretched slowly across the estate.
And for once, the thoughts filling his mind were not about work or obligation.
They were simple.
Make her smile.
Downstairs, he found Mrs Lora already there, her cheerful radio humming through the kitchen.
She glanced at him over her glasses.
“You are up early, Señor Sinclair,” she observed knowingly.
“I have plans,” he replied with unusual lightness.
She followed him to the terrace doorway as he began carrying plates outside himself instead of asking for help.
“For her?” she asked.
He did not pretend otherwise.
“Yes.”
Mrs Lora watched him arrange the table with meticulous care — adjusting the placement of fruit, straightening the napkin twice, and pouring tea as though it were a ceremonial act.
“You look different,” she said quietly.
He paused.
“Different?”
“Softer,” she replied simply. “This one… she is not passing through. She is staying.”
He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to.
His gaze drifted upward toward the balcony.
“She is the one for you,” Mrs Lora added, voice gentle but certain. “I have seen many seasons in this house. This one feels permanent.”
Something settled in his chest at that.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
Recognition.
When your voice drifted down from above, teasing and warm, he looked up instantly, and the moment he saw you leaning over the railing, sunlight catching in your hair, he felt something steady and unshakeable take root inside him.
This was it.
Not fireworks.
Not chaos.
This.
The laughter. The domestic ease. The way you hurried downstairs as though he might disappear.
When he lifted you in his arms moments later, spinning you once just to hear that unguarded laugh spill from you, he realized something quietly astonishing:
He wasn’t afraid of the future when it looked like this.
And when he said he would like to wake up this way for the rest of his life, it wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t impulsive.
It was the calmest truth he had ever spoken.
Your immediate, chaotic yes – knocking him backward into the grass, only made him laugh harder, arms wrapping around you instinctively as though he had been waiting for that answer all along.
When Mrs Lora appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips and smiling despite herself, he glanced at her over your shoulder.
“I believe you were correct,” he called lightly.
She waved them off, muttering about young people and recklessness, but her eyes shone.
As you declared to the entire garden that you were getting married, and he confirmed it with a smile that felt entirely unguarded, he realized something profound.
For the first time in his life, forever did not feel like a risk.
It felt like a gift.
And as your laughter carried through the morning air, bright and fearless, he held you a little tighter with all of his love.
Summary: Surrounded by laughter and polite conversation, you find yourself haunted by a past that isn’t yours. But in the shadows of the house, Frank makes it very clear who belongs to his present.
Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader
Warnings: Smut, Jealousy
Author's Notes: I know, I know—I’m retired and all that blah blah blah… but I missed writing 😭 and I’m currently suffering through the worst wisdom tooth pain (seriously, why are wisdom teeth so expensive to remove??). Please feel free to judge me.
First and Second part here
Also read on Ao3
Two weeks later, the air smelled like charcoal, beer, and something faintly overcooked, the kind of suburban optimism that always clung to family barbecues whether anyone asked for it or not. Frank’s son had bought a house—detached, modest, with a garden just large enough to justify a grill and a folding table covered in mismatched salads—and, in a burst of enthusiasm, had invited everyone.
Everyone.
You hadn’t wanted to come. Not really. But Frank had asked—softly, that careful tone he used when he knew he was asking for something that mattered—and you’d agreed, because despite everything, you still couldn’t quite deny him when he looked at you like that.
And now here you were.
Holding a plastic cup. Smiling politely. Watching.
She was exactly how you remembered. Patricia. Impeccably put together, like she’d stepped out of a lifestyle magazine for women who owned too many lemons and not enough self-awareness. Her hair was neat, her posture perfect, her laugh just a little too bright—like she knew she was being listened to and enjoyed it.
And Frank—
Frank was laughing. With she.
Actually laughing. Head tilted slightly back, hazel eyes creased at the corners, that deep baritone rolling out of him in a way you hadn’t heard in days. He stood there with a beer in his hand, white hair catching the late afternoon sun, looking infuriatingly handsome and entirely too at ease.
She said something. You didn’t catch it.
But he did.
And he snorted, shaking his head, muttering something under his breath that made her laugh harder, one hand briefly touching his arm like it was still hers to reach for.
Your jaw tightened.
You looked away.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you knew the truth now. That he had said no. That he had chosen you without hesitation.
And yet—
There was something about seeing it. About hearing the ease between them, the familiarity, the shared history you couldn’t erase no matter how much you tried to rewrite the present. It sat under your skin, sharp and quiet and ugly.
You took a sip of your drink.
It tasted like nothing.
After a few more minutes of pretending to listen to a conversation about garden fencing that you absolutely did not care about, you set your cup down and stood.
“I’m just going to grab another drink,” you said to no one in particular, already stepping away.
No one stopped you.
Not even him.
That stung more than it should have.
Inside, the house was cooler, quieter. The noise from the garden dulled to a distant hum, like it belonged to another world entirely. You moved into the kitchen, gripping the counter for a second, exhaling through your nose like you could push the feeling out of your chest if you tried hard enough.
It didn’t work.
Of course it didn’t.
You grabbed a glass, filled it halfway, then didn’t drink it.
You just stood there.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Familiar. Unmistakable.
You didn’t turn around.
Frank didn’t speak immediately. He never did when he knew something was wrong. He gave it a second. Let the silence stretch just enough.
Then, quietly, “You alright?”
You picked up the glass, took a sip you didn’t need, and shrugged. “Fine.”
A beat.
He didn’t believe you.
Of course he didn’t.
You heard the soft exhale behind you, the shift of his weight, and then—warmth. His arms slid around your waist from behind, steady and firm, his chest pressing lightly to your back. Not trapping. Just there.
Grounding.
“You left pretty quickly,” he murmured, his voice low, that familiar baritone softened at the edges.
“I said I wanted a drink.”
“You’ve been holding that same glass for two minutes.”
You rolled your eyes. “Observant.”
“Occupational hazard.”
You tried to pull away just slightly, enough to prove a point, but his arms tightened—not forcefully, just enough to keep you where you were.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his mouth near your temple now. “Talk to me.”
“It’s nothing.”
He huffed, almost amused. “It’s never nothing with you.”
You turned your head slightly, enough to shoot him a look. “Why are you here, Frank? Go back outside. Your fan club’s waiting.”
He stilled.
Just for a second.
Then, softer, “Ah.”
You hated that sound. That quiet little understanding noise, like he’d just solved a puzzle you didn’t want him to see.
“I see what this is,” he murmured.
“Oh, do you?” you snapped lightly. “Please, enlighten me.”
His chin dipped slightly, his nose brushing just behind your ear as his grip shifted—one hand sliding up your stomach, the other settling more firmly at your hip.
“Jealous,” he said simply.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh, pulling against him again. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mm.”
“I am not jealous.”
“Course not.”
You turned fully this time, forcing him to loosen his hold just enough for you to face him. “Why on earth would I be jealous?”
He looked at you.
Really looked.
And then—God help him—he smiled.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
Just… knowing.
That soft, crooked smile that always meant he’d already figured you out three steps ago and was just waiting for you to catch up.
“Right,” he murmured.
You narrowed your eyes. “Wipe that expression off your face.”
“Which one?”
“The insufferable one.”
“That’s most of them.”
You shoved lightly at his chest. He barely moved.
“Frank, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
His hands came back to you—slower this time, more deliberate—resting at your waist, thumbs brushing absent patterns against your sides.
“You walked in here like you were about to declare war on a potato salad,” he said mildly. “And now you’re pretending you’re perfectly fine while glaring holes through my shirt.”
“I am not glaring.”
“You are absolutely glaring.”
“I’m not jealous,” you insisted again, sharper this time.
He tilted his head, studying you like you were a particularly interesting briefing document.
“Alright,” he said finally, voice calm, conceding nothing. “If you say so.”
You crossed your arms. “I do.”
A beat.
Then he leaned in.
Close enough that his breath ghosted over your ear, warm and slow, his voice dropping into something quieter. Rougher.
Dangerously amused.
“Is that so?” he murmured.
Your breath caught—just slightly.
Damn him.
“Because from where I’m standing,” he continued, his hand sliding just a fraction lower along your side, grounding but firm, “it looks an awful lot like my wife’s upset I was laughing at someone who isn’t her.”
“I’m not upset,” you snapped, but your voice had lost some of its bite.
He hummed softly, unconvinced.
Then, even quieter—barely above a whisper, meant only for you—
“Tell me something,” he said, his lips brushing just behind your ear, his tone dipping into that low, intimate register that always unraveled you faster than you liked. “Am I going to have to fix this?”
You swallowed.
“…Fix what?”
“This,” he murmured, his hand tightening slightly at your waist, pulling you a fraction closer. “This ridiculous mood you’re in.”
You tried to scoff. It came out thinner than intended. “I’m not in a mood.”
“Mm. No. Of course not.”
His nose brushed your temple. His voice dropped further, intimate and dangerous and entirely too calm.
“Because if you were,” he added, almost thoughtfully, “I’d have to do something about it, wouldn’t I?”
Your fingers curled slightly against your arms.
“Frank—”
He cut you off gently, not with force, but with proximity, his mouth just close enough to your ear that his words felt like they settled under your skin.
“Would I have to take you somewhere quiet,” he murmured, “and remind you exactly who you belong to?”
Your breath hitched.
He felt it.
Of course he did.
That faint shift in your body, that tiny pause—he caught it like a man trained to notice the smallest change in pressure.
And he smiled again.
Softer this time.
More private.
“Or,” he continued, voice low and almost lazy now, like he was considering options on a menu, “would I have to do it right here?”
Your head turned toward him slightly, eyes widening just a fraction.
“Don’t be absurd,” you whispered, but it lacked conviction.
His hand slid up your arm, slow, grounding, his fingers brushing your shoulder before settling again at your waist.
“Absurd,” he echoed quietly.
A beat.
Then, softer still—
“Would I have to fuck you right here,” he murmured into your ear, the words low and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world, “just to get rid of this silly jealousy of yours?”
Your stomach flipped.
Heat—sharp and immediate—cut straight through the irritation, through the jealousy, through everything, leaving something far more dangerous in its place.
You turned your head just enough to look at him.
“Franklin Benson,” you said, breath thinner now, “we are in your son’s kitchen.”
Frank didn’t even blink.
Not at your tone, not at the setting, not at the very real possibility that his son—or worse, Patricia and her lemon-scented legacy—could walk in at any second. If anything, your protest seemed to amuse him.
“Kitchen,” he repeated softly, like he was testing the word for flaws. “Mm. We’ve done worse.”
You flushed immediately, your gaze darting toward the doorway as if the walls themselves might start gossiping. “That is not the same and you know it.”
He tilted his head, studying you, that slow, dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Isn’t it?” he murmured, his baritone dropping lower, quieter, like it was meant to slip under your skin rather than be heard. “Seems exactly the same to me. You, me… and that look you get when you’re pretending you don’t want something.”
Your breath caught—just for a second—and you hated him for noticing.
“Franklin,” you warned, but it lacked the sharpness it had a moment ago.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
His hand slid around your waist again, but this time it didn’t stop there. It moved—slow, deliberate—down the curve of your hip, fingers pressing into you just enough to make your breath hitch before slipping beneath the hem of your dress.
“Still jealous,” he murmured, almost to himself, like he was confirming a theory.
“Frank—” your voice dropped, more urgent now, your hand catching weakly at his wrist, “we can’t—”
His palm found your ass.
And squeezed.
Not tentative. Not questioning. Firm. Possessive.
You sucked in a sharp breath, your body betraying you instantly.
“There it is,” he muttered, satisfied, his nose brushing your temple. “That’s the reaction I was waiting for.”
You shot him a look, flustered now, heat creeping up your neck. “Are you drunk?”
He huffed softly, amused, his grip tightening just slightly. “Only slightly intoxicated,” he replied, deadpan. “Still perfectly capable of making excellent decisions.”
“This is not an excellent decision.”
“Debatable.”
Before you could argue further, his hands moved—quick, decisive—and suddenly you were lifted, the world tilting for half a second before you found yourself sitting on the kitchen counter, your breath catching as the cool surface met the backs of your thighs.
“Frank—” you hissed, grabbing at his shoulders for balance, your eyes flicking toward the doorway again, heart thudding now for an entirely different reason.
He stepped in between your legs like he belonged there.
Like he always had.
His hazel eyes were darker now, focused entirely on you, the rest of the world dismissed as irrelevant. One of his hands braced against the counter beside your hip, the other sliding back under your dress, settling firmly where it had been before.
“You’re going to get us caught,” you whispered, but your voice had gone soft, breathless, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“Then I suppose you’d better be quiet,” he murmured, not unkindly, his thumb pressing into your skin just enough to make you shift against him.
You swallowed.
Tried to hold onto the last thread of resistance.
Failed.
Your hand slid up to his collar, gripping it, pulling him closer until his face was inches from yours, your breath mingling with his.
“Take them off,” you muttered quickly, your voice low and urgent now, eyes flicking once more toward the door. “Frank—just—take them off.”
His brow lifted slightly.
That pleased him more than it should have.
“Thought this was a terrible idea,” he murmured.
“Franklin.”
There it was again—that tone.
He obeyed.
Of course he did.
His hand slipped between your thighs, deft despite the drink, finding the edge of your underwear and tugging them down with practiced ease, slow enough to make your breath stutter, quick enough to keep it from becoming a production.
“God,” he muttered under his breath, almost reverent, as he worked them down your legs. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Hurry up,” you whispered sharply, though your grip on him tightened, your body already leaning into his without permission.
He huffed softly, amused, but finished the task, sliding the fabric free and—without breaking eye contact—tucking it into his pocket like it was something valuable he intended to keep.
“There,” he murmured. “Efficient.”
Your heart was racing now, every sound from outside suddenly too loud, every footstep imagined, every second stretched thin with tension and heat.
“Frank,” you breathed, pulling him closer again, your forehead almost brushing his. “If anyone walks in—”
“They won’t,” he said simply, his voice steady, certain in that way that always made you believe him even when you shouldn’t.
His hand came back to you, slower this time, deliberate, his touch grounding and possessive all at once.
“And if they do,” he added quietly, his mouth ghosting near yours, “I suppose they’ll learn something about boundaries.”
You let out a soft, incredulous huff that turned into something else entirely when his hand tightened, when his body pressed closer, when the world outside that kitchen seemed to fall away piece by piece.
“This is insane,” you whispered.
He murmured a low, vibrating “mm” as he unbuckled his belt, the metal clasp sounding deafeningly loud in the quiet kitchen. The leather slid through the loops with a heavy friction that made your breath hitch, a Pavlovian response to a sound you knew far too well. When you opened your mouth to feign further protest—a weak, last-ditch effort to cling to your dignity—he silenced you with a kiss.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision, a decisive tactical maneuver meant to scramble your thoughts. His lips were firm and demanding, tasting of beer and that distinct, smoky warmth that was purely Frank. His large hand slid up your thigh, gripping your flesh with a possessiveness that made your toes curl against the cabinet drawers, and he parted your thighs with a nudge of his hips, stepping into the space he’d created as if he were laying claim to conquered territory.
You broke away from the kiss, gasping, your head falling back against the cupboard as you looked down between your bodies. The sight of him—hair silver and wild, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, face flushed with a mix of drink and desire—sent a jolt of heat straight through your belly. He pushed his trousers and boxers down just enough, and his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already curving upward toward his stomach.
God, it had been days. Too many days. The nights he’d worked late, the nights you’d been too tired, the awkward distance that had stretched between you since the fight. It felt like an eternity since you’d felt the weight of him, the stretch of him.
Frank didn’t tease. He didn’t have the patience for it, not here, not now. He spat into his palm, wrapping a hand around his shaft to slick himself, giving himself a rough, cursory stroke that made his jaw tighten. He leaned forward, the wide head of his dick notching against your entrance, hot and insistent.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a ragged baritone whisper.
Your eyes snapped to his, your hips shifting restlessly on the counter.
“I want you to see who’s fucking you,” he murmured, and then he pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming—a thick, burning stretch as he split you open, forcing your body to accommodate him after days of abstinence. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he slid deeper, inch by devastating inch. He groaned low in his throat, a guttural sound of relief and pure male satisfaction, his head dropping forward to rest against your forehead.
“So fucking tight,” he gritted out, his breath hitching as your walls clenched around him, greedy and unrelenting. “Jesus, I missed this. I missed you.”
He didn’t stop until he was seated to the hilt, his pelvic bone pressed flush against yours, filling you so completely you felt it in your lungs. For a moment, he just held you there, panting, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
“Frank,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “Move.”
He didn't need to be told twice.
He withdrew almost entirely, the drag of his cock against your inner walls sending sparks of pleasure-pain racing up your spine, before slamming back home. The counter rocked beneath you, a dangerous, squeaking protest, but Frank didn’t care. He set a rhythm that was hard and deep and unforgiving, fueled by the jealousy still humming in your blood and the desperate need to remind you exactly where he belonged.
“Is this what you needed?” he growled against your mouth, his hips snapping forward with a wet, lewd sound that echoed in the empty kitchen. “Hm? To be reminded?”
“Yes,” you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “Fuck, yes.”
His cock dragged against that spot inside you that made your vision blur, every thrust hitting it with military precision. He was relentless, using his weight to pin you against the cabinets, taking you apart piece by piece. The friction was maddening, the sheer girth of him stretching you wide, the heat of him searing you from the inside out.
The rhythm he set was punishing, a deliberate, grinding cadence that felt less like lovemaking and more like a siege. Every thrust drove the breath from your lungs in sharp, broken hitches, your back sliding against the polished countertop with each forceful snap of his hips. Frank was usually composed, controlled in all things, but here, with his trousers bunched around his thighs and his hands bruising your hips, he was untethered.
He leaned in closer, the heat of him radiating through his shirt, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. The smell of him—Guinness, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic tang of adrenaline—overloaded your senses.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrated against your chest. He didn’t let up, the angle of his hips devastatingly precise, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your vision white out. “Tell me you know the difference.”
Your head fell back, thumping lightly against the cupboard door, your mind too fractured to form words. You could only gasp, your fingernails digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders through the fabric of his dress shirt.
Frank pulled back just enough to capture your gaze, his hazel eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide with lust and a possessive edge that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure. sweat beaded on his forehead, matting the silver hair at his temples. He looked like a man fighting a war on two fronts—one against your body, and one against the ghost of a history you couldn't seem to shake.
“Do you think she makes me feel like this?” he growled, the words punctuated by a particularly deep thrust that made you cry out. “Hmm? Do you think Patricia ever made me feel this fucking insane?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t want one; he wanted to break the thought out of your head. His hand moved from your hip to cradle the back of your neck, forcing you to hold eye contact as he rutted into you, hard and unrelenting.
“Could she ever take me like this?” he hissed, his voice cracking on a syllable. “Could she ever make me this hard, this desperate, this utterly fucking gone for her?”
You didn’t answer.
You couldn’t.
The jealousy was still there, a green, sickly thing, but it was being drowned out by the sheer overwhelming reality of him. The way his heavy body pinned yours, the soft pudge of his stomach pressing against yours, the way he filled you so completely it bordered on pain. It was visceral. It was ugly and beautiful and real.
Instead of speaking, you surged forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You opened your mouth against the crisp cotton of his collar, sinking your teeth into the meat of his shoulder, biting down hard through the fabric and into the skin beneath.
Frank groaned softly—a broken, jagged sound that started in his chest and escaped his throat like a prayer. His rhythm stuttered, his hips jerking involuntarily at the sharp sting of pain, his hand tightening in your hair almost to the point of pulling.
“Christ,” he choked out, his head falling back, exposing more of his throat to you, surrendering to the mark you were leaving. “That’s it. Mark me. Make sure I know who I belong to.”
He liked it. The bastard liked the pain, liked the ownership, liked that you were wild enough to leave a permanent reminder of this moment on his skin. He surged back into you, harder now, the counter rattling dangerously against the wall, the lewd slap of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet house.
“Take it,” he gritted out, his control fraying at the edges. “Take all of it.”
He was close. You could feel it in the way his thrusts became erratic, the way his breathing turned into shallow, desperate pants. He was going to finish inside you, right here on his son's kitchen counter, consequences be damned.
He turned his head, eyes half-closed, mouth open as he panted against your temple. For a second, he looked out the window above the sink—a portal of clear glass looking out over the backyard.
And froze.
His entire body went rigid. The rhythm stopped dead, leaving you gasping and bewildered, half-filled and teetering on the edge of an abyss.
“Frank?” you breathed, dazed, clutching at his lapels. “Frank, don’t stop—”
“Shit,” he hissed.
It wasn’t a happy expletive. It was the cold, sharp curse of a Lieutenant General who had just spotted a tactical error on the horizon.
You turned your head, following his gaze.
Through the window, the party was in full swing, but you saw it too—the back screen door swinging open. A figure was stepping into the house, a beer in hand, wiping their hands on a napkin. It was Frank’s son.
And he wasn’t alone.
Patricia was right behind him, laughing at something he said, heading straight for the kitchen to refill the dip bowl.
They were ten seconds away. Maybe fifteen.
“Fuck,” Frank snarled, the reality of the situation hitting him with the adrenaline of a landmine.
He didn’t hesitate. There was no fumbling with buttons, no awkward apologies. He acted with the decisive speed of a man accustomed to crisis management.
He pulled out of you so abruptly it left you feeling hollow and aching, a wet, embarrassing gasp tearing from your throat. Before you could even process the loss, he reached down, hauling you off the counter by your arm.
“Come here,” he barked, not unkindly, but with urgent authority.
He didn’t let you find your footing. He didn’t let you smooth down your dress. Instead, he grabbed you by the shoulder—his large hand clamping down like a vice—and yanked you forward. He threw you over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, one arm locking your legs against his chest, bouncing you once to secure his grip.
“Frank!” you squeaked, your stomach hitting his hard shoulder, blood rushing to your head.
“Quiet,” he ordered, his voice steel.
He moved with shocking agility for a man of his age and intoxication level. He took two long strides across the kitchen tiles, bypassing the table, and lunged for the pantry door just as the back door creaked open in the next room.
He kicked the pantry door open, shoved you both inside, and kicked it shut with his heel.
Darkness swallowed you.
The pantry was small, narrow, and lined with shelves full of canned goods and cereal boxes. It was cramped, filled with the scent of detergent and dried herbs, and suddenly very, very small with two adults jammed inside.
Frank set you down, but there was nowhere to go. Your back was pressed against the shelves, cans digging into your spine, and Frank was pressed flush against your front, pinning you in place. He was heavy, solid, and radiating a terrifying amount of heat.
You heard the familiar clink of a ceramic bowl being set on the counter. The exact spot where, ten seconds ago, Frank had been balls-deep inside you.
“I still think it needs more salt,” Patricia’s voice drifted through the door, clear as a bell, that polished, lemon-scented tone making your skin crawl.
“It’s fine, Mum,” Frank’s son replied, sounding weary.
Patricia let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-dismissal, the kind of noise that suggested she found the entire seasoning process beneath her intellect. “It’s bland, darling. Bland like this conversation. And speaking of missing things...”
There was a pause, the sharp click of heels against the tile as she paced the small kitchen.
“Where is Frank? And that little friend of his? I haven’t seen them in twenty minutes.”
You stiffened against Frank, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. His hand, still splayed against your lower back to keep you steady, felt like a brand of burning iron.
“That’s his wife, mother,” the son said, his voice tight with the kind of long-suffering patience only a child of a divorce could muster. “I’ve told you a thousand times. She’s his wife. And you’re married to Nigel. When are you going to accept that Dad’s moved on?”
“Oh, spare me the therapy talk,” Patricia snapped. “Wife, girlfriend, temporary distraction. It’s all semantics. He’s bored, clearly. Or he’s lost his mind.”
In the suffocating darkness of the pantry, you shifted slightly, the wire shelf digging uncomfortably into your shoulder blades. You were acutely aware of the drafty feeling between your legs, the cool air of the pantry hitting skin that should have been covered. You tugged gently on Frank’s sleeve, trying to get his attention, and made a frantic grabbing motion toward his trousers pocket.
Panties, you mouthed in the dark, your eyes wide and pleading. Give them back.
Frank blinked slowly, the faint light from under the door catching the wet glint of his eyes. He looked down at you, his silhouette imposing and broad, blocking out the cans of peaches behind him. Instead of reaching into his pocket, however, his hand slid further down your back, fingers curling possessively over your hipbone, pulling you even harder into the cradle of his pelvis.
You glared at him, jabbing him in the chest with two fingers. Now.
He leaned in, his breath hot and smelling of beer and adrenaline against your ear. “Not yet,” he whispered, the baritone barely a thread of sound, vibrating through your chest.
You stared at him in horrified disbelief. The man was insane. He was currently hiding in a broom cupboard with his erection pressing into your stomach, listening to his ex-wife insult you, and he wanted to sex?
“Well, they’re not in the loo,” Patricia’s voice came again, closer now, right on the other side of the thin pantry door. “I checked. I suppose they could be... elsewhere. Doing that.”
There was a choking sound from the son, followed by the thud of a heavy bag being set on the counter. “Oh my god, Mother! Stop! They would not do that in my house. That’s—absolutely not. Dad’s a lot of things, but he’s decent. He wouldn’t.”
“Franklin? Decent?” Patricia let out a sharp, bitter laugh that made you flinch. “He’s a man, isn’t he? And look at her. Did you see that dress she’s wearing?”
You froze.
The blood drained from your face so fast it left you cold.
“It’s red,” Patricia continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, venomous whisper. “Short. Tight. Completely indecent. She looks like a prostitute. Honestly, how Frank can allow her to walk out of the house looking like that is beyond my composure. It’s desperate. It’s common. It’s no wonder he’s confused; she’s practically advertising for business right in front of the salad.”
You felt the words like physical blows. Prostitute. Common. Advertising.
Your shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of you instantly.
You looked down at yourself, even though you couldn’t see a thing in the dark. The dress. You had hesitated this morning, standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem. It was a bit shorter than your usual style. A bit brighter. But Frank had stood in the bedroom doorway, his eyes sweeping over you with a heat that had made your knees weak, and had told you that you looked devastating. That you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
You had trusted him. You never let him dress you—his fashion sense usually stopped at “military surplus” and “tweed that survived the Blitz”—but this was his family. You wanted to please him. You wanted to fit in. So you had worn the red dress.
And now, huddled in a pantry with no underwear on, listening to his ex-wife tear your dignity to shreds, you felt foolish. Cheap. Exposed.
You stopped fighting for the panties. Your hands dropped to your sides, your head bowing forward until your forehead rested against the starched fabric of Frank’s shirt.
Frank felt it.
The change in you was immediate. The way your body went soft, then rigid, then trembling. He heard the sharp, intake of breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob being strangled in the crib.
The humor in him evaporated. The tension in his shoulders shifted instantly—from the adrenaline of near-discovery to a cold, lethal fury.
He stopped listening to his son. He stopped hearing the clink of the dip bowl. His entire world narrowed down to the woman shaking in his arms.
“Hey,” he murmured, the command soft but urgent. “Look at me.”
You shook your head against his chest, a small, miserable movement.
“Sweetheart.” He moved away then, just enough to create a sliver of space between them, though the pantry was too small for any real distance. He brought his hands up to your face, cradling your jaw, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. It was too dark to see your expression, but he could feel the wetness tracking through your makeup, the way your breath hitched and caught.
“Don’t listen to her,” he said, his voice low and rough, stripping away the amusement and leaving only the steel. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s blind.”
“She’s right,” you whispered, your voice cracking, sounding small and broken to your own ears. “I look... I look like—”
“You look like a queen,” Frank cut you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You look like fire and blood and every fucking thing I’ve ever wanted. I chose that dress because when you wear it, I can’t take my eyes off you. Because I wanted every man in that garden to see exactly what I have, and know that they can’t touch it.”
You let out a shuddering breath, your fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “Frank, please... just give me the panties. I want to go. I want to leave.”
He hesitated. He could feel the panic rising in you, the desperate need to cover yourself, to hide. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to fix it—to reach into his pocket and hand over the silk, to button his coat and shield you, to march out there and tear Patricia apart with his bare hands.
But then he paused. His hand hovered over his pocket.
If he gave them back, you would put them on. You would cover up. You would wipe your eyes, straighten your spine, and walk out there ready to face the world. You would arm yourself with dignity and sarcasm and brave the rest of the afternoon.
And you would believe Patricia.
If you covered up now, Frank knew, you would always feel that the dress was a mistake. You would hide in it. You would let Patricia’s poison curdle the joy you felt when he looked at you.
No.
He wasn’t going to let her win. He wasn’t going to let her dictate how his wife felt in his arms. He wasn’t going to let you hide.
He moved his hand away from his pocket.
“Frank?” you asked, confused by his stillness.
“Shh,” he murmured.
And then, with the slow, deliberate grace of a man kneeling at an altar, Frank Benson lowered himself to his knees.
The floor was hard, the pantry cramped, but he didn't care. He knelt before you, his head level with your stomach, his hands coming up to grip your waist.
“What are you doing?” you hissed, trying to pull him back up, terrified his son would open the door and find his sixty-something father on his knees in a dark pantry.
“I’m worshipping,” Frank whispered back, unrepentant.
His hands slid down the outside of your thighs, tracing the lines of the dress Patricia hated. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the fabric just above your knee, kissing the skin there with a reverence that made your breath catch.
“Frank, stop—”
“Hush,” he ordered gently, his voice vibrating against your leg.
He shifted, his hands gripping the back of your thigh, urging you to lift. “Up.”
You hesitated, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “They’re right there.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Let them talk. Let them say what they want. They’re in the kitchen. We’re in here.”
He tugged your leg gently, insistently. “Lift it for me.”
Trembling, overwhelmed by a mix of humiliation and a dark, rising heat, you obeyed. You lifted your leg, hooking your knee over his shoulder.
Frank groaned softly, a sound of pure, masculine appreciation, as the red dress fell back, exposing you to the darkness. He didn’t hesitate. He pressed his face against the soft skin of your inner thigh, his nose brushing the crease where your leg met your hip, breathing you in.
“This,” he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin, “is not indecent.”
He kissed you there, open-mouthed and wet, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive flesh.
“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his hands sliding up to cup your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth. “And it’s mine. Not hers. Never hers. Mine.”
Outside, Patricia was still droning on about “standards” and “appropriateness,” but inside the pantry, the only sound that mattered was the ragged breathing of the Lieutenant General at your feet, and the way his lips began to map a territory that no ex-wife, no judgment, and no red dress could ever claim.
Your knees buckled instantly.
The moment Frank’s tongue—a hot, velvet rasp against your oversensitive, swollen flesh—made contact, your vision whited out. You didn’t mean to, you didn’t want to, but your body betrayed you with violent enthusiasm. You were already slick and open from the fucking on the counter, aching and empty, and the sudden, overwhelming intimacy of his mouth was a shock to the system.
You flailed out blindly in the dark, your hand smacking against a shelf.
Crash.
A tin of instant coffee rattled violently, threatening to leap off the edge.
You froze, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, sweat breaking out along your hairline. Outside, Patricia’s voice hadn’t paused. She was still going, a relentless drone of judgment like a helicopter circling a crash site.
“—common, really. I tried to tell him, years ago, that he has a type. Lost causes. Strays. It’s that savior complex of his—”
You bit your lip, a whimper dying in your throat as Frank’s hands tightened on your thighs, hauling you closer, rooting you to the spot. He didn’t care about the coffee tin. He didn’t care about the risk. He only cared about the taste of you.
Your fingers scrambled for purchase, finding the cold metal edge of the shelf above you and gripping it until your knuckles turned white. It was the only thing keeping you upright.
“Frank,” you hissed, a broken, breathless plea. “Frank, the noise—”
He growled against you. The sound vibrated through your pelvis, up your spine, a low, baritone rumble of admonishment and hunger. Be quiet, the growl said. Let me work.
Then his tongue flattened, dragging heavily up your slit, circling your clit with agonizing, deliberate slowness.
Your head tipped back, thumping softly against the shelves, and you had to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle the gasp that tried to tear out of your lungs.
Fuck.
The man was sixty-something years old. He had a bad knee, a reliance on antacids, and a blood pressure monitor on his nightstand. He should be tired. He should be fading. But Frank Benson ate pussy like he was conducting a siege operation—tactical, relentless, and with absolute, terrifying focus.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
He knew that you liked the flat, broad strokes of his tongue to warm you up, followed by the sharp, pinpoint flicks that made your toes curl. He knew how to suction his lips around your clit just hard enough to make your thighs shake, how to hum low in his throat to send vibrations straight through your nerve endings.
He had memorized you. Charted you. Conquered you.
And god, the arrogance of it. The sheer, unadulterated gall.
Here you were, locked in a dark pantry, eavesdropping on his ex-wife—who was currently calling you a “desperate little thing” and analyzing your dress like it was a crime scene—while her ex-husband, the man she let slip through her fingers, was on his knees devouring you like you were his last meal.
A dark, heady rush of power swept through you, cutting through the shame Patricia had tried to heap on your shoulders.
You looked down—even though you could barely see him, you could feel him. You could feel the shape of his hooked nose pressing against your mound as he buried his face deeper, the silver hair tickling your inner thighs, the rough stubble scraping your sensitive skin in a way that made you burn.
He was yours.
He was kneeling on a hard floor, ignoring his bad back, ignoring his dignity, risking total social annihilation, just to taste you.
Patricia was out there, thinking she had the upper hand, thinking she knew the man she’d divorced decades ago. She thought she could wound you with her words, reduce you to a cheap trick in a red dress. She had no idea.
She had no idea that the man she dismissed as “bored” and “decent” was currently groaning into your pussy like a starving man presented with a feast.
You shifted your hips, grinding against his mouth, unable to help yourself. The movement drew a sharp, wet sound from him—a slurp, a heavy breath—that made your face flame even as your arousal spiked.
“God,” you whispered into your palm, your eyes squeezing shut. “Frank... your mouth...”
He responded by redoubling his efforts. His tongue dipped inside you, fucking you with the rhythm he’d used earlier, mimicking the thrust of his cock, curling upward to find that spot that made your sanity fracture.
Your legs trembled violently, the knee hooked over his shoulder slipping slightly. Frank caught it instantly, his large hand gripping the underside of your thigh, holding you in place with a strength that belied his age. He adjusted your weight like you were weightless, pulling you harder onto his face, suffocating himself in your cunt because he couldn't get close enough.
You remembered the beginning.
Before the dinners, before the ring, before the quiet mornings in the kitchen. You remembered the messages.
The lieutenant general, the man who coordinated drone strikes and handled international crises with a cool head, had been a mess behind a screen.
‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ he had typed at 2:00 AM, the messages coming in rapid, desperate bursts. ‘I haven’t felt this way in thirty years. Probably forty. I feel like a schoolboy. It’s disgusting.’
He had sent you gifts. Not just flowers—though there were always flowers—but things he thought you needed. A first edition book you mentioned once in passing. A scarf because “the draft in your flat is unacceptable, love.” Expensive chocolates he claimed he didn't want, but you knew he bought because he wanted to see you smile.
He had been terrified.
You could feel it now, in the desperate way he ate you, in the way his fingers dug into your ass. He was still that man, terrified you’d realize you could do better. Terrified you’d walk away and find a man who didn’t have gray hair, or a hooked nose, or a past full of casualties.
He had tried to buy your affection then, showering you with things, thinking that if he gave you enough, showed you enough, you might stay.
But he didn’t need to buy you now.
He just had to do this.
“—completely inappropriate,” Patricia’s voice drifted through the door, sharper now, irritated by the lack of response from her son. “If she had any respect for this family, for you, she would have covered up. But no. It’s blatant. It’s vulgar. It’s practically an invitation—”
Frank pulled away just long enough to breathe, his chest heaving against your legs.
“She’s wrong,” he whispered, his voice wrecked, hoarse, his breath ghosting hot over your wet, swollen flesh. “You’re not vulgar. You’re divine.”
Then he dived back in, sucking your clit into his mouth with a force that made your hips jerk off the shelf.
You slapped your other hand over your mouth, twin barriers against the moan that clawed at your throat. Your head fell back, hitting a box of cereal, sending it tumbling to the floor.
Thump.
Outside, the conversation stopped.
Silence.
Your heart stopped. Frank didn’t. If anything, the danger seemed to spur him on. He sealed his lips over your clit and fluttered his tongue rapidly, pushing you toward the edge with ruthless efficiency.
“Did you hear that?” Patricia asked, her voice suspicious.
“Just a mouse, Mum,” Frank’s son said, sounding exhausted. “Please. Can we just finish the dip?”
“It sounded heavy,” Patricia insisted. “Frank? Is that you in there?”
Frank growled into your pussy, the sound vibrating through your bones, and you felt your orgasm cresting like a tidal wave, unstoppable and violent. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them upward, and found that spot with unerring accuracy while his tongue worked your clit.
The combination was lethal.
Your fingers dug into the metal shelf until it hurt. Your thighs locked around his head, trapping him there, suffocating him, and he didn't fight it. He welcomed it. He fucked you with his fingers and ate you with his mouth, taking everything you gave him, consuming your arousal and your jealousy and your rage until there was nothing left but pure, white-hot sensation.
You were close. So close.
“Frank,” you gasped against your hand, your eyes rolling back. “I’m... I’m gonna...”
He hummed in encouragement. Come for me, the hum said. Come all over my face while she stands there.
The arrogance of it sent you over.
Your body bowed, a sharp, silent cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you. You shuddered violently, your hips bucking against his mouth, wave after wave of pleasure crashing down on you, drowning out Patricia, drowning out the world, leaving nothing but the wet heat of Frank’s tongue and the grip of his hands on your skin.
He rode it out with you, his movements slowing, gentling, lapping at you softly as you came down, drawing out every last aftershock until you were a boneless, trembling mess slumped against the shelves.
You panted, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your skin.
Slowly, carefully, Frank pulled away. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to your inner thigh—a benediction, a seal of ownership—and then gripped your hips, helping you lower your leg.
You slid down the shelves, legs like jelly, and collapsed against him.
He stood up slowly, his knees popping softly in the quiet dark, and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. You could feel the hard thud of his heart, the dampness on his chin—your arousal—smearing onto his shirt collar.
“I hate her,” you whispered into his chest, feeling tears prick your eyes again, overwhelmed by the intensity of what just happened. “I hate that she made me feel cheap.”
Frank’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair.
“She’s nothing,” he rasped, his baritone thick with emotion and sex. “She’s a ghost, love. She’s history. You’re the one who’s real. You’re the one who matters.”
He pulled back slightly, his hands framing your face in the dark. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the intensity of them, burning into you.
“And for the record,” he added, his voice dropping to that dangerous, seductive whisper that he used when he was about to say something that would ruin you completely. “That dress... it’s the best thing I’ve seen on a woman in forty years. And if you take it off, I’ll burn it.”
You let out a wet, teary laugh against his mouth.
“Frank,” you whispered. “Give me my panties.”
He chuckled, a low, dark sound. He reached into his pocket, but instead of handing them to you, he leaned down and, with agonizing slowness, slid them back up your legs himself, pulling them into place with a reverence that made your breath hitch.
He stood up, adjusted your dress, patted your hip.
“There,” he murmured. “Armored.”
He kissed you then, tasting of you and of salt and of home.
“Now,” he whispered, his hand finding yours in the dark, lacing your fingers together. “Let’s go get some fucking dip.”
And with his head held high, and his hand tight in yours, Frank Benson opened the pantry door.
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