𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | after surprising leonard for your three-year anniversary, you both explore a teasing, mutual struggle for control, trading dominance and desire as hands and mouths push each other to the edge, each equally undone by the other’s insistence
𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 13k
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 | fempov, implied age-gap (20+ yrs), third anniversary, collar-wearing, handjob, cock worship, ball fondling, precum play, cocksucking, edging, deepthroating, throatpie, cunnilingus, messy sex, sixty-nine position, cock-riding, creampie, breeding (duhhh), lots and lots of cum.
𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | this was supposed to be for valentines, oops
For you and Leonard, marriage is your religion, and your anniversary is its most intimate ritual.
It began on your honeymoon in Guadeloupe, when you both took time to savor, not just to satiate. Lovemaking evolved into a private liturgy beneath open roofs, written in slow caresses and heated glances.
You remember the drive from the airport.
His hand rested on your thigh with more intention than he ever had before, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as palm trees blurred past. He kept glancing at you while driving like he was confirming you were still there, still his wife.
The villa overlooked the white beach from a private terrace atop the cliffside. White linen curtains breathed changeably with the wind. Mornings between you began slowly; there was no promise of work to dread. Sunlight spilled across tangled sheets, his bare back, and into the hair that had fallen against your shoulder as you faced him. Your fingertips traced the lines of his shoulders, catching the faint gold of his wedding band as his fingers skimmed lazily along your loose strands, down to your waist.
At night, when the island was quiet, and all you heard was the shore, you both discovered how devotion could be expressed without haste. He explored you slowly with his hands, mouth, and tongue. Laughter dissolved into silence as you felt him open your legs so many of those evenings.
Leonard couldn’t get enough of whispering confessions against your flesh. He would trace invisible patterns along your spine before mapping out the space entirely, gently massaging the artistry into your soft skin.
He murmured fragments of your vows back to you in the dark as he dressed, or undressed, you; “in all circumstances,”“without reservation,” “for as long as I draw breath.”
Even when returning to his world of secrets and statecraft, he doesn’t shed the role of a dutiful husband at the airport curb. You saw it happen the first morning back in New York, how he’d scan exits and reflections as naturally as breathing the post-aviation air. By the time the car merged into traffic, the island sun had been replaced by cool-toned architecture, where conversations are kept corporate, not romantic. Yet, his hand remained threaded through yours.
He’s able to step back into rooms where trust is rationed, and still text you at noon. Simply: Eat something. He can spend hours constructing narratives that protect national interests, then come home and lay his head in your lap like a man starved for peace. Three years, and you’re still accustomed to his hard cheek pressed against your thigh, massaging his scalp with your fingertips.
There were nights that first year when he returned past midnight. His loosened tie hung around his neck like an improper noose, his deep eye bags shadowed above his cheekbones, with the faint scent of cologne clinging to him. He’d pause in the doorway of your shared bedroom as though crossing a threshold, watching you for a moment before approaching.
“Debrief me, Miller," You teased once, half-asleep.
He smiled faintly, “Classified.”
But then, he kissed your shoulder with a tenderness that required no clearance.
Leonard treats anniversaries like protected assets, private tradition becoming safeguarded operations. He’ll take leave when necessity requires him, and you are his necessity. He strategizes in the quiet of the night; calls placed from empty hallways, reservations secured under discretion.
Months earlier, you might mention a fabric you loved, or a scent that made your head turn in a boutique. He’ll store it all away for you. And when your anniversary arrives, he unveils it with the carefulness of a designer, every detail put into exactly where it should be.
Today, you’re not merely a recipient of his private orchestration, you’re its counterpart. You have a rare day free from obligations, becoming your own contribution to the romantic occasion. The penthouse, like always, transforms under your touch into something softer.
Recessed lighting dimmed to a low, velvety glow, the kind that flatters your skin and softens his aged edge. You still laugh when you remember that, before you ever moved in, he had previously installed what he thought were sleek, modern upgrades.
The mood had been immaculate. Clothes lay sloppily on the hardwood, your kiss marks painting his face as you panted. Leonard slid between your spread legs, going as slow as he could until his pace began to quicken. Then, clap. Blackout.
His expression had shifted from confusion to dawning horror while you dissolved into laughter, hair slipping off your shoulder as the lights flickered back on with another thrust. He replaced them within the week. But the memory remains: your laughter echoing off penthouse ceilings, his mock irritation melting into a grin as he pulled you close and muttered that some errors were worth making.
You smile to yourself as you dim the lights, slowly turning the silver knob before heading to the table. You work diligently, your bottom lip plump from the number of times you’ve bit it in diligence to your craft. Candles are placed with care to be lit, your silk robe laid out after an everything shower. CD albums are chosen deliberately, ranging from romantic to erotic.
This morning, he watched you place silver pins in your hair as he shaved off his stubble, the way you both looked at each other in the mirror concluded as a touchless form of lovemaking.
Then came routine kisses at the door. Brief, until you turned to offer him your other cheek, and his restraint dissolved. His hand caught your waist, steady and certain, and his mouth claimed yours instead as though imprinting a promise for later. There was a deliciously muffled noise that came from your throat that he ravenously ate, his briefcase forgotten beside his shoes.
“Shh,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice a low thrum. He stepped back into the entryway, pressing you against the wall as his teeth continued their erotic scraping at your throat. “Let me have you for one more minute.” You teased him afterwards for his insatiable hunger that only ever flares for you.
You press play on the wall-hanging CD player, pressing repeat and increasing the volume as you waltz towards the fridge. Chocolate-covered fruits; chilled enough for you to smile as you think of his jaw clenching around one and the low, throaty hum he seems to make with every bite of something you’ve prepared. Taking one into your mouth, you head over to the staircase and check your sleek watch. Seven. O’Clock.
“Ooh fuck,” a soft curse slips from your lips. You move quickly, pacing up the stairs, silk robe whispering against your thighs as you cinch it tighter. The bedroom greets you in a wash of late-nineties luxury. In the centre sits a wide, low-profile bed framed in dark lacquered wood; a faint sheen on the cream walls that catches the dimmed recessed lighting just enough to glow.
A flat-screen TV, a sleek stereo system, and neatly stacked compact discs create an ambience for slow music. Outside, the city softly hums, with light reflecting in pink and amber hues. A glance at Leonard’s nightstand reveals a landline phone, recalling nights he answered it while reassuringly touching your thigh. A brushed-metal alarm clock glows, marked by his fingerprints from moments he opted for more tranquility with you.
The air closest to his side of the bed carries the subtle trace of his cologne mixed with your perfume, layered into the room like the memory of this morning. You walk towards your side of the bed, tracing the small lockets and shells from your honeymoon placed a bit unorderly, compared to his. One morning, Leonard stopped right beside you to hold the minuscule shells in his palm. Then, he kept one for himself, placing it on his desk as another sweet reminder.
Smiling to yourself, you cross into the walk-in closet, another installment made for you both as a couple. It unfolds like a curated showroom, lighting up as you step inside. He always said they seemed like an odd inclusion, that it’d be better to just have a larger bedroom. But you shrugged at the thought, saying you’d always wanted one. He looked over at you, then. Within the week, renovations were made.
Now, his suits are arranged with an ombré effect, charcoal and midnight, each shoulder structured. And then yours: lingerie of the decade, nothing disposable, nothing careless.
Satin balconette bras with delicate scalloped lace, some high-cut briefs that elongate the line of your hip. In another drawer lies a black garter belt you bought the second year of your marriage and wore only once, saving it for nights that deserved ceremony. You let your fingers trail along the fabrics, considering what will unravel your husband at the sight. Not that you’ve had any trouble in the past.
You slide your hands between the hangers, opening the display at random intervals.
“No… no… Fucking unbelievable," You mutter, fully aware you’re being dramatic. You exhale sharply and step deeper into the rack, fingers sliding with more urgency now. Then, half-hidden between a crimson blouse and a darker burgundy set, you spot it.
Red. A deep, cinematic red, the kind that looks almost black in shadow but will reveal under warm light. You ease it from the hanger slowly, the fabric almost liquid as it falls free. A lace corset-style bustier with structured seams that contour rather than constrict. Attached garter straps hang with quiet promise, tipped in small satin bows.
You smile. “There we go.”
From the drawer beneath, you retrieve sheer stockings, barely-there black with a subtle sheen that catches light along the line of your calf. You roll one carefully over your foot, smoothing it upward inch by inch, savoring the slow transformation. The action of fastening the garters requires patience; each clip must be secured with precision, and the effect straightens your posture automatically.
You step back and assess in the full-length mirror. You’ll leave your hair loose, slightly tousled. A touch of gloss instead of lipstick this time, to look as though they’ve already been kissed. A hint of perfume behind your knees, at your collarbone.
The silk robe returns, loosely tied, concealing just enough to make the reveal intentional. You pause next at the vanity and smooth body oil along your collarbones and wrists, something warm and sweet, subtle; amber and cupuaçu rather than light florals of normalcy.
You take one slow breath. Then you hear the front door downstairs closing with a muted thud. The faint rustle of leather as Leonard shrugs off his coat, the measured rhythm of his footsteps crossing marble.
“Baby?” His voice rises from the lower floor, threaded with exhaustion.
In his right hand, he holds a bouquet; a mélage of flowers from your wedding. “I’m home,” he adds, the words low.
He drags a tired hand over his face, fingers pressing into his brow before raking back through his hair. For a moment, he simply stands there in the kitchen’s golden half-light, bouquet still in hand, breathing in the stillness. He sets the flowers carefully on the marble kitchen island, as though laying an offering at an altar.
Upstairs, you hear the ornate cabinet open with a soft wooden sigh, the gentle clink of crystal you know gleams within. He’s reaching for Cognac, a slow pour to steady the sharp edges of exhaustion. The amber liquid catches the light as it settles into the tumbler. He exhales, and his gaze lifts briefly toward the staircase, knowing you’re somewhere above, robed in silk, preparing the sanctuary you both built from brick and vow.
You beam, unable to wait any longer. Swiftly, you begin walking towards the stairwell, hair framing your face and placed perfectly against your shoulder. One leg crosses over the other as you fail to contain your smile, a near-salacious expression tied together with your lingerie. The silk robe shifts with you as you begin your descent, one hand gliding lightly along the banister.
Leonard straightens, the fatigue in his face sharpening into focus as he watches you. You watch his eyes darken, and you pause on the landing deliberately, letting him take in the outline of you. The robe, the bare line of your thigh visible through the slit as you shift your weight.
The glass lowers slowly in his hand. There’s no smile, only that look he reserves for what truly matters. “Come here,” he says. You approach him, smiling, unable to help yourself whenever you see your handsome spouse.
“Hi, baby.” Your voice is a soft murmur, one that costs him a shaky breath. Leonard’s arms wrap around you with the easy authority of a man who knows exactly what he wants and has earned the right to take it.
The kiss to your cheek is tender, but his hold on you is unmistakably firm. His fingers splay across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the tension in his shoulders beginning to ease, melting into the space where your body meets his.
“You look…” he pauses, studying your face with those dark eyes that have memorized every curve of your features, “like you’re plotting something.” His thumb traces slow circles against the silk of your robe, an almost teasing pressure that threatens to descend lower. “Am I allowed to know what you’re thinking?”
“Classified," You tease.
He chuckles and releases you just enough to take in the full picture, your expression, lace peeking from beneath your robe, the way the silk falls open at your collarbone.
When he speaks again, his voice has dropped even lower, rougher. “Turn for me.”
You pivot slowly, letting the robe shift with the movement. The silk loosens just slightly at the tie, catching the light as you turn. Your gaze stays on him until the very last second, until your back is to him and the line of your shoulders is exposed beneath the fabric.
Leonard’s hand slides down your arm, guiding you with the ease of a man who knows exactly how to position you. As you turn, he positions you so you’re facing the island, seeing the flowers arranged with such care they might as well be carved from marble.
“I want you to see these first,” he says, his voice near your ear, warm breath ghosting the shell of it. His hands settle on your shoulders, holding you there as though presenting you with a gift.
You gasp softly at the sight of the bouquet. Ranunculus layered admirably like vows. Hellebores, passion, and resilience. Wisps of dried parvifolia bind it all together with fragile grace. It’s not a flamboyant arrangement; it’s devotional.
”Leonard… They’re beautiful…” You say as you step closer, fingertips brushing the edge of a ranunculus bloom.
“You like them?” There’s a hint of uncertainty in his tone, barely perceptible, but there. You turn within the circle of his arms, hair brushing against his chest as you pivot to face him. Up close, you can see the faint fatigue still lining his eyes, the day not fully erased. But beneath it is something far more vulnerable. You lift your hand to his chest, smoothing your palm over the fabric of his shirt.
“I love them," You correct gently. “You thought about each stem.”
Leonard’s expression shifts, relief disguised as composure. His thumb drifts absentmindedly along the curve of your shoulder as if reassuring himself. “I try,” he replies, slowly running his hands up your sides. His fingers work at the tie of your robe, loosening it just enough to let it part. The movement is slow, just a peek, a taste of what he’ll see soon enough.
With a small, conspiratorial smile, you slip from his hold just long enough to retrieve what you prepared earlier from the fridge: a small porcelain dish resting near the island, strawberries glistening under the cool light, their surfaces lacquered with a sheen of melted chocolate.
You carefully pick up the plate, turning back to him with a look that’s equal parts innocence and challenge. “Well, try these," You instruct, lifting one towards his mouth.
Leonard’s gaze drops briefly to the fruit, then returns to you. He decisively catches your wrist before you can close the remaining distance, the interruption sending a small spark up your arm. Instead of allowing you to feed him, he guides your hand inward at his own pace. His lips part, and his tongue swirls slowly around the dipped edge, claiming only a portion of the chocolate and flesh of your fingertip.
He doesn’t break eye contact. The gesture is playful, but controlled and possessive in a way that has nothing to do with the strawberry. When he finally lets go, there’s the faintest trace of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. He tilts his head, studying you.
The sight of you biting your lip sends a jolt of satisfaction straight towards his chest. He selects a strawberry, holding it between his thick fingers as he steps closer. “Open,” he says, a bit commanding.
His free hand comes up to brush against your chin, tilting your head just slightly until you’re forced to part your lips. His hands are instructive while his voice remains intimate. He nudges the strawberry at the corner of your mouth, his touch gentle but insistent.
When you finally open, he guides it inside.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. Something warm blooms inside you at the praise. The moment the fruit touches your tongue, Leonard watches, transfixed, as you take it. “Y’know what I love about this?”
“Mm, what?” You tilt your head, still chewing the berry.
“You’re so good at taking what I give.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, closing the distance, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, deep kiss that tastes of cocoa, fruit, and the sweltering heat of his mouth. His tongue slides in, teasing, tasting the bits of the dessert on your tongue for himself, savouring you more than the specialty.
You hum for a few moments before he pulls back just enough to breathe, eyes locked on yours.
“Imagine how much better this could feel…” He traces the pad of his thumb along your blushing lower lip, his touch teasing. There’s a faint, knowing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “If you bite harder,” he suggests, voice dropping even lower as he brings his thumb back to your chin.
You look up at him, something frisky swirling in your iris. “How much harder?”
Leonard’s gaze sharpens as it settles fully on you. He doesn’t withdraw his hand from your chin. If anything, his grip becomes more intentional.
“Careful, baby,” he says quietly. His sweet warning makes you smile faintly. You watch as his eyes study you the way they study everything that matters; thoroughly. “You remember what that does.”
“Mmm… Remind me," You huff, leaning in until the tip of your nose presses to his.
You stare into him, the heavy lids barely revealing his oceanic gaze. He’s needy, in his own way. You can tell by the way his lips slightly part, how his eyes are beginning to close, that he’s expecting a kiss. Instead, you lean back, hearing him let out a grunt of disappointment.
“I found a little black box beneath the bed…” Your murmur is soft in acknowledgement.
“Oh?” Leonard watches you closely, as if searching for any sign of nervousness, yet only finding that hazy, teasing look that’s always disarmed him more effectively than defiance ever could.
“Hmm… wonder what that could be.”
“Something for me?" You suggest, your hand twisting the tail of his necktie. He sighs a playfully dramatic breath, as if he’s truly disappointed you found something he placed deliberately for your nosiness. “You’re too observant for your own good.” Leonard nods as if chastising you.
You don’t answer right away, holding his gaze as his hands begin to thread through your hair.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” he adds, almost reflexively, then reins himself in. His thumb drifts in an absent, thoughtful line along your lower lip.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The shift happens quietly; Leonard’s hand lowers from your face, but he doesn’t step away. He turns slightly, guiding you with a firm, steady palm at the small of your back. Steering you towards the bedroom. The penthouse lights fall more softly whilst you move away from the kitchen’s marble and toward the hallway’s staircase as he leads you up.
Music fades behind you as he keeps your hand locked tightly within his own. Each step toward the bedroom is poignant, feeling as though you’re crossing into a dreamscape with him. When you reach the threshold, he pauses. The bedroom glows exactly as you left it, low light pooling across the dark wood, the stereo silent but waiting, the bed wide and composed like a stage before curtain rise.
The air carries the warmth of perfume from your skin as his hands protectively guide you. He stops you at the edge of the mattress with a firm hand on your hip. He moves to the side of the bed, kneels briefly, not yet in submission, but with purpose as he reaches beneath the frame. When he rises again, there’s something in his hand. The box is slim. Polished dyed-black wood catching the dim light with a restrained sheen.
You lean towards his shoulder as he sets it on the bed between you, opening it slowly. Velvet, the color of midnight, lines the interior. Inside rests a single piece, black leather threaded subtly with silver, minimalist in design but unmistakable in implication. Cheek pressed against his Armani, you watch as his fingers trace the outline of the collar. He doesn’t rush to lift it. Instead, he studies you first.
“It’s been waiting,” he says quietly. “For tonight.” His gaze drifts thoughtfully to the curve of your throat, then back to your eyes. He picks it up at last, letting it drape over his fingers. The leather catches the light, and the silver O glints faintly. “Do you want to wear it, baby?” he asks.
Your eyelashes flutter up to meet his heavy gaze. “Yes, please," You nod, words soft and steady.
Leonard’s chest tightens at the plea in your voice. “Look at me,” he commands quietly.
Your head tilts up; it has to, and his fingers brush lightly along your throat before settling at the nape of your neck. He lifts the collar slowly, giving you time to change your mind. You don’t.
“There we go…” The leather rests against your skin, cool at first. He adjusts it with care, ensuring it lies comfortably, securely. His touch is precise, fastening it not like a claim, but like a vow being spoken in a tangible language. His hand slides from your neck down to your waist, drawing you closer until your bodies align. The tension between you deepens, quieter now but far more potent.
“You have no idea,” Leonard adds under his breath, voice low and controlled, “how long I’ve waited to see you like this.” Your fingers rise slowly to the collar, tracing the smooth line of leather where it rests against your throat.
“Thank you," You say softly. Grateful for something given that only the two of you can appreciate in private, intimate moments. Your gaze lifts to his again, steady and luminous in the low light.
You let your hands fall to the tie of your robe. “Do you want your gift now?”
“My gift?” His expression shifts subtly at that, exposing the curving corners of his mouth.
Slowly, you walk towards an open area of the bedroom, and he follows your movements, facing you. You loosen your robe from your shoulders, letting it pool around your feet in one smooth motion. You smooth your palms down your waist and over your hips, not intent with seduction, but confidence.
“What do you think?" You ask, voice soft but sexy.
Leonard steps closer, his lips part to say something before his hands finish the rest, cupping your cheek before drawing you close. “I’ve only imagined you in something like this,” he admits, restrained.
“You’re gorgeous.” His hands come to your waist, dipping with the curve as he pulls you closer.
Something deep inside you burns at the familiar praise, something that craves more of his quiet validation. Your smile nearly touches his own as he leans in, holding your frame. “Imagination and reality are very… very different, Miller.”
He tilts your head up to meet his heated gaze, his hand trailing before resting possessively at your jawbone. Playfully, your lips trace his jaw as both of his strong hands come down to your hips to steady your elusive frame. Leonard’s teeth graze your pulse, inhaling the scent of your deep perfume. When you pull yourself back up by his shoulders, you press another gentle kiss to his lips.
He feels you begin taking off his suit jacket, thumbs pinching the lapel gently before you whisper in his ear. “You wearing something for me too?”
His head falls back in a scoff, tongue wetting the corner of his mouth as you return to kiss his jaw. “Mmm.” He lets out a low hum of approval, his hands tightening on your face. “Might be,” he murmurs before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze.
Your hand comes up to test the feeling, trailing up his face as he leans into your palm. The stereo stopped long ago, but the quiet feels heavy now, with breath, fabric, and the faint scent of lust rising from your skin.
“You’re almost too good,” his voice deepens. Leonard’s gaze drifts briefly to the collar at your throat, then down the structured red lace contouring your body. “I’ll have to teach you something new, won’t I?”
You smile at that, watching as he begins to undress with practiced ease, never breaking eye contact. You help when you can, fingers slipping between buttons, exposing him piece by piece until the shirt falls away. Now it’s just the two of you in what remains, you in red lingerie and black stockings, leather resting at your throat in dark boxer briefs that cling to muscular thighs and something that makes your lips part at the sight…
He glances down at himself and huffs a faint, dry laugh. “I’m wearing something,” he acknowledges, gesturing lightly to the black fabric hugging his hips. “Better than a garter,” he adds.
You open your mouth to answer with something sly, but he steps closer before you can. His hands settle at your hips, fingers spreading possessively at the curve of your waist, just enough to feel you there. The warmth of him seeps into you, chest to lace, skin to silk.
“Besides,” he continues, voice dropping again as his forehead nearly brushes yours, “I wanted you to have all of me to yourself tonight.” One hand slowly travels upward, tracing the seam of the corset before settling just beneath your ribs. His thumb drifts along the edge of the leather at your throat, not tugging, just tracing it. “No distractions,” he finishes.
You hold his gaze for one second longer before pulling away. There’s still mischief in your expression, a reminder that before dedicated vows and a pristine penthouse, there was teasing. You take two backward steps toward the bed, eyes never leaving his.
And then, you hop with playful confidence, the mattress dipping beneath you as you land and let yourself fall back. The red lace against cream sheets is striking, structured bodice rising and falling with your breath, the collar a sharp contrast against exposed skin.
You stretch deliberately, arms lifting above your head and letting them hang against the edge of the bed, arching just slightly as the movement lengthens you. He doesn’t move at first, just stands at the foot of the bed.
“You’re testing me,” he observes, voice low.
You tilt your head toward him, gaze traveling down the solid line of his torso to the dark fabric of his boxers. “Maybe," You reply. And that’s enough.
Leonard steps around the bed, stopping near your head so that his thighs are just within your reach. He stands there deliberately, not touching you yet. He lets the moment sit, lets you look. The dim spotlight behind him casts his figure in a warm silhouette, broad shoulders tapering down, strength outlined in shadow.
His outline is intentionally solid, and his chest is wide and defined. Muscle is layered beneath aged skin, tapering into a firm waist and strong hips. He stands powerfully, his legs opened and grounded, thighs thick and capable, carved from years of early morning runs. A wiry scattering of hair traces downward from his chest, disappearing into shadow.
“You’re very bold tonight,” he nods. One hand reaches down, fingers brushing lightly through your hair, grazing. “You think you’re in charge because you jumped first?” There’s no reprimand in his tone, only amusement.
“Definitely," You grin, before hearing a soft thud. He notices it before you do. He kneels towards the leather and picks it up. The leash rests loosely in his hand as he looks at you. “Huh. Didn’t see that.”
Your breath catches as you take in the sight of the leash. He waves it near you and watches as you playfully stick your tongue out, the edge of your mouth curved upwards slyly. “Not quite,” he murmurs when you play along too easily.
Leonard is painfully slow as he guides the leash’s clasp to your neck, the soft leather sliding against your skin as he clips it in place. The clasp settles into place at your throat with careful precision. He tests it once, a light pull, just enough to change the angle of you, your back arches instinctively.
“There we go,” he smiles. His hand steadies beneath your chin, adjusting you where he wants you, his control quiet but absolute. “See something you like, baby?”
“I’m about to," You grin beneath him. Your hands slowly trail down his knees from beneath him. He shivers for a moment before rolling his eyes. You’re distracted by his thumb hooking into the waistband of his briefs to notice his hand coming to cover your eager eyes until it’s too late.
“Not fair," You whine. He chuckles, deep and charming. “It is.”
Leonard guides the fabric slide down inch by inch, the black cotton falling past his muscles until it’s at his ankles. He stands, completely exposed. A small amount of precum drips from his broad tip while his thick hand covers your eyes.
“Say please, baby.”
“Pleaaase, baby…”
There’s a pause. Just long enough to stretch the moment thin. Then his hand lifts.
You look up at him, breath catching as his huge cock shadows your face. He exhales slowly, watching your reaction settle in, something quieter than pride flickering beneath the surface.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he admits, thumb swiping over your lower lip. “About what I’d do to you tonight… About how I’d make you understand just how much you mean to me.”
“Really?” You look up at him, a hint of a smile pulling at your mouth as you feel the warmth emanating from his unstimulated cock. Then, you lean in to press your face against his flesh, and he shudders. “Good…” You murmur against his shaft before peppering it in gentle kisses, each one lingering just a moment too long to be innocent. “Would’ve been embarrassing if I was the only one…”
Leonard watches your eyes travel up to meet his heavy gaze, pupils dilated with desire as you trace your tongue along the single prominent vein of the underside. His breath catches at the kitten lick, his fingers tightening slightly around the leash, just enough to keep you there. The sight of you, so earnest and attentive, sends a jolt straight to his core that he has to suppress through sheer force of will.
His other hand comes down to rest on your forearm, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. The gesture is grounding to him, reminding himself to be present, to let himself feel this without spiraling into tactical analysis. You watch his eyes rake up over your body once more, assessing your lingerie as your kisses spark him further.
“God… You’re the perfect present.” He watches your head tilt just slightly, with a blend of curiosity and shyness that makes you so endearing to him.
Your fingers thread through the thick hair at your crown as you shift your position, settling more comfortably between his thighs before leaning back into him. “D’you want more?”
Another kiss, this one more insistent, your wetting lips parting to allow the barest hint of your breath to warm his sensitive foreskin. You listen to him carefully, wondering if he’ll guide your hands or give you any direction, because despite your obvious eagerness, you’re always seeking his approval.
“Yes,” he says, low, immediate. Then, rougher, “Fuck… yeah,” voice dropping lower as his eyes track the way your head bobs with every lick outlining that oversensitive vein.
“Thought so," You murmur, and don’t stop.
Leonard feels heat pooling in his chest, the way his heartbeat increases from something primal. He shifts his hips, letting you feel his sac rest on your forehead, lifting ever so slightly with your gentle kisses.
“Keep going, baby,” he says softly, reverently. “Just… keep going.” His hand in your hair loosens, letting you move more freely before it slides up your waist to rest possessively on your ornate hip. He’s not just watching anymore; he’s participating in this moment with the same intensity he brings to his work, without the professional detachment.
“You’re so big, Lenny…” Your soft lips kiss the underside of his thick cock again, his muscular thighs practically muffling your ears.
He is. You’ve noticed, of course, you always have. In the beginning, he’d been almost terrified of touching you, let alone having sex. That fear made every inch of him feel larger than life, and somehow, the first time you explored him beneath his desk had left him undone in a way he’d never expected. By the night you ended up in his penthouse for the first time, he’d learned to trust you completely.
Every move, every push and pull, was measured by your reactions, your breaths, your tiny moans. He was careful then, afraid of causing you pain, and you had been quick to reassure him, pulling him in with your hands and your mouth. The memory made his chest tighten now, imagining the same heat, the same closeness, as he felt your lips trail along him again.
“Fuck, I love it," You whine, kissing him, the words soft but fervent. “I don’t tell you that enough…”
A guttural groan rumbles from him, his tip pulsing involuntarily against your chin. For a moment, he can’t form words, lost in the weight of your head and the press of your hands along his thighs. When he speaks, his voice is rougher, lower, and commanding. “No… You don’t,” he rasps, sliding a hand up from your hips to cup your breast through the lace, thumb brushing over your nipple.
“Tell me how much you love it,” he orders, each word vibrating through you.
You murmur against him, muffled by his length, “I love it so much…”
“Fuck… yeah, you do, baby,” he groans, tilting his head back as his cock moves with him.
The scent of him is sharp and heady, mixing with your own wetness and the tang of his precum, flooding your senses. When he moves back down, you feel a trickle of precum drip onto your neck, slipping beneath your collar. Your eyes drift up to his balls, heavy and alone, and you lift your head, nose brushing against him.
Leonard moans at the feeling of your nose nuzzling into his heavy sac, angling his wrist just so as he fists the leather higher, making your head push up even further against him. You squirm slightly as his hand slides over your lower stomach, over the lace of your bodice, just above your navel. His thumb traces slow circles over the vulnerable flesh of your belly, the pressure and rhythm of it making your own breath grow shallow.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his lips curved in a pleased expression. His fingers dip lower, teasing along the waistband of your lace panties. The fabric is already damp with your arousal, the evidence of your desire impossible to hide from your husband. He feels the heat of you, the way your body is aching for his touch.
Leonard shifts his hips, pressing himself back against your lips, his heavy sac resting on the bridge of your nose. Your hands move instinctively, stroking him, pumping him as though you’re trying to draw him across your chest.
The headiness of his genitals makes your vision swim. “You smell so good, Lenny…”
His breath catches audibly as his fingers tangle in your leash, holding you with a slow, deliberate possession. Your tongue drags along his most sensitive skin, tugged abruptly, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth as you lap at him with wet, insistent strokes.
“Fuck… oh…” Leonard groans, guttural and raw. The heat of your breath, the slick warmth of your mouth, the soft press of your hands, it’s too much and not enough all at once. He shifts, hips rolling forward, meeting your rhythm instinctively as your mouth teases him loose.
Pearls of precum trail down against your throat, slipping between your lips, and his palm stutters over your clothed sex, faltering under the rush of sensation. Each brush, each slick press, makes him stagger, caught between the control he wants and the need that overwhelms it.
You tilt your head, eyes tracing the curve of his sack, tongue tracing muscle and skin with deliberate play. His balls press against your vision, yet you move freely, teasing, tasting, addicted to the musky heat that seems to fill the room. Leonard’s hips buck again, low and urgent, his body answering before his mind can fully process it, each groan and shiver betraying his restraint.
The scent, the taste, the friction of your hands, every detail drives him further, his heavy sac balanced on the bridge of your nose, his tip dripping, pearled with precum, and your lips stretched around him. He grunts, caught between the rush of need and the instinct to ground himself, lost in the disorienting flame of your touch.
“You okay up there?" You murmur, a soft giggle escaping as your hands pump him faster, one finger tracing tight circles over his slick, weeping tip, plugging it completely. The heat of your breath, the slick slide of your tongue, strips the thought right out of him.
“Baby… slower… please,” he groans, voice rough, strained, almost breaking. Not an order, not a command, just a plea, but even as he says it, his hips twitch, chasing your hand like he can’t help it. His thighs tighten, muscles bunching beneath his slacks as he fights the urge to plunge deeper into your grip. He hisses, already wound too tight, your finger sealing him like a tease he can’t escape.
“No way…” You murmur happily, shaking your head with a sly smile, fingertip pressing harder against that sensitive tip. “You’re squirming…”
“Christ,” he breathes, the word escaping before his control can catch it.
His eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat as you worship him with that relentless devotion. He jolts under your touch, too sensitive now, and he hates how easily you’ve gotten him there. You used to be tentative, letting him guide your inexperience, correcting every hesitation, every mistake. Now, every motion leaves him craving more, every lick and press a promise, your body offering itself like a wellspring just for him.
“Fuck… fuck…” The words tumble out in a ragged chant as his hips grind against your hands before he can stop himself. He shifts again, chasing friction, the exquisite pressure of your touch, knowing he’s not going to last if you keep this up.
“I didn’t know you needed so much attention down here…” Your voice drifts in a devious whisper, teasing and playful, mouth still pressing into his wrinkled flesh. “I’ll play with them more often… How’s that sound, baby?”
Leonard whines deeply, eyes sliding shut at the sound of your breathy, teasing tone, that soft melody that twists his words into ragged gasps. Your hands pump him greedily, following the thick vein pulsing beneath your fingers, riding the rhythm of his hips as he loses himself.
“Mmh… don’t stop,” he rasps, voice ragged, broken by the heat of your worship. Each kiss pressed against his sac, every deliberate touch of your finger sealing him, sends him whimpering like a desperate animal, and he knows he’s let it get this far.
He’s supposed to be in charge. Supposed to maintain that distance, that authority. But you’ve undone him completely, his cock throbbing against your collar, precum slicking you, balls coiling with unbearable pressure. He’s so close he can barely think, let alone command you.
“Why would I stop?" You purr, slowing your stroke just enough to make him shiver. His grip snaps down on your wrists, keeping your hands right where they belong.
“Hah… why would you?” he groans, sweat slick along his hairline. You watch as he teeters on the edge, his hips stuttering as they buck harder, faster. His thighs are shaking, thick muscles quivering beside you as he groans.
“You’re so close, baby… c’mon…” The wet, obscene sounds of your mouth working his sopping cock fill the room, mingling with the small whines from your throat and the rough rasps of his breathing.
“Fuck, I can’t… I can’t hold back,” he grits out through clenched teeth, like he’s trying not to give in. “I’m gonna… cum.” The words fall out more like a warning than a declaration.
“Not yet…” You murmur against him, lips sliding along the shaft. “You’re not allowed… not until I say so. Feel that? All that need… just for me.”
Leonard’s body tenses violently, muscles taut, sac twitching against your face. “I… I can’t…” His cock pulses violently against your tongue, the thick veins along his shaft throbbing with each quickening heartbeat.
“Mm… yes, you can," You tease, circling your tongue along the tip before sliding down again. “So close… but not close enough. Gonna let me control you, baby?”
“God… yes…” he gasps, breath ragged. His grip on your wrists tightens, punishing, as he struggles to stay upright. Cock throbbing, veins pulsing, every nerve screaming.
“Don’t forget who’s doing this to you," You whisper, pressing just enough pressure with your lips to make him shiver. “All of you… just for me.”
He swallows hard, heat radiating off him in waves. “I… I’m… only… only like this for you…” His voice drops low, almost a growl, like he shouldn’t be saying it, and doesn’t care anymore.
“Never… not like this… not usually… but- fuck- you’re driving me…” Each pulse against your mouth sends him quaking, hips jerking with helpless instinct. The thrum of his cock, slick and heavy in your hands and mouth, is too much. Leonard’s breathing hitches in ragged bursts, body taut with the strain of holding himself upright, trying to maintain any shred of composure.
A sharp exhale escapes him as he grips your wrists like a lifeline, the desperation there but still tempered by control. “Please… just… don’t stop…” he rasps, voice thick, every syllable threaded with want and surrender, “I… I’ll take it… only for tonight… only for you…”
The tension snaps as his hips buck violently, a guttural groan tearing from his throat.
“Fuck!” he cries, head tilting back, the sound raw and unfiltered. You gasp sharply as he drags himself past your lips, the length of him pressing against the edge of your throat as you swallow his length.
Leonard’s hands draw your trembling wrists from his shaft to press into the mattress, pinning you down as he erupts, every pulse pumping an endless stream of cum down your throat.
Your vision blurs as your nails dig into his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut, riding the wave with nothing else on his mind. Your throat flutters as you quietly choke, trying to keep your voice down. As he regains control of his ejaculation, he tilts his head down to look at your writhing form.
“That’s it,” he groans in satisfaction. With a final, shuddering gasp, he pulls his sensitive length from your mouth, only to have it erupt a thick stream of cum across your face. His warm, sticky fluid paints your face in broad ribbons as you sniffle.
His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, take in the sight of you, hair disheveled, lips swollen, face glazed with his seed. The sheer eroticism of the image sends a fresh jolt of desire through him, and he feels his spent cock give a valiant twitch against your cumstained lower lip. “Messy,” he chides.
When he hears you hiccup, he lifts one hand to tilt your head up, letting you taste him again. Gently, you suck his thumb, tasting him again, eyes locked on his. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice grounding. He leans close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You okay?”
“Mhm…” You nod dizzily, and he watches you, hand gliding down your neck to cup your jaw.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb still at your jaw. Leonard’s chest rises and falls slowly as he catches his breath, the sheen of sweat on his skin glistening in the low light. “You know how to make a mess of me, don’t you, baby?”
The leash shifts softly at your side as he tips your chin up and draws you closer again. Your legs part, vulnerable and open. He catches the sight of your arousal, and instead of losing himself entirely, he lets a soft, satisfied grin spread across his face.
“Looks like someone enjoyed herself as much as I did,” he murmurs, patting your cheek.
“I did… thank you," You huff softly.
“You’re so welcome, baby.” His thumb traces along your lower lip, smearing his release. “I think my little wife deserves a reward,” he murmurs, his voice dripping. “Don’t you, honey?”
You notice how intense his eyes are. In their depths, you can see the hunger that’s far from sated.
“Little?” You take in a breath of air as you listen intently. Not often do you enjoy being beneath him, being called such a name when he’s just as unraveled as you are.
“Relax…” He sees it in your eyes, that little flare of offence, and he smiles. Then, he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I’ll take care of your pussy soon.”
Without a word, he hooks his fingers under the drenched fabric and yanks it, the delicate lace ripping easily in his haste to expose you fully. The delicate fabric falls away, leaving you bare beneath his hungry gaze.
“Leonard!” You whine at the rip, and he hums. “Shh… I’ll buy you a new pair.” His head dips as he lowers one of your thighs, kissing the inner depths as he murmurs hotly. “You know I will, baby.” He dips a thigh, easing your wrists as he positions himself between your spread legs.
A quick smack makes you cry out and jolt open, legs spread wide enough for his head to dive in. He pauses just above you, inhaling your scent before pressing his lips to your glistening slit, the heat of your pussy palpable as your thighs press against his ears.
“Aww… You’re dripping for me, baby…” He chuckles, burying his face between your thighs, tongue lashing your slick clit while his nose nuzzles your heat. The sensation makes you gasp, your hips jerking as his tongue and lips drive shivers through you, your mouth stretched around him.
Leonard’s hand slides along his thick, slick length, every stroke keeping pace with the flicks of his tongue. He feels every one of your gentle breaths against his aching cock, almost feeling the awe in every soft pant. “You taste so sweet…” He groans deeply as your nails rake down his sides.
A sloppy suckle sends a moan ripping from you as his hips thrust forward, and your head tips back, taking him deep in one dizzying gulp.
“Fuck! Yes, just like that,” he growls, voice vibrating against you. Tongue lashing your clit, he drags upward until his nose brushes your taut heat. The tightness, the gasp, the need in your throat, it drives him wild.
Leonard redoubles his efforts, fucking into your mouth deviously as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. The air is thick with the scent and taste of sex, a heady perfume that fills both your lungs and clouds your mind with a single, overwhelming thought: Every inch, every taste, keeps him wanting more.
“Such a… fucking angel…” Leonard growls, his short fingernails digging into the plump flesh of your ass, kneading and pulling until it ripples under his grip. You cry out, nails raking down his wide waist, then clutch his pistoning hips, desperate to hold him closer for support.
His hands trail up the backs of your stocking-clad thighs, sliding along the silk before teasing beneath, pinching and tugging the soft skin until a sharp yelp escapes you, vibrating against the throbbing shaft still pressed to your lips as he buries his face deeper into your dripping core.
Your throat tightens, clenching around him, muscles fluttering and spasming as he feeds, every muffled moan vibrating up into him. The slick press of your mouth and cunt against him fuels a growing hunger, and he drives harder, lost in the sensation of you trembling beneath him. “Don’t be stubborn… Let go, baby…”
His hips piston faster, plunging in and out of your stretched mouth with increasing urgency. His heavy balls draw up tight against his body, chasing his rapidly approaching climax. Your throat burns, muscles aching and fluttering around him, lungs screaming for air.
Even so, you don’t pull back, too consumed by the utter need. Your hands curl into fists against his hips, hitting him as you make strangled noises beneath him. Leonard groans, low and teasing.
“God… look at you, trying to fight me. Who’s in charge here, huh?” His voice is velvety, a warning that makes your knees shake. “So responsive… Haven’t tasted you like this in a while,” he murmurs, eyes rolling back as he buries himself deeper between your thighs. One leg rises, giving you a pocket of air, but only barely. The way your throat convulses under him is just too addictive to let go.
“Len- I need to-” Your plea is cut off as his hand slides down, tugging the leash firmly. You’re tethered, helpless, and the contact against your cheek sends a shiver down your spine before he thrusts into your throat again, knocking the air from your lungs.
“I know- I just... can’t… fucking… get enough…” His voice growls as his tongue dives into your slick, sensitive heat. He teases, flicking and swirling your clit with calculated patience, and you writhe under him, trembling like a toy he’s pushing to the edge.
“That’s it, baby. Take every fucking inch,” he commands, voice low, playful, and dangerous. His hips rut against you in a quicker rhythm, hilt pressing deep inside, fingers digging into your ass to spread you wider. You’re completely at his mercy, each thrust a reminder that he’s running the show.
Your eyes roll back, only slivers of iris peeking from heavy lids, as his chin presses into your clit, muffling your cries. “Oh… look at you, squirming just for me,” he whispers, smirk audible in his tone, teasing your helplessness. “You like it when I make you beg, don’t you?”
“Don’t fight it… I’m so fucking close, baby… Gonna feed you so much…” His balls press into your nose, scent filling your senses, his cock stretching your throat. You’re choked, gagging, trembling, but he watches, amused and dominant, letting you know just who’s in charge.
Every sloppy thrust, every slick slide, every desperate flutter of your body only drives him harder toward his peak. Your thighs clamp around his head as he hammers into your gullet, the building pressure sending heat racing through both of you. You’re lost, and he’s loving every second of your unraveling.
You feel his teeth find your clit, biting down onto the sensitive and hot nub as he suckles your dripping sex. The dual stimulation is too much to handle, the pleasure-inducing pain making your body seize, your knees tightening weakly against his ears as you tremble beneath him.
“That’s it… Cum for me…” Leonard obscenely laps up the new wash of juices, your orgasm rippling through your battered body as he groans in approval.
It’s too hot, everything is. You can feel his cock pulsing and throbbing down your throat, the thick length nearly swelling inside as he resides on the brink of his release. With a final, guttural groan, he hilts deep inside your throat as he begins to pump his load inside.
He grips the handle of the leash, forcing your head to stay in place as hot, thick ropes erupt from his swollen tip. “Swallow… every… drop…” He demands, voice ragged.
You’re overflowing from the milky residue of his earlier load, and it comes in so fast, you can hardly gulp it down. The sensation of swallowing his hot, sticky cum floods your system and makes your mind go blank as his hips twitch violently against your face.
Rivulets of thick, gooping cum trail down your face, your cheeks, obscuring your vision as they clump into your long lashes. After a painful minute of pathetic slurping, his hips ease from your mouth, lifting until he slides out with a wet pop. You cough weakly at the revival, cum sputtering from your lips until it drips into the orifices of your nose.
Leonard’s mind clears as he presses a final kiss to your wet pussy, letting go of the leash before stepping back to see your face painted in pearly cum. You’re sprawled out, wrists limp at one side as your thoughts slowly spread within your dizzied mind.
“Poor thing…” He kneels, hooking his arms beneath your shoulders. He pulls you close, your head lolling against his clavicle as you sputter up more semen. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his expression revealing a sliver of guilt. “Alright, sweetheart, bend over a little.”
You oblige, sniffling as you look down at the mess of your lingerie, his seed dribbling from the corner of your mouth. Leonard’s hands slowly begin undoing the latticework of your corset, methodically pulling the strings as you lean towards the mattress.
“You did so well, honey… So pretty beneath me…” You’re hardly able to make out his soft praise as gravity continues drawing semen from your lips and nostrils.
You take a deep breath, your lower stomach slightly distended from the amount of cum he’s thoroughly stuffed inside your stomach. Hair loosely falls from your shoulder, clumps of his load sticking to your soft strands. “I… I could hardly breathe…” You whisper, half in awe, half in submission, and he chuckles darkly, brushing a strand from your face.
“C’mon… You’ve taken more than that…” He smiles at your slumped form, holding onto your arm and leaning you back against his broad torso. Slowly, he tilts your head back, looking down at your cum-dribbled face with an awed gleam in his eye. “You were being a good girl… Such a good girl…”
Leonard’s voice is quieter now, rubbing your wet cheek as your vision steadies, placing him in their spotlight. The warm ambient lighting makes everything feel so much slower in the aftermath of intensity. That tone, the way his hand lingers at your face, the softness that comes after. It settles over you before you can think too hard about it, dulling the edges of whatever resistance was there a moment ago.
“Arms out,” he instructs, holding the translucent fabric in place. You obey and tiredly lean your head against his thick bicep. He looks down at you, taking in the flush of your cheeks, the dark fan of your lashes against the soft skin of your face.
“You okay?” He brushes a stray strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that belies everything that came before. His gaze lingers on you, assessing, teasing, holding the power between you like a silent command.
One of his hands slides to your waist, firm but careful, lifting and guiding you until your trembling body settles against him. He shifts, letting you sink into his lap, the weight of him pressing just enough to anchor you. Your chest rests against his, the warmth of his body grounding you, and the subtle flex of his muscles reminds you that he’s in control even in this quiet moment.
“Not so hard…” You whimper softly as his fingers find purchase against your stocking-clad bottom, the thin fabric smooth under his palms as he lifts your cheek.
Leonard tilts his head forward, lips brushing along your temple, “I can’t help it. Your skin’s so soft…” His thumbs trace the curve of your rear as he takes in your hazy expression, pushing into the giving flesh before feeling it bounce back as he releases it.
“I put on some of the oils you gave me.” That earns a small, knowing smile from Leonard. Your thighs bracket his waist, the heat of his body seeping through the thin sheen of fabric.
“No wonder you smell different,” he hums before softening. “Could get used to it.”
He draws you closer to him, stroking your forearm. For a moment, he breathes you in, the quiet weight of his gaze anchoring you as your body drifts between limpness and awareness. His knuckle nudges your chin, not soft enough to coddle, not sharp enough to startle, enough to demand attention. Your head tilts, following him a heartbeat late.
“Focus on me,” he orders gently. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide, fixated in a way that feels less like looking and more like holding. “I’m not in a hurry.”
His thumb lingers briefly near your jaw before his hand drops, settling back at your side as if he needs the contact there instead. His nose brushes along your jaw, testing distance, breath warm against your skin as he inhales.
Leonard’s mouth finds yours with a warmth that spreads. The kiss deepens naturally, unhurried, his lips moving against yours in a way that feels less like claiming and more like relearning. His hand comes up almost absentmindedly, settling at your side before drifting higher, resting over your bare chest.
The touch is gentle at first, like he’s checking if you’ll pull away, before his fingers curl slightly, adjusting to the shape of you. When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at you. You’re both a little breathless, but he doesn’t rush to fill the space. His gaze moves over your face in familiar endearment, raking over your content expression.
“I like you like this,” he whispers.
“Quiet?” You tease tiredly against his shoulder, your arms coming up around his neck. There’s a faint shift of his hand at your waist, drawing you a little closer, more instinct than intention. His forehead almost brushes yours for a second, his voice lowering just slightly. “Obedient.”
“Obedient…” You repeat, soft enough for him to wonder what you’re really thinking. You let your eyes drift into his, grinning slowly before lunging towards him, gently biting his bottom lip.
Leonard winces as he stares into the playful light of your eyes.
“Careful now,” he admonishes with a glimmer of amusement.“The night isn’t over yet.”
A sharp smack lands across your bottom, making you gasp, fire blooming through your skin. Leonard doesn’t let you recoil. His hands grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the curves, dragging you tight against him, just enough for his length to press and drag between your slick folds.
“You ready, baby?” he growls, low and rough, the edge of a smirk in his voice. His hips slowly grind against you, the ridge of his reawakening cock making your head fall back. The friction is a maddening, delicious drag that makes your back arch.
“Yes…" You murmur, breathless, hips trembling. You feel his hand slide up from your thigh, pulling a slick strand from between your folds.
He takes his time, teasing the crease where your leg meets your hip, dipping briefly into the hollow. “Good girl,” he hums, voice thick with heat. “Ride me, honey. Let me feel you.”
You lower onto him just enough to catch the slick burn, pressure coiling deep in your belly. Leonard leans back slightly, hands still tight on your hips, letting you move, but not letting go.
“You were such a little vixen earlier…” he grunts, brows furrowing as his hips surge upward, the thick head of his cock catching on your entrance. He teases you, rubbing the swollen head over your slit, notching inside you just enough to make you gasp before pulling back out.
“Then I filled your pretty throat to the brim,” he mutters, hand drifting down to wrap around your neck as you shiver. He pushes inside you, deep and steady, hitting just right, your vision blurring at the pressure. His fingertips press lightly at your pulse. “And you swallowed every drop.”
A soft moan slips from you as his hand moves between your thighs, finding you soaked and waiting. You lean into him, teeth brushing his jaw. “I want… more," You pant.
“Is that so?” he growls, amused. He shifts, sliding deeper, and the movement makes you shiver.
Leonard’s thumb circles your clit, slick sounds filling the space between your breath and the distant city noise. Every roll of your hips pulls a guttural groan from him, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “You think you’re in charge? Not tonight, baby… not tonight.”
“No… I’m yours," You gasp, hips rolling faster.
His hands tighten, thumbs pressing into your back as he hisses, “That’s it… mine. Every fucking bit.” His mouth hovers near your ear. “You like that, don’t you? Feeling me fill you like this?”
“Yes…” You choke. “Don’t stop…”
“Stop?” he laughs, rough and low. “We’re just getting started.” His lips brush your jaw as his cock pulses inside you. “Ride me. Make me lose it.”
You obey, sinking onto him fully, drawing a deep groan from his chest. His hands move over your hips, your ass, gripping, guiding. “God… you feel so fucking perfect,” he rasps. “Look at me… tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours," You whisper.
Leonard groans, head tipping back. “Yeah… then show me.” His hands tighten again, guiding you as you move, slick and burning against him, both of you locked into it, every motion pulling more out of the other.
“Len…” You wince softly as you feel his fingers sinking into the giving flesh of your hips. He buries the urge to slam you down, to take control and set a punishing pace. Instead, he guides your movements, helping you find your rhythm.
“Easy,” he mutters, controlled in a way that feels more dangerous than if he’d snapped. His gaze tracks every movement, every shift of your body like he’s studying it, committing it.
“Find it… There you go.” As he drives forward, the swollen head of his cock kisses that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside you.
Your walls tighten around him, hips rolling in desperate rhythm. Your head tips back as your rhythm catches, hips rolling with more confidence now, and the reaction he gives is immediate. A sharp inhale. A low, restrained curse under his breath. “Fuck…”
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches you move.
You feel it when your body tightens around him, the subtle change, the way your control falters just for a second. His hands hold you steady, guiding each movement.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That’s it.”
There’s something in his voice that shifts, less teasing, more intent. His hand at your back pulls you closer, closing the space you didn’t realize was there. The movement is subtle, but it changes everything. The angle, the pressure, the way you feel him.
Your breath catches as his tip presses hard kisses into your cervix. “F-fuck- You’re h-hitting it!”
“Thought so,” he says, low, almost satisfied, like he’s just confirmed something he already suspected. You try to keep your rhythm, but it falters under the weight of it; his attention, his hands, the way he’s watching you. His grip shifts again, firmer now, less guidance, more control creeping in.
“Keep going,” he tells you, not loud, not harsh, but there’s no mistaking it.
You do. And this time, when your hips shakily roll, he meets it. Just barely. Just enough to remind you he could take over whenever he wants. The sound he makes is quieter now, but deeper. Dragged out of him instead of being offered freely.
“You feel that?” He murmurs, leaning in just enough that his voice brushes your ear. His words send a fresh flood of arousal through you, and a quiet moan escapes you as you nod, lost in the sensation. “Mhm…”
“That’s you. Don’t stop.” Your hands tighten against him, your movement slipping again as the pressure builds, and this time he doesn’t fully let you recover it on your own. His fingers press in, correcting, adjusting, setting the rhythm just slightly off yours, enough to throw you, enough to make you feel it more.
“Not so fast, baby,” he says, almost under his breath. “You’ll get there.” His hand tightens again. “Take what you need,” he adds, quieter now, but there’s a hint of something underneath it. Not permission. Not really.
Leonard steadies your hips with a firm press of his thumb, keeping you on rhythm. His other hand drifts down, fingers curling around the handle of your leash, giving it a gentle tug. He watches you, the way your soft breath catches, the way your body chases something it can’t hold onto yet. “Easy,” he murmurs, not soft, not gentle, just grounded. “You don’t have to rush it.”
His mouth brushes your shoulder, not quite a kiss, more a reminder he’s here, that he’s feeling every shift of you. The restraint in him sits just beneath the surface, held back by choice, not lack. That’s what makes it dangerous.
“You get ahead of yourself,” he continues, voice low, edged with something almost amused. “Then you wonder why you burn out.” His hands guide you again, this time slower and more deliberate. Narrowing you in, forcing you into a rhythm that builds instead of breaks.
The leash in his hand shifts slightly with each tilt of your hips, a subtle tether keeping you present, reminding you who owns the moment. His breath leaves him heavier now, less controlled, but he doesn’t let it take over. Not yet.
“There you go,” he exhales, approval slipping through despite himself. “That’s better.” Your movement changes under his hands, more intentional, and he reacts instantly. A quiet sound pulls from his chest, something rougher now, less filtered, like you’ve hit something he wasn’t planning to give up so easily.
“Yeah…” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “That’s what I was waiting for.”
His grip shifts, one hand sliding higher along your back, anchoring you there, while the other keeps the leash taut just enough to maintain the connection. It’s subtle, but the tension hums through you, a quiet edge under the warmth of his hold.
When you falter again, just slightly, he doesn’t let it pass. “Stay with it,” he says, sharper now, not harsh, but firm enough to cut through the haze. The leash twitches in his fingers, a tethered reminder that this isn’t just your pleasure, it’s his too.
There’s a pause, brief but loaded, his forehead nearly brushing yours as his voice drops again, quieter, more controlled. “You wanted more,” he reminds you, eyes locked in. “So take it properly.”
Your body moves of its own accord, sinking onto Leonard’s thick cock, taking him to the hilt. A deep, guttural groan tears from his throat as you engulf him, your walls fluttering and clenching around his hard length.
“God… yes, just like that…” he rasps, voice rough with desire. His lips brush your jaw, your neck, peppering hot kisses along your skin as you undulate above him. “That’s it… good girl, just like that…”
“Lenny… I’m gonna…” You breathe, lost in the sensation of being filled, stretched, claimed. “Please…” You lean into his touch, your hips rolling and gyrating, working in tandem with his guiding hands. A low, approving growl rumbles in his chest as you sink harder, your body taking control, demanding more.
“Shh…” His grip tightens, helping you find a slower, more rhythmic pace. “Not yet… ride me, keep it steady,” he encourages, voice strained but patient, coaxing you to lose yourself in the pleasure. “I’m right here, don’t stop…”
The swollen head of his cock kisses that secret spot deep inside you with every downward thrust, sending jolts of electricity through your nerves. A sharp inhale catches in your throat as your pussy clenches hard, trying to draw him in even deeper, as if it could somehow merge with him.
“Please… Oh… don’t stop…” You whimper, burying your face in his neck, trembling as heat coils through your belly, your thighs slick and shaking.
“Good girl… Mm, that’s it…” He leans in, teeth grazing your jaw as his hand dips lower, thumb rubbing lazy, teasing circles on your clit while the other tightens on your hip. “Feel it… feel me pulsing inside you…” He growls, low, full of heat.
“Look at you… dripping for me… that’s my girl…”
“I… I’m gonna… Lenny… please…” Your hips stutter, pressing desperately into him, riding the pulse, chasing the coil that’s already screaming to break. Your pussy clamps and flutters around him, walls tightening, desperate, needy. “I… need you… don’t stop…”
“Baby…” he hums, dragging teeth along your neck, nose nudging your jaw, voice deep and teasing. “Tell me what you need… You want me?”
“Yes… yes…” You cry, pressing yourself harder against him, grinding, needy, shivering as your walls flutter around him, trying to swallow every inch. “Lenny… fill me… I need it…”
“God… you feel incredible,” he murmurs, voice thick, wet, the sound of his groan vibrating into your chest as he tilts your hips, guiding you to ride just right. His thumb circles your clit, rubbing in time with his pulse, dragging soft, teasing peaks out of you, holding nothing back.
“Look at you… all mine… dripping all over me… fucking perfect…”
“I… I’m gonna… don’t stop…” You moan, chest pressing into his, teeth grazing his shoulder as your walls clamp down around him, squeezing him, desperate for more, aching to be filled to the brim. “Lenny… Oh fuck, don’t- don’t stop…”
“Fuck… baby, you’re mine… all mine…” he rasps, breath hot against your ear, letting you feel every twitch, every pulse, every thick throb of his cock. “Ride it… ride me… cum on me… spill it all…”
A shivering, quaking cry rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, walls fluttering, clamping, rolling in waves around him. You grind and shudder, hips stuttering against his, quaking with need, your pussy dripping and slick.
Leonard groans, letting the filthy sound rumble out, dragging his teeth along your jaw as he murmurs, indulgent. “Mm… that’s my girl… ride it… ride it all the way… come all over my cock…”
Your climax rolls into itself, waves tumbling one after the other, and he’s still there, steady, hands firm on your hips, thumb circling your clit, teasing, coaxing. “That’s it… good girl… so fucking good…” His voice drips heat and satisfaction. “You’re soaked… dripping… coating me… God, you’re so fucking sexy…”
Even as your shudders fade, he holds you close, each pulse keeping you on the edge. “All mine…” he murmurs, groaning low, playful and filthy. “You feel it… can you feel me filling you…?”
“Yes… Oh fuck… I’m… I’m yours…” You gasp, hips trembling, pussy tightening as he bucks up into you, dragging you closer, pressing deeper, leaving no part of you untouched. Your slick coats him, drowning his shaft, and his hands knead, tease, and guide, marking you with heat and claim.
“You’re mine… all mine…” he groans again, letting his hips drive just enough to make you whimper, letting the sound of your walls clenching around him fill the room. “Keep riding me… Let me fuck you full…”
His thumb circles, strokes, teasing clit, cock pulsing deep inside, and he murmurs, breath ragged, filthy, indulgent. Your body shudders again, spasms wracking you as he hits that perfect spot, dragging a desperate moan from you. Another wave crashes over you, your walls squeezing and fluttering, and Leonard groans, hips twitching, eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
“Yeah… that’s my girl…” Leonard groans, thrusting a few more sloppy, deep strokes, letting every last pulse of his cock slam into your quivering cunt.
His hips jerk violently, the tip catching that perfect spot again and again as he shudders, releasing thick, hot streams deep inside you. A guttural roar escapes him, low and ragged, dripping with need and satisfaction. “Fuck, baby…” he pants, his voice breaking over a wet, sloppy groan.
He spills into you in hot, thick waves, relentless and consuming. Each pulse drives another wave of heat into you, leaving your thighs trembling beneath him. Leonard drives deep, hands firm on your hips as low growls slip from him with each pulse. “Mm… You feel so good…”
His teeth graze your shoulder as he lets go of a desperate, wet sound, the rhythm of his release sloppy, messy, pure, and uncontrolled. You moan, trembling as the warm gush pools inside you, spilling in rivulets that make your cunt clamp around him, drawing out another groan. Your cries mingle as he pulses deep inside, heavy and unrelenting.
“Take it… Fuck…” He hisses, voice ragged, shoving himself deeper with one last, shivering thrust that drenches you in him.
The warm, sticky waves gush, some trailing down your thighs, some coating your lower belly, the sheer volume messy and sinful. He lets his jaw drop slightly, exhaling in ragged bursts, each pulse pulling a fresh moan from you. He pants, hips still twitching in slow aftershocks, the creamy remnants of his orgasm spilling thick inside your walls.
You feel him drag a hand down your spine, pulling you down against him as he falls back slowly on the bed. You cling to him, slick heat dripping between your thighs, your pussy fluttering around him as if trying to drink every last drop.
“Easy now,” he murmurs, his hand stroking gently up and down your arm. “You took it so well…”
“Thank you…” You hum against him, letting the warmth settle between you, the shared history vibrating in the quiet.
Leonard’s grin softens, eyes tracing every line of your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. He lets his hand linger along your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips for a heartbeat longer. Then, just above a whisper, he murmurs against your temple, “Happy anniversary.”
Turning your head, you look up at him. He’s still staring down at you with that familiar fondness, the same look in his eyes that he’d had when he lifted your veil, when he woke up beside you on your honeymoon. You gently crawl up, resting on your elbows before leaning in to press a tender kiss to him one more time
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | jim's friend asks him to drive his cheerleading daughter back home, simple, right? pick you up, drop you off, done. but after being caught between a verbal catfight with your closest friend, he realizes how you trust him without hesitation, allowing comfort to settle between you both in an unfamiliar relationship. it should have ended that night. it doesn't.
𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 13k
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 | fempov, age-gap (20+ yrs), NO NSFW, cheerleading reader, ft. jim’s emotional guilt bc he has a girlfriend, unspoken attraction, jim's treading a thin line between morals and instinct, sweet-talking (nicknames early-on), reassurance, comfort, (unnamed) b/g character - may or may not show up later in the series i dunno yet
𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | umm, well... i'm writing something for leonard (rewriting, really), and matthew, and jonathan, but i'll try to post weekly from now on, don't wanna make this a habit but i'm not trying to burn out after my first few months of writing
Fog slowly billows from Jim’s mouth, each puff dissipating into the frozen air. He leans against the icy metal of the stadium bleachers, the cold seeping through the thin barrier of his puffer jacket. His nose and knuckles are flushed with faint pinkness as the chill envelops him and all surrounding tiered spectators. Cool lighting pools onto the artificially perfect green lawn of the field, illuminating the boyish players with sweat-drenched face paint on their cheeks.
With furrowed brows, he stuffs his frigid hands into the subtle heat of his pockets that barely provide him with warmth.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his teeth threatening to chatter from contraction. He’s picking up the daughter of a friend, Chris, whom he met a few months ago through a mutual acquaintance, as well as a couple of beers, and catching a football game.
He cornered Jim at lunch earlier that day, sliding into the booth across from him with a painful, familiar smile that already assumed compliance. They were barely halfway through their first beers when Chris mentioned he was double-booked, stuck out of town overnight for work, and needed someone “reliable” to grab his daughter after halftime.
He remembers the way Chris said “reliable” with a pointed look, as if testing him, as if he could assume the errand hadn’t been asked of others countless times before. Jim had laughed it off, told him it was no big deal, already calculating how much of an inconvenience it actually was. He wanted to spend the evening unwinding with his girlfriend, not some cheerleader.
Jim didn’t know you, hadn’t even seen you; he just nodded along while Chris kept talking about traffic, parking, the usual Friday chaos, as though that explained why he was suddenly drafted into chauffeur duty. There was a flicker of hesitation then, Jim had considered telling him no, considered mentioning the plans he already had, the dinner reservation he’d half-forgotten to make. But the word stuck in his throat. Chris clapped him on the shoulder, gratitude already assumed, and that had been that.
Jim’s hardly paying attention to the college sport, more focused on the fact that Chris hasn’t yet sent a photo of which young woman exactly needs looking for. The mere description given at lunch irritably being: the one in the cheerleader’s uniform.
He looks over toward the front of the stadium, where some girls sit in groups with an identical color scheme. All his eyes have been able to manage are the braided backs of heads; rows of lacquered buns pinned so tightly they gleam under the stadium lights; and the unimaginable thought of anyone being out in a skirt with this temperature. The thought of skin exposed in this chill makes his own legs ache in sympathy, or perhaps just age.
His jaw begins to tremble, not dramatically, just enough to irritate him. He pulls his hands from his pockets and crosses his arms hard across his chest, shoving his palms into his armpits as if he can trap the heat there. The scoreboard blares, numbers shifting in bright digital red, and a fresh wave of noise ripples through the stands. The sound scrapes at his ears.
“G-Goddamn it, Chris,” he chatters out from the cold, breathing hot puffs from his lungs just to distract himself from the fact that he should’ve stayed in the car, or even refused to go out at all. Should’ve been at home with his girl. Instead, he’s here, freezing his ass off, scanning a crowded stadium for a girl he couldn’t pick out of a lineup.
He pictures his girlfriend’s apartment instead, the low amber lamplight, and the faint smell of her vanilla candle clinging to the couch cushions. He could almost feel the warmth of her thigh over his, the lazy way she had smiled that morning when he’d rolled on top of her, both of them still half-asleep and reckless with time. That was uncomplicated.
The crowd erupts again, a swell of cheers and clapping that shakes the bleachers beneath his boots. Jim startles slightly before forcing his hands together in a half-hearted clap, the sound swallowed by the noise around him. He rolls his eyes at himself as much as the game, jaw set tight, then tucks his hands back under his arms. He rocks back onto his heels, gaze sweeping the field again with mounting impatience. Right now, he’s trying to think of anything worth this much fucking trouble.
Jim looks down when his phone vibrates, already anticipating the lazy curve of his girlfriend’s name across the screen. He imagines something suggestive waiting for him, a distraction to warm his blood and remind him why he agreed to cut the night short in the first place. His thumb swipes the notification without thinking. But it isn’t her.
Of course, it’s fucking Chris. Another update, another instruction, another reminder that Jim’s standing in the cold because he couldn’t find the spine to refuse a favor. He nearly shoves the phone back into his pocket, unopened. Instead, he taps it. The image loads. It’s you. For a moment, he thinks the screen glitched, that his brain is misfiring, because this, this doesn’t match the casual, dismissive way Chris had described you over lunch.
You’re smiling in the photo, teeth bright, your expression open in a way that makes his chest tighten, wearing the kind of grin that isn’t practiced for a camera but spills forward unguarded. You don’t resemble your balding, stout father in the slightest. Jim’s thumb stills against the screen, causing his phone to zoom in on the image accidentally. He swallows, throat suddenly dry, his eyes drag slowly over the frame of your hair against your cheeks, the curve of your face, the light gleaming in your eyes.
“Jesus,” he exhales, but the word comes out strained, almost hoarse.
Something shifts, not a simple attraction, it isn't the familiar pull he feels when a pretty woman walks past him at a bar. This… this feels abrupt, disorienting. You’re unfamiliar to him, not a single resemblance to anyone’s face he’s ever stared at solely for appearance. Yet, you make his mind drift to something with more simplicity, and less expectation.
Jim turns off his phone, then on again just to take in the image once more. He feels like he’s back in high school, seeing a girl in the hall and staring for too long. Heat spreads across his chest, dripping down his ribs with intensity, enough to hammer against his Adam’s apple. He’s becoming acutely aware of himself now as well; his cheap green Jeep is parked outside the stadium gates, the stale cigarette smell baked into its upholstery from some previous owner.
He imagines you opening the door, climbing into that grimy space, and a flicker of shame sparks low and hot in his gut. The longer he looks, the more something raw unfurls in him, it isn’t merely physical; it feels reckless, dangerous, like the first crack in something he wants to keep hidden away.
Jim’s brow dampens despite the freezing air; he shifts his weight restlessly, as if the stadium lights have turned on and pointed themselves directly at him. His grip tightens around his phone, not even from the freezing temperature but the awareness of how his mind is betraying him at this moment. He forces his jaw to unclench and starts typing before he can think better of it.
“When d’you want her home?” He stares at the message, thumb hovering, knowing exactly what he’s doing and refusing to name it. Then he presses send. The whoosh of the message leaving his phone feels louder than the traveling footballs he had endured watching earlier. His stomach dips as he pockets the device too quickly, like it might burn in his hand if he keeps holding it.
A commanding whistle slices through the air, and the crowd shifts in response. The halftime show begins to assemble below, brass instruments flashing under the lights as the marching band steps into formation with mechanical precision. He lifts his head, forcing himself to focus anywhere but on the memory of your smile burned into the inside of his skull. He scans the line of cheerleaders automatically, telling himself it’s logistics now. Just a face to match a photo. Just a job to complete so he can go home.
But every girl he looks at feels wrong; their expressions blur together, their movements too stiff, too ordinary. None of them carries the brightness that beamed in front of him moments ago. He shifts his stance, boots scraping against the metal bleacher, eyes narrowing as he searches more deliberately. The cold no longer registers, the noise no longer registers. All he can feel is the restless heat still coiled tight beneath his ribs, waiting for confirmation that the girl in the photo exists on that field.
Jim methodically drags his gaze across the line of women again, eyes narrowed against the glare of the lights. Jim loses track a few times as people get up to walk between the other cheerleaders. He keeps scanning. Too blank. Too boring. Then, something holds, and the recognition hits low in his stomach before it reaches his brain.
You’re standing a couple of yards back from the railing, turned slightly away from the field, fingers lifting to your hair in a restless, repetitive motion. Even from this distance, he sees strain in the small details; you look like him after working for eight hours. Your shoulders sit a fraction too high for your age, and the smile you give your friend hardly reaches your eyes, even if you’re trying to look positive. You’re real. The thought is disorienting to him.
Of course, you’re real, he’s here for you- to pick you up. That’s the entire point. Yet something about the transition from a glowing screen to a breathing body unsettles him. You’re tucking a loose strand back into your bun, fingers fumbling slightly before clipping and unclipping a bobby pin. Jim gulps when he sees you clench the small, black metal between your teeth. Your friend leans close, murmuring something he, or anyone for that matter, can’t hear.
Your head tilts toward her, lips moving quickly as you nod, expression composed but dulling in thought. He recognizes the look; he’s worn it himself in faculty meetings, at dinners, anywhere he needs to appear steady while something inside him threatens to snap.
Another breath leaves him. Jim doesn’t realize he’s moving until his boots scrape against the concrete and onto the bleacher steps. The metal vibrates beneath his weight as he crosses over spectators, the halftime formation assembling in precise lines across the field. Jim mutters a few apologies without care, not noticing how many shoes he’s trampling to get to you. Trumpets flare, drums beginning their cadence, the sound pounds against his ribs in time with his pulse.
Your friend steps in front of you and reaches up, fingers adjusting the pins in your hair with a rehearsed care. She presses one in firmly, then smooths her palm over the crown of your head. The intimacy of it is small, ordinary, and it strikes him with unexpected sharpness. His gaze fixes there, on her hand disappearing into the neat coil of your bun, and before he’s able to stop, Jim swallows, his eyes dropping.
Your legs are bare under the stadium lights, muscles drawn tight from the cold, calves subtly flexed as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. There’s strength there, coiled beneath smooth skin that catches the light with a faint sheen. The wind lifts the edge of your skirt, just enough to reveal the outline of your hamstrings as you brace against the cool.
“Fuck,” Jim grunts quietly before he shakes his head.
His intrusive thoughts move fast and vivid, flaring in texture, warmth, softness he’s damnably wrong for imagining, so at odds with how freezing makes him dizzy. He steps down from the bleachers and circles toward the edge of the field where the cheer squad is gathered, boots crunching against the sharp grass; each step feels heavier than it should.
Up close, you look a bit younger. Not childish, just unguarded in a way he isn’t used to. There’s a faint crease between your brows as you listen to your friend, nodding along, lips parted slightly as if you’re about to say something. Jim looks down again, seeing how your knees are as flushed as his nose. Jim clears his throat, eyes going back up to you. You sense him in your peripheral vision, but don’t exactly turn until he speaks.
“Hey.” His hand flexes in his pocket, almost making the mistake of reaching for your shoulder before thinking much, much better of it. Your gaze flickers from your friend to Jim, your own hands stuck in their enunciating motion.
For a moment, you pause, taking in his demeanor. He looks like a much older version of one of the dorkier guys at your school, except the glasses he’s wearing suit him much better.
“Yeah?” You ask, not rudely, just with a raised brow. Jim sees the glitter now, all of it, the makeup that seems to bolden you further. Your eyes pierce into his, brows furrowed in curiosity as he collects his thoughts, again.
“Uh,” he starts, suddenly aware of how he must look; hands shoved into his jacket, hair mussed by wind, expression awkward and restrained. “I’m here to pick you up. Your dad sent me.”
Your posture stiffens slightly, your head tilting in somewhat confusion. The practiced composure you’d been wearing falters for half a second. “My dad?” you echo softly, looking over at your friend, who’s still scrutinizing Jim as if he’s up to something.
“Ah, Chris,” Jim adds quickly, noting how stupid it sounds. Of course, she knows her dad’s name, fucking twat. “We had lunch earlier today. He said he got called out of town.” Jim feels your friend looking him up and down, and he’s just remembered the painful embarrassment of being around teenage girls.
You blink, searching through your memory, slowly. “Right. He mentioned… someone.” Your gaze narrows slightly, trying to pronounce the name you think you heard earlier. “J… James?” You attempt before seeing him rub the back of his neck, huffing. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” There isn’t malice in your tone, just a bit distracted by everything else going on.
“Yeah, it’s Jim,” he says, offering a short nod instead of a hand. “Your dad hadn’t mentioned you until today,” he sees you frown at that and wishes he hadn’t said anything more than his name.
“Oh,” you nod, the word soft but edged with something close to disappointment. “I thought he was coming.” There’s a subtle downturn in the corner of your mouth that makes Jim’s chest ache.
“Yeah,” he replies, keeping his tone even. “Last-minute work thing.” He shrugs one shoulder, “he asked me to make sure you got home.”
Your friend crosses her arms against the cold, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Do you have proof?” she asks bluntly.
Jim exhales through his nose, pulling his phone from his pocket again. He opens the thread and angles the screen toward you both. You note the thumbs-up reaction he gave your father. His messages sit there in plain text, the photo still visible in the chat, he makes sure not to linger on it this time.
You lean closer to read, your shoulder brushing your friend’s arm. He catches the faint scent of something sweet and clean when you shift nearer, his eyes focused on the way you’re nearing him. You nod measuredly, tension easing from your shoulders by a few degrees. “Okay,” you murmur. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Sorry. He just… doesn’t always communicate things clearly.”
“That checks out,” Jim mutters before he can stop himself. Your lips twitch into a slight smile despite yourself, a small fault in your earlier disappointment. You glance back at the field where the halftime routine is about to start, hesitation flickering again.
“Can it wait until after this?” you ask, gesturing toward the forming lines of the band. “I’m supposed to stay until halftime’s done.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding with a breathy laugh. “I’m not dragging you out mid-show.” You nod as well, relief softening your features. Then you hesitate again, eyes sliding toward your friend. There’s a silent exchange between you, raised brows, a slight tilt of the head.
“Actually,” you begin carefully, looking back at him. “Would it be… okay if you dropped her off too?” You hook a thumb subtly toward your friend.
“Her car won’t start. We were going to call someone, but if you’re already driving…” You trail off there, teeth catching your bottom lip as if you regret asking the second the words leave you.
The stadium lights strike the gloss on your mouth and hold there, bright and distracting. Your friend shifts beside you, folding her arms tighter across her chest in a performance of indifference that doesn’t quite land. Her eyes flick over him with quick calculation, measuring him in a way that makes the back of his neck prickle.
He can already see it: the passenger seat that never quite locks into place, the faint burn mark near the gearshift from some long-forgotten mistake, the stale film of old cigarette smoke embedded deep in the upholstery that no amount of air freshener ever managed to mask. He pictures you stepping inside that space, knees brushing the cracked dashboard, the scent of your shampoo colliding with nicotine.
You misread his silence, and he sees it happen. Your shoulders inch inward, chin tipping slightly down as if bracing for a refusal you’re trying not to take personally.
“It’s okay if not,” you add quickly, the words tumbling out softer this time. “We can figure something else out. I just thought… since you’re already-”
“That’s fine.” His voice cuts in before you can finish. It comes out even, controlled, steadier than he feels. He keeps his expression neutral, as if this costs him nothing. “Where to?”
Your head lifts immediately. Relief flickers across your face, subtle but unmistakable, easing the tight line that had settled between your brows. Your friend straightens too, the guarded look softening into something almost pleased as she purses her lips.
“It’s not far,” you say, hands lifting instinctively as if to physically map the distance in the air. Your fingers spread, then flatten, then point vaguely past the far end of the parking lot. “Just a few minutes out of the way. Like, ten. Less, I think.”
You’re watching him closely now, searching for signs of irritation, of regret. He notices the way you hold your breath at the end of your sentence. He slips his phone back into his pocket, nodding once. “Yeah. I’ll get you both home.”
The band’s tempo sharpens, snapping into a rhythm that pulls the cheer squad forward on instinct. Your coach blows the whistle at the two of you, Jim winces, his teeth showing as you smile at him while he isn’t looking. Your friend nudges you lightly with her elbow and leans in to say something that makes you laugh under your breath. The sound is quick and bright, swallowed almost immediately by the swell of music, but it hits him harder than it should.
Jim forces his gaze away, scanning the perimeter of the field instead, giving himself something neutral to focus on. The cold creeps back into his fingers now that the conversation is over, but it feels distant compared to the restless heat still simmering low in his chest.
Ten minutes, he tells himself. A short drive. Drop one off, then the other. Simple.
He leans back against the railing rather than climbing higher into the bleachers. Up there would give him distance, perspective. Down here, the metal presses cold through his jacket, not to mention you can see where he keeps his focus. He hooks his thumbs into the edges of his pockets and keeps his posture loose, casual, the stance of someone waiting for the traffic to thin.
The music swells anyway, horns bright and brash, cutting through the chatter of the crowd. You fall into formation with the others, a line of blue and white against the dark field. He tells himself he’s only looking to pass the time, to see when it ends. Your own heart pounds, though you can’t hear it over the music. The noise of the crowd washes together into a distant roar, but one awareness stands sharper than the rest.
He’s there. Not in the bleachers with the parents and bored siblings. Not lost in a phone. Somewhere lower, closer. You feel it like a hand between your shoulder blades. You turn your head as part of the opening count, a quick snap that sends loose strands of hair free from your bun. The movement is choreographed, clean. You tell yourself that’s all it is. Your friend’s earlier warning floats back to you anyway, half-joking, half-serious. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Watch out for him.
You drop into position, arms slicing through the air, wrists locking at sharp angles. Fingers snap into place with audible cracks that only the girls near you can hear. When you jump, the impact reverberates up your calves and into your spine. The elastic in your bun gives under the force, and your hair spills loose into a ponytail at its sudden cascade. You mouth something under your breath, the word slipping out on instinct. “Fuck.”
From ahead, Jim sees it. He sees the split second of surprise cross your face, the quick flick of your hand toward the back of your head before the choreography pulls you forward again. He sees the word form on your lips even if he can’t hear it. His mouth shifts before he can stop it, a brief curve that he smooths away just as quickly.
Your ponytail whips against your shoulders as you turn. Under the stadium lights, the fine sheen on your legs catches and glows. When you land from the next jump, your knees bend with controlled precision, absorbing the force before straightening into the next count. The way you smile toward the crowd on cue, bright and rehearsed, your eyes cut sideways for a fraction of a second to check alignment with the girl beside you. He recognizes discipline when he sees it. He recognizes control.
The routine builds, movements layering faster now. You feel it too, the climb toward the final hit. Your lungs burn slightly, the cold air slicing in sharply on each inhale. The football field narrows to counts and angles and the knowledge that his eyes are somewhere out there, steady. The last beat lands with a unified stomp that rattles the freezing bleachers. The vibration travels through turf and into the soles of your shoes. You feel it thrum through your bones before applause rolls over the field in a thick, uneven wave.
You hold your smile for a second longer than necessary, teeth flashing beneath the lights. Then, as the music cuts and the formation breaks, the smile softens. Your chest rises and falls faster now, breath visible in faint clouds against the cold. Jim watches you exhale, your puffy breath wrapping around your face as your hair rests on your shoulder.
He looks at you as the formation breaks, girls scattering toward the sidelines in a rush of breathless laughter, sneakers squeaking against the turf as they tug oversized jackets over bare shoulders. The sharp performance of smiles dissolve into flushed cheeks and loose ponytails.
Jim pushes off the railing before the wave reaches him. He has no interest in being folded into that crush of congratulatory noise, nodding politely while someone recounts how their daughter “nailed it.” He cuts along the sideline instead, cold air biting at his ears, clarifying.
You’re a few yards from the rest now, adjusting the elastic at your wrist as you tighten your ponytail, breathing still uneven. The blue sequins of your uniform looks deeper under the stadium lights, near lacquered. He sees you laugh at something one of the girls says, but the sound is thinner than usual, like it’s stretching over something else.
The crowd presses in from behind you. A mother barrels past Jim, nearly clipping his shoulder in his rush to reach the center of the field. He sidesteps without breaking stride, jaw tightening faintly at the chaos. He angles his path to intercept you before someone else does.
You see him coming, rehearsed laughter faltering mid-breath. The noise of the crowd seems to muffle around the edges, like cotton pressed into your ears. He moves differently from the parents. There’s no exaggerated wave, just that steady walk, shoulders squared, gaze fixed.
He stops a few feet in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint flush in his cheeks from the cold. Up close, the stadium lights carve sharper lines into his face. His eyes drop briefly to your hair, taking in the fact that it never got fixed properly.
“You did great,” he says, just to you.
The noise of the field swells and dips around you both, but the words land clean. He’s looking down at you, your gaze mirrored as your breath dares to dance with each other.
“Wasn’t perfect,” you answer softly. It feels safer than accepting how well you may have been. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your duffel bag as you gently hoist it over your shoulder, knuckles pressing pale against the canvas.
His gaze lifts from your hair to your eyes. “Didn’t have to be.” There’s the faintest crease between his brows, as if the distinction matters, “it was solid.” Heat creeps up your face again, though the air is cold enough to sting your lungs.
You shift your weight, aware of how close he’s standing, how the scent of clean detergent and winter air clings to his jacket.
“I’ll get that,” he says after a second, nodding toward the bag still hooked over your shoulder. You hesitate, fingers curling instead of loosening. “It’s fine.”
He keeps his hand extended anyway, not yanking, just insisting. The offer is serviceable, and impersonal, but the way his eyes linger on is questionable, like he wants to know if you trust him enough yet. You hesitate half a second before sliding the strap off your shoulder. His fingers close around it easily, taking the weight without a shift in posture.
“Oh, my God.” Your friend appears at your side like she’s been waiting for her cue. She wedges herself between you and the edge of the field, ponytail bouncing, her own duffel hanging off one shoulder. “He’s carrying your bag?”
Jim doesn’t sigh, but it’s close. “Yep. Heavy thing.”
“No, it’s not,” you protest softly. He smiles at you with an endearing light in his eye as he shifts the strap more securely over his shoulder.
“Well, if we’re offering services-” She swings her own bag forward dramatically.
Jim doesn’t let her finish, he reaches for hers too, his brows narrowing. The movement is decisive this time, bordering on impatience. “Hand it over.”
Your friend blinks, clearly not expecting the extension of courtesy. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” His tone is even, but the edge beneath it is sharper now, worn thin by the night. “You can walk without accessories for a minute.” She grins, delighted by the friction anyway, and slips the strap off her shoulder.
Jim takes the second bag without acknowledging the comment, slinging it over his opposite shoulder so that the weight balances. The muscles in his arms flex briefly beneath his jacket as he adjusts them into place. He looks less like a helpful bystander now and more like someone who’s decided the conversation is over.
“There,” he says, gaze settling back on you instead of her. “Let’s go before we get trampled.”
Your friend falls into step on your other side, entirely too pleased. “You know,” she murmurs, loud enough to be heard, “this is how it starts. First, the bags. Then the-”
“I parked over here,” Jim calls gruffly over his shoulder, keeping his stride measured. Behind him, your friend leans in again. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper that still carries enough for him to catch fragments.
“Okay, so he’s not old-old,” your friend murmurs behind him, her voice pitched low but carrying easily in the open air. “Like… I was expecting someone’s dad’s accountant.”
“Shut up, he’s nice,” you scoff, though there’s no real bite to it. It’s half warning, half consideration, the sound of someone trying not to be caught reacting.
His jaw firms, molars pressing together as he keeps his gaze fixed on the row of cars ahead.
“Your dad did not say he looked like that.” He feels the shift before he fully registers the words. The air between his shoulder blades tightens, awareness sliding under his skin like a live wire.
You make a small sound of protest that dissolves into a nervous laugh. “Oh my god, can you not? Please?”
Jim hears the slight whine of your voice from behind. He doesn’t turn around. He refuses to give himself the satisfaction, or the humiliation, of confirming what that tone implies. His eyes remain forward, tracking the painted lines on the asphalt, the faint shimmer of exhaust rising from cars already idling. Still, he can almost feel your gaze brush across his back before darting away again.
“Maybe he’ll let you sit in the front,” your friend continues, wicked amusement threading through her voice. “Very chauffeur chic.” She makes a motion with her hand that can only be assumed as a handjob, you scoff and swat at her arm.
You scoff, swatting at her arm before she can add anything worse. “I’m not sitting in the front.” Your voice comes out tighter than you intended.
“Well then, I am.”
Jim exhales slowly through his nose, the cold air biting the inside of his lungs. He adjusts his stride without thinking, shoulders squaring as if to anchor himself in something solid. He’s the one walking ahead. He’s the one with the keys and your bags. He reminds himself of that as the parking lot stretches out in dim, uneven rows beneath flickering lamps. He tells himself the laughter means nothing.
The gravel shifts under Jim’s boots as he cuts across the edge of the lot. Sodium lights hum overhead, washing everything in a dull amber that flattens color. Car doors slam in the distance as the heavy bags he’s carrying jingle slightly with material, the sloshing of a water bottle sounding in his ear.
Your footsteps stay close behind Jim’s. Close enough that he can track the rhythm of them, quick, uneven when you half-jog to keep up, then steady again when you fall into pace. Your friend lingers just slightly to your right. He can hear her breath hitch every time she’s fighting another comment.
He doesn’t turn, but he shifts his head just enough to catch the edge of your reflection in a darkened car window as he passes it. A blur of movement that involves your ponytail swaying, the sleeve of your jacket sliding down your arm, and then back up again when you adjust it.
You’re not laughing the way your friend is; your smile is smaller, contained, like you’re trying to manage it. Jim feels that detail settle somewhere low in his chest.
“Do you think he works out?” your friend asks, openly studying his back now. “Because that jacket is not doing him any favors. Or maybe it is. I can’t tell.” Jim’s eye twitches; he hears her openly, while your voice is an apologetic murmur.
“God,” you breathe, mortified. “Stop looking at him like that.”
“Your dad said ‘a friend.’ He did not say ‘mysterious highwayman with great ass.’” Jim’s mouth presses into a thin line.
Highwayman. He resists the urge to glance down at himself, suddenly aware of the way his pants tighten against his buttocks, the way his hands are shoved into the pockets like he’s guarding something.
He pulls one hand free from the straps, adjusts his collar, then immediately regrets the movement because it feels like a nervous confirmation. He slows just a fraction near the exit row, scanning for his car. He knows exactly where he parked, but the small pause gives him a reason to breathe. Behind him, your voice drops lower, softer.
“He’s just…” You stop yourself, then try again. “He’s just older.”
“Older than what?” your friend presses. “Older than you? Obviously.”
Jim hears you exhale sharply through your nose, not noticing the way you’re looking up at the streaks of gray in his short hair. You can’t tell the way he’s bracing for your commentary, preparing for something viscous to escape your perfect lips. His aged lines are obvious; you noticed the moment he introduced himself. Jim didn’t think it was an issue, now he’s not sure.
“No- Just- Older than I thought.” There it is. Not an insult, but not exactly a compliment either.
As his pride recovers, Jim spots his Jeep and angles towards it. The green paint catches the sodium light in streaks. He reaches it first, unlocking it with a soft chirp; the sound slices cleanly through the hum of the lot. You hesitate a step behind him, watching his jaw clench as he focuses on holding your bags. You come up to him without making a show of it, sliding off your duffel from his arm thoughtfully.
“I’ve got it,” you say quietly. The weight leaves his shoulder, and something else seems to loosen with it. Jim glances down at you, giving you a small acknowledgement; a whispered, “Thanks.”
Your friend doesn’t mirror the gesture as you return to her side.
“Well,” she says brightly, circling slightly to get a better look. “At least it’s not a van.”
You let out a small huff, looking towards her with dismay. Jim turns then, he can’t not. The motion is almost restrained, as if he’s calculated the exact degree required to acknowledge you two without seeming like a complete asshole.
The parking lot light above throws a dull amber wash over his face, catching along the ridge of his brow and leaving his eyes darker than they should be. One eyebrow lifts a fraction, not high enough to be theatrical, just enough to register that he heard.
“Problem?” he asks evenly.
The word doesn’t rise. It doesn’t sharpen. It lands flat between you like something set down carefully. Your mouth goes dry.
You shift your weight, thighs brushing under the pleats of your uniform skirt. The fabric whispers against itself, too loud in your own ears. You’re suddenly aware of your legs, of the cold air grazing bare skin, of the way you must look standing there beneath the lights. His gaze stays level, fixed somewhere between your face and the space just over your shoulder.
Before you can untangle your tongue, your friend slips in like a bright spark, leaning on the moment with deliberate ease.
“Just a safety inspection,” she chirps, teeth flashing, the mischief in her grin undeniable. Her eyes flick to Jim briefly, then back to you, and there’s a glint there, open, teasing, perfectly aware of the effect she’s having.
His eyes shift, though not fully toward her. Not yet. They slide to you, brief but pointed, and you feel it; pressure that isn’t accusing, that nails you in place, aware of how small you feel under his watchful calm. Your fingers clench the strap of your bag until the canvas digs into your palm, grounding you against the tide of heat rising through your chest. You glance at the car behind him, then back up, the gesture awkwardly desperate in its attempt at innocence.
“No, sir,” you blurt, the title escaping without thought. “She means the car. Not you.”
He pauses at the respectful title.
“Good,” he says, voice carrying the faintest note of approval. There’s a subtle lift to his jaw, a recognition of control, not over you, not exactly, but over the situation. It’s fleeting, almost hidden, but it lands, and you catch it, sharp in your gut. You settle into the backseat as your friend slips into the passenger side with a victorious smile, like she’s claimed a small, silent victory.
Jim sits in the driver’s seat across from you, your spine rigid, arms tight against your torso, and for a moment, the car is filled only with the soft hum of the engine and the subtle scrape of tires on asphalt. Then, once the lot is behind you and the road stretches out, dark and unbroken, your friend pivots just enough to glance over her shoulder at you.
“No, sir?” she drawls, savoring the words like taffy. She leans forward from the backseat, elbow hooked over the center console, her knee nudging the plastic edge like she owns the space. The overhead light catches the gloss on her mouth as she angles her body toward him, chin tipped just enough to make it mocking.
“Since when were you such a good girl?”
The question lands like a physical weight against your chest. Heat blooms across your cheeks in a rush that makes the air in your lungs feel thinner. Jim doesn’t look at her, at least not right away. You sit straighter, hands clenched in your lap, knees tight together, aware of every inch of yourself, aware of how she watches, aware of the way Jim’s eyes almost, but never fully, wander.
Your hands knot together so tightly your knuckles pale, becoming hyperaware of your knees pressed together, of the hem of your pleated skirt riding a fraction higher from the way you’re sitting, of how small the backseat suddenly feels.
“I’m not,” you mutter, voice tight, trembling between embarrassment and frustration. Her response is soft, teasing, like a purr. “It just came out,” she echoes, eyes alight with cruelty.
You move before you think, hand shooting out, fingers curling into her sleeve, dragging her back against her seat with a sharp tug. The fabric wrinkles under your grip.
“Shut up,” you hiss, voice low, urgent, the kind of sound that trembles on the edge of control.
Your chest tightens, a coil ready to snap. It doesn’t work; she only tilts her head, studying you, amused by your fluster. Jim’s hands stay steady on the wheel, the white beams of the headlights spilling over his knuckles, the faint indentations catching light. His shoulders are broad, posture impeccable, as if the conversation behind him is nothing more than ambient noise, a distant static he tunes out.
You can see the pulse in his jaw, a quiet tension that never wavers, and though he doesn’t glance at you, you catch the way his gaze flickers involuntarily to your friend. There, she’s curled up in the backseat, legs tucked under her, hair brushing the leather, smirking with practiced ease, and for a heartbeat, you’re aware he’s watching, taking measure of her pride.
It would almost be easier if he snapped, if he barked at her to knock it off, instead, he gives her nothing; and that nothing feels worse. Feels like consideration. Like he’s weighing something, the two of you. She smiles faintly at the attention, however small.
Your friend tilts her head, studying you with open fascination. “You sounded so polite,” she continues, eyes bright. “All soft and respectful. Very obedient.” Your hand lashes out, pinching the soft skin of her arm hard enough to make her jerk. She rubs the spot delicately, laughs under her breath, a small, unbothered sound that lodges in your chest.
Then, she turns sideways, glances at Jim with a calculating tilt of her head, fishing. “D’you like it when she calls you that,” she asks, her voice sliding into syrupy, teasing territory, “or does it make you feel old?”
Jim doesn’t take the bait. If anything, he grows stiller.
The blue glow from the dashboard spills across his hands, illuminating the tendons beneath the skin, the faint scars along his knuckles. His gaze flicks to the rearview mirror. For half a second, you think he’s looking at your friend, then you realize he isn’t. His eyes slide past her shoulder, to where you sit curled into the corner of the backseat, knees drawn in slightly, skirt tugged down as if fabric could shield you.
His thumb taps once against the steering wheel. “It’s polite,” he says finally, tone even. “Nothing wrong with that.”
Your friend arches a brow at you, triumphant. “See?” she says lightly. “He likes it.” Your face burns, but you refuse to let her see. You fix your eyes on the seam of the seat in front of you again, following the stitching like it’s something you can count in the dark space.
“I didn’t say that,” Jim replies calmly. He doesn’t raise his voice or rush to correct her, just adjusts his grip on the wheel again, the leather creaking faintly beneath his palms. The engine hum fills the silence between his words.
Your friend shifts forward, interest sharpening. “You kinda did,” she presses, a sugar-laced tone. “You said there’s nothing wrong with it.”
You sink lower into the back seat, the leather sighing under your weight. The car smells faintly of cologne and gasoline, and the peppermint gum your friend insists on chewing too loudly.
“There isn’t.” His tone remains level, but the space around him tightens. “Polite’s polite.”
He glances at the rearview mirror again. His eyes meet yours directly through the glass before you quickly look away. Jim’s eyelids lower a fraction as your knees press together instinctively, skirt tugged down and flattened more than it needs to be.
“It was just reflex,” you insist, softer now. The word reflex sounds flimsy even to you. “Teachers. Coaches. It’s a habit.”
“Uh-huh,” your friend hums, unconvinced.
“You don’t call Mr. Grant sir. Or Mr. Bennett. Or literally any other man over thirty.” The Jeep feels smaller. The dashboard glow doesn’t reach you back here; it leaves you in partial shadow while it outlines him cleanly at the front, hands steady at ten and two, profile sharp against passing streetlights.
“That’s different,” you cut in quickly. She turns in her seat to look at you fully now, knee hooked under her, hair spilling over one shoulder. There’s nothing subtle about the way she studies you.
“How?”
You open your mouth, then close it again. Because you can’t exactly say it. You can’t explain the way the word felt when it left your mouth. The way it slid out unplanned and settled between you and him like something offered. Your friend’s lips twitch when you don’t answer.
“Exactly.” She reaches for her phone with exaggerated nonchalance, thumb already moving.
“We need better post-performance music,” she announces. “Something dramatic, at least.” The soft, hazy intro of a Cigarettes After Sex song pours into the car. Carrying a faint strum of airy guitar, breath-thin male vocals. You go still, Jim doesn’t hesitate.
His hand moves to the centre console almost immediately. One firm tap and the song cuts mid-line, intimacy severed cleanly. The low, neutral hum of whatever he’d been playing before slides back in, something softly instrumental, jazzy. Your friend scoffs. “Excuse me?”
“Driver picks the music,” he says evenly. His hand is still resting near the console, fingers hovering like he expects another interruption. The dashboard light washes his knuckles in a low blue glow, tracing the faint ridge of an old scar along his thumb. The other hand stays steady on the wheel.
“It’s harmless.” She leans forward between the seats, elbow planted on the console as if she belongs there. Her hair, now let-down. slips over her shoulder, catching in the dim light. Her knee edges closer again, nudging the plastic seam near his arm.
The intimacy of the song lingers in your head even though it’s gone, the breathy voice, the slow drag of the guitar. It felt too close. Like it was playing something you hadn’t meant to say out loud. His eyes flick toward her for half a second, then they return to the road. “I know what it is.”
The Jeep rolls through an intersection. Headlights from the opposite lane sweep across the interior, illuminating her expectant smile, then cutting across your lap before disappearing again. You feel the brightness retreat like a curtain closing.
“Then what’s the problem?” A pause stretches between the front seats. Long enough that you can hear the faint rattle of something in the cup holder. Long enough that your pulse starts counting it.
“It’s my girlfriend’s favorite,” he says at last. “She plays it a lot.”
Girlfriend. Your stomach drops as if the road dipped unexpectedly. You hadn’t realized you were bracing for something else until that single word knocks the thought out from under you. The backseat feels farther away now. Of course, he has a girlfriend.
“Oh,” she says, a note of satisfaction slipping into her voice. “You’re loyal.” There’s a shift in her tone that’s almost imperceptible unless you’re listening for it. It’s the faint scrape of something pleased with itself.
She turns in her seat fully, twisting at the waist so she can look at you without obstruction. The overhead light catches the gloss on her lips as they purse into something that mimics sympathy. Her eyes, however, are bright and merciless.
“Damn,” she adds softly, dragging the word out. “That’s tough.”
Your throat tightens before you can swallow it down. You focus on the window beside you, watching streetlights smear into long ribbons of gold against the glass. The reflection staring back at you looks smaller than you remember, you don’t answer.
She shrugs one shoulder, still watching you. “I’m just saying.” Her gaze flicks forward, then back to you. “Some people don’t stand a chance.”
There’s a faint creak of leather as Jim’s grip shifts on the steering wheel. The tendons that run along the back of his hand stand out under the black wash of the dashboard. He doesn’t have to look back to know the way you feel from his admission.
“That’s enough,” he says. He doesn’t raise his voice or snap. Your friend shifts in the passenger seat, fabric whispering as she crosses her legs again.
“I didn’t say anything,” she replies, though the edge dulls slightly.
“You did,” he answers.
The Jeep slows at a red light, brakes engaging smoothly. Red bleeds through the windshield, washing the interior in a muted glow that makes every expression sharper. He doesn’t care enough to give her reassurance, either. The light changes to green and his car rolls forward again. Your friend folds her arms across her chest.
You sink further into the seat, wishing the leather would open up and swallow you. The blues music he chose fills the car again, and for a moment no one speaks. But your friend’s gaze keeps drifting to the mirror, to the way his eyes flicker back there when he thinks neither of you notice. And this time, when they meet yours, even for a fraction of a second, you don’t look away fast enough.
Streetlights slide across the windshield in repeated, indifferent arcs, illuminating her face, the angles of her cheek, the faint gleam in her eyes as she tilts her head toward him.
“So,” she begins again, voice light but probing, “what do you do when you’re not chauffeuring stranded cheerleaders?” She adjusts the vent so the warm air caresses her fingers, letting it linger just enough to draw attention.
Jim’s fingers hover loosely at the top of the wheel. He doesn’t meet her gaze, only glances at the rearview mirror, checks the lane, signals, then shifts into the next lane with ease.
“I don’t usually,” he replies, voice flat, each word clipped and controlled, “this is a… rare public service.” There’s a hardness underneath it now, a cool bite to the humor he suppresses.
From the backseat, you watch his profile, shadows stretching along his jaw, the subtle twitch of his mouth that betrays a smirk he refuses to grant fully. That softness from before has drained, replaced by an edge that makes the air itself feel sharper.
It’s disorienting, watching him this way, simultaneously removed and trapped in the conversation, your presence unseen yet entirely felt. You lean against the window, curling slightly, as if shrinking into the reflection pressed against the glass could erase your existence. Fingers clutch at the thin fabric of your sleeves, twisting and pulling as though tension could be absorbed into cotton threads.
Your reflection looks smaller, tighter, diminished. Part of you strains to remember the private curl of his lips aimed only at you, but the memory slips like water. You convince yourself that in this dynamic, you are the quiet one, the one unnoticed, while her audacious energy takes up all the space.
She props an elbow against the door, chin balanced lightly in her palm, eyes darting between you and him, wicked and calculating. “You always this calm?” she asks, the words rolling out. “Or are we getting the toned-down version because we’re less than half your age and you’re being responsible?”
Jim’s brow flicks upward, his tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek. “I’m always this calm,” he replies evenly, but the taut undercurrent in his tone makes the words feel fragile, like the surface of a frozen lake underfoot.
“Uh-huh,” she hums, unconvinced, and her eyes flick to you with sharp amusement, the kind that pricks skin at the back of the neck.
“She’s not.” You close your eyes, pressing your temple lightly against the cold glass, wishing you could dissolve into the dark upholstery. “She talks,” she continues, casual in her cadence, as if you aren’t there. “Like, a lot. Until someone says one word in the right tone, and then she folds.”
“She’s cute when she panics,” your friend murmurs, leaning forward just a little, her voice teasing. “You didn’t even see her face when you said ‘good.’ That little freeze, priceless.”
Jim exhales sharply through his nose, the sound clipped, irritated. The patience he’s been measuring all night thins into something taut and brittle, and you can feel it vibrating through the cabin. “Just leave her be,” he admonishes, but it only leaves you with the embarrassment of adult intervention. “You shouldn’t be-”
“See that house?” she interrupts, pointing ahead with an exaggerated sweep of her hand, her grin curling around the edges with flippant amusement. “Second on the right. That’s mine.” Jim glances briefly at her, the muscles in his cheek making a grimace, before his eyes snap back to the road.
There’s a short pause, one of those pregnant moments where the air seems to wait for him to lose control.
“Got it,” he mutters through gritted teeth, voice low but sharp enough to make her still.
She laughs lightly, that airy, calculated sound that makes it clear she enjoys pushing him, enjoys the tension she’s wrung from the night. “You don’t have to be so serious,” she says, tone dripping with mock sympathy, “it’s just a driveway.”
His hand jerks on the wheel, controlling the slight swerve, and he lets out a sharp, exasperated sigh that vibrates in his chest. “I know it’s just a driveway,” he snaps, louder this time. The word carries across the interior like a whip, cutting through the easy amusement she’s been wielding all evening.
“But I’m not driving you around to play fuckin’ chauffeur games, okay?”
Her eyes widen just slightly, the hint of triumph fading into curiosity, a momentary crack in her carefully maintained smirk.
“Wow,” she says softly, leaning back. “Someone’s grumpy. Did I hit a nerve?”
“You did,” he says finally, jaw firm, tone clipped. His gaze remains locked on the road, shoulders squared as though he’s bracing against the last of her teasing.
“Don’t push it.” Jim unlocks the door with a practiced click and leans over, a hand extending to steady her without looking at you.
“Get out,” he says, almost under his breath, no sweetness, no indulgence, only authority. The sharp edge in his voice cuts through her teasing, and for the first time all evening, she falters, hesitation flickering across her features.
“Fine.” Her hand closes around the strap of her duffel, the weight suddenly heavier, and she swings the door shut with a little too much force.
Jim doesn’t shift in his seat, doesn’t release a finger from the wheel, until the faint click of her front door echoes back from the porch. He lingers there, gaze fixed for a few more seconds, teeth pressing together in thought. Slowly, the rigid line of his broad shoulders begins to ease, a measured exhale slipping from him, longer this time, as if he’s finally letting the tension drain into the seat beneath him.
He lets out a low, rough exhale, muttering under his breath just loud enough for the car to catch it, “Jesus… unbelievable.”
His hand sweeps over his mouth, rubbing at the tension there, the words coming without heat, just the bovine bleed of irritation as he fixes his gaze on the darkened porch, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. He shakes his head once, almost imperceptibly, and the car exhales with him.
The charged energy of teasing, laughter, and provocation that had crowded the space between you both dissolves, leaving a quiet hum of the engine and the faint scent of the night seeping through the vents.
“How’d you stay sweet, huh?”
Jim laughs as he turns his head, disbelieving that you’re friends with someone that audaciously rude. You aren’t looking at him. Instead, you fixate on the bag between your legs, twisting the strap again, pressing your lips together as if that will hold you together. You don’t even realize your fingers are clenching and unclenching the strap bag until it’s raw against your skin.
You remain quiet, the stress of the evening looming in as the car’s engine quietly hums. Your mind spins, swirling with mortification at how she’d flaunted your discomfort, and with the unspoken truth pressing against your chest: he has a girlfriend, a fact that makes your own flustered attention feel humiliating.
He notices it instantly, the dullness in your expression, the subtle slump of your shoulders, and his easy smile fades, replaced by something more observant. Jim’s gaze drifts, unhurried but precise, taking in the loose strands of hair that escaped your ponytail, the way they fall across your shoulders and brush your lashes against your cheeks.
The light catches them just so, and it’s intimate in a way that makes his heart clench. He watches the way your lips part slightly, biting, pressing down as if to compress the words you’re not saying, the actions you’re not taking. It’s small, but he sees it, every hesitation, every flicker of emotion. Because he was young too, once. He knows all too well the reality of adolescent discomfiture.
Jim exhales slowly, a quiet, controlled breath that does more to fill the space between you than words ever could. His hand slides across the console with a practiced ease, unlocking the passenger side with a soft, decisive click.
“Come sit up front,” he says, voice level, unadorned but threaded with a weight that makes you swallow hard. You lift your head, the overhead light glinting off his glasses, catching the faint set of his jaw and the narrow line of his mouth.
The space beside him stretches and compresses at once, enormous and impossibly close, and your throat tightens as if you’re gulping the very air between you. Every instinct in you wants to sink back into the seat, to disappear. “I’m fine back here,” you manage, barely audible. For a brief moment, you can’t meet his eyes; it feels impossible, like they might read too much, see the mix of guilt, embarrassment, and the fragility of longing that you’d never admit, even to yourself.
“I’m not a chauffeur,” he says, words low, matter-of-fact, stripped of the edge he had earlier. Then, after a pause that hangs in the space between you, he softens it further, leaning back fractionally, shifting his weight so the overhead light catches the line of his shoulder and the faint freckles along his hand.
“You don’t have to… hide back there,” he adds, voice lower, closer. Not exactly softer, not indulgent, but intimate. There’s a willingness in it, a subtle permission that he isn’t giving often, a thread inviting you forward without saying it outright. The space beside him suddenly feels less daunting, less dangerous. His hand rests lightly near the gearshift, easy, open, unthreatening.
It’s enough to remind you that this isn’t the stadium, isn’t your friend’s teasing, isn’t a game of clever jabs; this is just him. Your hands twist tighter in your lap, the burning in your throat hasn’t let up. The hem of your skirt creases under your fingers, fabric bunching where you grip it. The embarrassment hasn’t faded with your friend’s exit; it’s curdled into something that sits heavy.
“I don’t-” The words snag halfway up, your chest puffing. He looks over you, the way you collect yourself, barely, when you shouldn’t have to. “I don’t want to be weird…”
Jim’s brow dips slightly, giving you a smile that’s meant to reassure. “Weird how?” He isn’t annoyed, more perplexed by just seeing you, how you’re in his backseat, trying not to let your emotions overflow. You can’t answer him without losing your voice. So you don’t explain, you just turn away and open the door instead.
Cold air floods in and you wrap your jacket closer around yourself, wind slicing across your legs. It steals the warmth from your thighs instantly, climbing beneath the thin fabric of your uniform, and settling into your muscle like a blanket of frost.
You blink hard, your eyes already burning, and you hate it. You hate that your body is doing this now, of all times. The embarrassment from your friend’s voice is still ringing in your ears, you can practically hear her laughing about it tomorrow, recounting it in perfect, humiliating detail.
Pulling your jacket tighter around yourself, your fingers fumble with the zipper before giving up and just clutching the edges closed. You refuse to look at Jim, but he’s looking right at you. The weight of his attention, unblinking, follows the movement you make towards the passenger door.
And your father hadn’t even been there, the thought hits sideways and knocks the wind out of you harder than the cold. You’d scanned the stands twice, then, three times. Pretended you weren’t looking, that it didn’t matter. Told yourself he was probably stuck at work again, probably forgot, had a reason.
You’d smiled through the routine anyway, stretched your lips wide for the crowd, for the camera, for whoever might be watching. Because he sure wasn’t. Now, you’re standing outside of a Jeep that smells like old books and cigarettes, alone with a man you barely know, after your best friend just turned you into a punchline, after finding out said man has a girlfriend.
Your throat tightens as you swallow the thoughts down. For a split second, you see yourself reflected faintly in the Jeep’s side mirror, wind-tossed hair, cheeks flushed too red, mouth pressed thin like you’re holding something back. You blink again, harder, the moisture at your lashline doesn’t fall, but it threatens to. It sits there, hot and humiliating.
Your hand hovers on the passenger handle for half a second too long before you open it, dreading the knowledge that once you open that door, it’ll just be the two of you. Not your friend to deflect or distract.
Jim takes a deep breath as he watches you, his heart his heart aching at the way the evening has overwhelmed you. You’re standing there with your arms clutched in your elbows, your jacket, baggy and barely enough to warm you up from the chill. The contrast from earlier this evening feels almost entirely his fault. He said everything wrong, the worst moments, and he curses at himself for being so fucking awkward.
He exhales sharply through his nose and shifts to beckon you closer with his hand, closing the small distance between you without touching, just enough to make the interior feel warmer.
“Get in,” he says, softly this time. “Just… come on.”
You hesitate, teeth pressing into your lip, cheeks hot with frustration. Slowly, you ease yourself into the seat with a lifted knee, pleated skirt brushing against the edge of the center console. He shifts closer, his arm brushing lightly against the back of your seat, awkward but intentional, a small gesture. He doesn’t speak immediately, only watches the subtle tremor in your shoulders, the way your hands press against your thighs as if to hold yourself together.
“You know,” he says, voice hesitant, awkward in a way he’s trying to avoid being, “your friend said you were shy, but I didn’t think...”
His lips twitch, a half-smile forming, but he can’t even finish the joke when he sees the fresh, glistening tears in the corner of your eyes. You see how his head tilts, the teasing gone from his expression, replaced by a flicker of concern that hadn’t been there before.
Jim doesn’t speak at first, just watches you fumble slightly with the seatbelt, your hands shaking a fraction as you click it in place and adjust to the proximity. Fuck, talk to her, Jim, she’s crying.
Biting your lip, you slightly turn to avoid looking at him, suddenly aware of how hot your cheeks feel. You hadn’t meant for your posture to fold inward, hadn’t meant for the tight press of your hands against your thighs to make you so conscious. And then it hits, you realize the tears are streaking down your cheeks, darker than you expected, smudging faintly into the edge of your makeup.
You bite your lip that trembles faintly. A few tears remain stubborn in your eyes, threatening to fall as you shake your head. “I just… don’t wanna cry,” you whimper, voice almost cracking.
The overhead light dims until only the illumination of the street surrounds you both. His eyes soften in a way he hasn’t allowed anyone to see, the way they only ever soften when a sense of necessity demands it. He reaches forward carefully, sliding an arm around your shoulder so you have something to lean on.
You sink against him, tears from your cheek spilling into the neck of his puffer.
“I… I don’t…” your voice falters again, broken by a sob that rattles your chest. Your hands twist in your lap, knuckles whitening as you grip the strap of your bag. Every muscle in your body tightens instinctively, bracing against the vulnerability of the moment. “I don’t want to-”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupts, voice rougher, just enough to betray the tension coiled under his calm exterior. “I’ve got you.” His hand moves steadily, brushing strands of hair from your temple, thumb tracing the contour of your cheek. The motion is intimate but careful.
“It's okay. I’m right here,” Jim murmurs as his thumb traces the curve of your skin. “Shh,” he whispers easily, almost a croon. “You’re okay.”
Every word he utters is slow, comforting, each syllable tethered to his comfort, his presence. His arms tighten slightly enough to be firm without crushing you, letting you sink into him as you tremble.
His phone glows with a notification beneath you, and that pauses him for a moment, a barely perceptible exhale that tells you he’s just as aware of the weight of this moment as you are. It pulls his attention down whether he wants it to or not. Jim’s expression tightens, you can see it in the way his hollow cheeks clench, before he exhales slowly through his nose and lets the screen go dark again.
A flicker of thought about his girlfriend brushes across his mind, sharp, unwelcome, but he buries it instantly. She exists somewhere out there, not this fragile, trembling presence against him. His hand stills for a second too long as another message follows, then another. Yet, he doesn’t open any.
“No…” You watch as a name flashes across the screen once more, the familiar cadence of a ringtone hums low through the console before he silences it with a quick, practiced flick. “I can’t…”
You shift against him, another broken breath catching in your throat, and it pulls him back immediately. He knows you’re as regretful of this as he is, despite the choice he’s making to comfort you. Then, his hands come up and cup your face with the tenderness of holding something that’s shattered.
“Look at me,” Jim’s breath is warm against your face, the scent of mint and aftershave steadying you further into a maddening calm. You meet his heavy-lidded eyes with hesitation.
“You’re safe,” he whispers as your large eyes glisten, like he’s speaking a vulnerable spell into the air. “I promise. Just… breathe.”
You fold further into him, the tension finally giving way in uneven waves, shoulders trembling against his chest. His hand moves automatically along your back, firm, grounding, keeping you from curling in on yourself completely.
For a moment, he keeps you there, keeps you contained in the passenger seat. It should stay that way, he knows that. Jim’s eyes flick down again, not to the phone this time, but to the way you’re half-slipped sideways in the seat, cramped against the console. It’s clear, your balance is off, your breathing is uneven. It’s impractical, nearly awkward. Clearly, there’s too much space between you.
He adjusts his grip, like he’s about to reposition you, just to settle you properly, nothing more. Then, he stops, his fingers tighten slightly at your side, not pulling you closer, not yet. You look up at him, not even knowing what could be racing through his mind.
Jim could leave you where you are, pat your back, and drive you home, like any normal person. Another shallow breath breaks out of you, a quiet, helpless sound that presses straight into his chest, and that hesitation fractures.
“Hold on,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. The movement that follows is too controlled to be entirely instinctive. He shifts his weight, one arm bracing around your spine, the other guiding you carefully, lifting you by the back of your thigh just enough to ease you out of the cramped angle of the seat.
Jim settles you against his lap so you’re supported, your weight no longer pitched awkwardly against the console. His hand comes back to your back immediately, firm again, like he needs to reestablish the boundary he just blurred. He holds you as your gentle tears slide down your face, feeling the shudder of your hiccups against his shoulder as his cheek rests against your crown.
“Easy,” he whispers deeply with a measured inhale, like he’s forcing the movement back into something justifiable. Your head tucks under his chin, nuzzling against his Adam’s apple, and he lets it happen. His words are slightly rougher now,“You’re alright. Breathe.”
He looks down at you once more, his thick hand tilting your face up to meet him by the curve of your jawline. You hiccup again, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath you, catching each uneven breath. He can see how your mascara has streaked, dark trails marking the curve of your cheek and dripping down your neck where his wrist lies against. It’s pitiful and raw, you both are aware.
Jim’s brows furrow with ruth as he holds you closer, “I know, baby. Oh, I know.” He murmurs, nearly tasting your vulnerability. The energy you emit is vulnerable, yes, but charged. His hand brushes away hair from your forehead, lingering longer than necessary, fingertips coming down to map the curve of your jaw without meaning to.
His thumb gently smears the rivulets of dark eye makeup, pressing into your cheekbone like he’s considering something he shouldn’t. He swallows, more aware now of the thrum in his chest. Slowly, his head dips toward you, brushing his lips against your forehead.
You freeze, and he feels the way your tear-clinging lashes abruptly open against his neck. You should pull away, you know that. Instead, you press closer to him instinctively, trying to bury yourself against the solid line of his chest, as if proximity alone can mend the ache curling through your ribs. His arms tighten imperceptibly, not in a hurry; his fingers graze your sides, lingering at your waist.
“I don’t… I don’t know what to say,” you manage, small and uneven. As your lips part to weakly protest against his throat, his phone lights again beneath you. This time, he doesn’t even look at it, too focused on the way your legs have tucked against him so perfectly.
You desperately try not to glance back, but the light is too bright. It’s bleeding through your peripheral vision, burning into the backs of your eyelids even when you squeeze them shut. You don’t want to imagine the name on the screen, you still do. Your stomach twists, sharp and sudden, cutting through the fragile calm you were nearly starting to build.
“You don’t have to talk,” Jim says after you sink back into his arms, his voice lower now. “But if you want to, I’ll listen. I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in your chest loosens at that, but you don’t know what to do with it.
You squeeze your eyes tighter, willing yourself not to care about the way he’s treating you. But all it does is make you more aware of how close this is, how wrong it probably is, and how much you don’t want it to stop anyway. You’re supposed to be stronger than this, supposed to be angry, distant, anything but this soft, shaking version of yourself folded into Jim’s arms. When did that change? You don’t know.
Jim lets out a deep exhale, lingering just long enough to reveal he understands, or at least wants to. “It’s alright,” he murmurs against your soft skin, the heat of his lips brushing the dampness beneath your eye.
“Everything’s gonna be fine.” His voice vibrates where his chest meets yours, a low, steady hum that does something strange to the air.
You feel his hand tilting up your face once again as you pitifully huff, his thumb and forefinger gently taking hold of your mandible. He’s in too deep, he knows that. But the way you cling to him like he’s everything that matters is something he’s already addicted to.
He kisses your cheek. A soft, intentional press against your damp skin. Unhurried enough that, for a second, feels more of his own volition. The kiss absorbs strangely into your skin, from your cheek down into the tight, anxious knot of your stomach. He can taste the salt of your own tears now, his tongue rubbing the seam of his lips from the inside of his mouth.
An awareness creeps in now. Not yours, his, it shows in the smallest shift. You listen to how his breath catches at the thought of having kissed your cheek on purpose, more comforting to him than you. A small noise escapes his throat, a deep breath, as your nose gently rubs against his throat. His hand stills where it rests at your neck, thumb pressed lightly into your skin.
Jim isn’t pulling away, but he’s not leaning into you anymore, either. Your hands, still knotted tightly in the fabric of your skirt, loosen without you thinking about it, sliding upward until they find the curve of his shoulder. You know you need something solid to hold onto, something that won’t move if you fall apart again.
You feel your body shudder as he adjusts his grip. It’s like he’s searching for an excuse to deepen himself in something forbidden, something tempting. His thumb begins tracing slow circles at the base of your neck, as if he can press the panic out of you through repetition alone.
“Breathe,” he coaches gently, his inhales and exhales audible for you to mimic. “Take a deep breath…”
For a moment, you try to follow the steady pace. The rhythm of his breathing, in, out, and in again. Your lungs stutter for a while, catching in your throat before they begin to fall into something that resembles the pattern he’s set. His heartbeat drums beneath you, the ghost of his kiss still lingering against your skin.
You’re not sure if you want to sink into his arms or withdraw, if the latter is even possible. The way he holds you without rushing, like nothing outside this car matters enough to interrupt this moment, makes choosing too easy.
When your sobs finally taper into small hiccups, he lowers his cheek to the top of your head. It’s comfortable, the way your own face is pressed into his skin. You let him hold you. You let yourself believe, for just a while, that this small space is enough to keep everything, and everyone else, out.
“That’s it,” he says softly, though you can feel his chest vibrate with something rougher underneath. “There we go…”
Your arms wrap around his neck without permission, holding on tighter than either of you can prepare for. You hardly care how it looks, how it might come across. Jim doesn’t react harshly, doesn’t correct you. He just lets you stay there, with him.
His iPhone vibrates again, the chime sounds more insistent, sharper. This time, he reaches for it. For a moment, you’re afraid he’s going to check it and move you back into the passenger seat. Jim knows he should. Instead, he flips it face down, sliding it on the empty seat to cut off the bluelight entirely. All while his other hand never leaves you.
Jim tilts his head back slightly, eyes glazing up toward the ceiling. You can feel it, the tension simmering just beneath the surface of his skin. So, you press your face deeper into his shoulder, letting your uncried tears soak into the nylon. He hears your voice come out into his neck, whimpering something that causes a dull ache in his heart.
He begins rocking you slowly, easing the murmur from your throat in an instinct he knows too well. It’s calming, reminding you of something distant and nocturnal, something softer, a memory you cling to anyway.
Your lips part again, “I don’t wanna go home,” you mumble finally. Your voice is muffled against him, coming out more desperate than you mean it to.
“You don’t have to,” he answers gently, simply. “We don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t want to.” His steadiness, his lack of pressure, and how he isn’t asking for something in return… It breaks something in you, making your breath hitch sharply, suddenly, and before you can stop it, you’re crying all over again.
You’ve given up on trying to hold back your tears, because you know you don’t have to. Jim’s hand moves to the back of your head firmly, guiding you back into him. “I’m such a mess,” you whimper, your voice uneven and thick with sorrow. “This is so stupid…”
“You’re not a mess,” he whispers, shaking his head before pressing a restrained kiss to your forehead.
“Being a teenager is hard, I know it is…” Your eyes shut as you listen. The way he’s speaking to you so softly makes you want to believe him, but you aren’t sure if you can.
Jim’s arms tighten around you once more. You aren’t trapped, he’s holding you in place like he’s afraid you’ll want to pull away. After a moment of shared breathing, his hand slows on your lower back, his attention shifting slightly as he glances past the passenger window, scanning the row of dark houses like he’s remembering, distantly, that the rest of the world still exists.
He keeps you tucked against him, his large hand scooping the underside of your knees and pulling you more into his lap. Slowly, he lifts his opposite palm and adjusts the gearshift, and for the next few moments, you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires as he backs into the suburban road. The engine hums, tires shifting over the asphalt. Jim looks down at your near-comforted position, a certain craving diminishing his ability to stay quiet.
“You think it’s a lot right now,” he murmurs, easing the wheel as loose rocks crunch beneath the four wheels. “It is, it is…” A soft hiccup escapes your throat, the small jolt making his mouth curve into sympathy. “It… feels bigger, when you’re in it like this.” He glances at the road, thumb still moving slow against your back.
“I remember it being like that at your age… wouldn’t have known what to do with any of it either." His matured reassurance loosens something within you, only sufficient for a few choked admissions.
“Everything’s so stupid…” Jim’s hand rests against your damp skin, thumb running along the soft cheek as he visualizes your pitiful expression. “My dad didn’t even show up… And my friend… she just-” Your throat closes, the rest of the words coming out choked as the Jeep inches forward onto the dull road
“I… I barely even know you… and now…” Your nails dig into the fabric of his jacket, clenching with a sorrowing need. Your chests press against each other now, fitting into each other, the heat emitting from you both becoming impossible to ignore.
Steadily, his fingers rake through your hair, tender in a way, something so unconditional that you have to realize how fulfilling it is.
His silence reveals a bittersweet truth: that he’s listening to you, and that makes the small space of the Jeep seem to condense. Every movement now feels amplified, the brushing of his arm against yours igniting something you’re afraid you won’t be able to extinguish. Jim’s hand slides lightly down your back, as if his fingerprints are aware of the fire they stoke while coaxing your every confession.
“But-” You draw in a sharp breath, feeling it catch in the unmistakable sound of Jim’s concentration as you let out a small huff, hot enough that he can feel it through the fabric of his outerwear. “Now, I don’t know…” A small shiver runs through you at the sensation of his throat swallowing against your ear, the deep gulp preparing itself for executing the right words.
The exhale that escapes from his lips is slow, accepting of how your bodies radiate intimately within the space of the dark cockpit.
“You’re safe with me,” he nods gently. “I’m not lettin’ anythin’ get to you,” his voice drops, carrying the substance of reassurance and authority. “I promise.”
The vehicle rolls slow enough that it nearly feels like you aren’t moving at all, the soothing feeling of peace seeping into your body like a tranquilizer. Each time you blink, you see the same house, just before the numbers change along with the style of brick. Jim feels it, your lashes brushing against his throat. But, he focuses on the road stretching out ahead, headlights slicing a bright path into the asphalt.
Your lungs begin relaxing in the confines of your chest, breaths even against him as they soften into something quiet and heavy. Jim notices how you aren’t pulling away, too exhausted to try. Your weight settles more into him, and beneath his puffer, you can feel the steady pulse of his heart. Right now, the rhythmicity makes it easier for your tremors to stabilize.
There’s a brief hesitation in him, a twitch of his hand that nearly threatens to interrupt the peaceful moment. He shifts slightly, arm raising. He doesn’t want to move you, of course not. His palm presses against your back, rubbing the fabric of your cheer uniform with a soothing precision. The movements of his gentle fingertips cause your eyes to flutter shut.
“Get some rest, sweetheart,” his voice is soft and deep. It makes you think of an easier time, some halcyon more suitable for pet names.
You know it isn’t a suggestion, it’s more like he’s unveiling an instinct. The Jeep moves forward, and you can hardly interpret the mixture of circumstantial emotions that reveal themselves with the motion. The world outside remains distant, irrelevant, but it’s still there, even as he drives slowly, not turning the radio back on.
Jim’s gaze lowers to you as he approaches a stop sign, the wheels of the vehicle easing as your body moves against his own. It’s a strange feeling. One that rushes to his cheeks one moment, then has him cradling an arm around you the next. Slowly, he leans in, his lips settling against the top of your head in something tender, something you can hardly call a goodnight kiss.
He could move you back into the passenger seat at that, at the expense of waking you before you resume your slumbering peace. But he doesn’t want to disturb this moment, not when this can’t be the last time he has you in his arms.
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | chris relentlessly holds you hostage when his guns don’t arrive at the exchange-gone-wrong, using his physical dominance and revolver to assert control, he shows you exactly how he plans to keep you fearfully tethered to him
𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 18k +
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 | fem pov, age-gap (10+ yrs), less porn and more plot, held hostage, intense manhandling, chaotic brutality, mocking, gunplay: held at gunpoint, gun-in-mouth, gun-in-pussy, filthy/dirty talk, ass biting, ass eating, ass play, ass abuse, spanking, scarring, bruising, oversensitivity, pussy eating, deepthroating, thorough pounding, gagging, crying, creampie (duh)
𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | i’ve been staring at this for days i’m so ready to write for someone else but i love chrissy sm #LLCO’D
(!) pretty much proofread...
The men surrounding you keep their voices raised along with their bravado, despite the echoing station you share in a deserted Bay State warehouse. Fluorescent tubes hum over the lot of you, their light a sickly yellow-orange that stutters every few seconds before returning to normal. Dramatic shadows are cast on the men’s faces, appearing harsher by choice, more intimidating.
You inhale a bit longer than necessary, tasting the industrial air. Oil and dust are prominent in its undertones, but something metallic clings to your sinuses. As the men’s discussion grows more constant, there’s an increasing likelihood that something will go outrageously wrong tonight.
A man named Chris O’Doyle stands beside you casually as if he’s waiting for a late bus in the rain. A 38-year-old member of the IRA is all the description you’ve received, so you let your eyes linger on him for a better, more personal sketch.
He stands with a loose posture, relaxed shoulders, and masculine hands hanging easily at his sides. There's almost a sense of inconvenience this deal has wrought upon him, his burly brows never relaxing with his stance. Pale eyes rest behind half-lidded skin. Beneath his mustache, a mouth curves in a faint, unimpressed line. The harsh lighting overhead creates vivid planes across his cheekbones and mid-cheek lines.
Despite the calm, there’s nothing soft about him. He’s not fidgeting, nor blinking more than necessary. His gaze drifts lazily from one cluster of men to another, cataloging groups of men and a single woman, you. When you realize he’s glancing at you, your head turns, not exactly wanting to be a suspect of the Irishman. It’s a little too late for that, though.
He has an understanding of how a woman can be deemed threatening; he’s seen female colleagues kill men with their aim and bare hands. But he’s not thinking about much other than the fact he hasn’t looked at any woman with such… deliberacy for quite some while.
You’re young, styled, and sexy. Not at all off from his type, except you’re caught up in a deal with these men, and look like you know what you’re doing. Deciphering your own posture and appearance, he’s not about to lose his chance of talking with you to some trigger-happy bonehead.
Chris leans just an inch closer, his shoulder nudging yours enough that you feel it, and your posture tilts momentarily as you huff. His gaze lingers on your plump lips longer than it should, sharp blue eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing the way your nose scrunched in a scowl just now, how your throat swallows down a bitey response.
“Y’know,” he murmurs with a low voice, intended only for you, “y’shouldn’t be standin’ here lookin’ like that. It makes it hard to focus on anythin’ else.” He allows his words to linger, his breath warm against your skin, tone laced with a familiar heat you already crave.
“Yeah?” you challenge softly, a smirk playing on your lips. “Y’should see what’s underneath.” You’re only teasing, mimicking his dialect, but he takes it as a flirty invitation. His thumb brazenly traces the seam of your jacket, a line of heat following its path.
“Don’t tempt me now,” he chuckles, a hint of warning in his tone as you casually shrug off his heavy hand with a scoff. You stop him for a reason other than the fact that being felt up isn’t a go-to in a situation like this, but because he’d traced the engraved GmbH on the side of your firearm.
Chris whistles, moving closer to you; you feel the heat of him through your jacket. “Almost didn't notice you were back here,” he says, voice easy, almost distracted as he focuses a bit more on your pocketless jeans, or rather, the bottom beneath them.
You remain annoyed, not turning as the heel of your boot stomps hard on the toe of his shoe. He exhales sharply through his teeth, a muted grunt swallowed at the same moment a crate crashes somewhere to your left, arsenal of different manufacturers toppling from their straw cushioning. You'd snort at the timing if it weren’t such a mess.
Men surge toward the fallen container, shouting to each other now. The translator wedges himself between two broad-shouldered men, hands raised, words spilling too fast as sweat gathers along his upper lip and darkens the collar of his shirt. Behind you, Chris doesn’t move. The throb in his toe is sharp, but insignificant compared to the blow he's received.
What matters is the crate, what matters is what isn’t there. No Colts. No AR-15 variants. And none of the semi-automatic rifles he was promised would clear Boston docks without question.
While the others shove and shout at each other, the deal unraveling in jagged pieces, he stays quiet. His attention returns to you, not because you're safer or need protecting, but because you're especially useful now. You shift your weight, intending to step away from the surge of male bodies angling toward the mismatched merchandise, but he moves before you do. Taking a step that places him directly in your path. You try again, pivoting toward the open space near the far wall. He mirrors you. The front of his button-clad chest is nearly brushing yours now. He’s simply not allowing you through.
“You’re in my way,” you snap under your breath, irritation sharp and immediate. “Move.” You glance down pointedly at where your foot nudges his boot. His gaze drops briefly to the small contact, then lifts back to your face with obvious amusement.
“Stay fuckin’ put.” The words land on your face, feeling more like a hand on your shoulder. He doesn’t grab you; he simply occupies the space between you and the heap of bodies on the other side.
“You're in for somethin' better than guns, girl.”
Skeptically, you turn off your own volition, wanting, now, to see how fast a Saturday Night Special corrodes into violence. Across the warehouse, groups shout to each other. Russian, Arabic, Romanian, all blending into a harsh chorus of spit-heavy vowels. The men are already unruly: elbows flying, voices doubling into shouts, a fist threatening to catch someone’s jaw.
Chris watches them too, but with a different focus. His eyes track things you don’t notice, the way a hand travels toward a belt or how shoulders tilt when someone’s about to draw their weapon. He might have more experience with well-executed deals, but he sure as hell knows when one’s about to go wrong.
“You carryin’?” he asks quietly, letting his fingers trace the edge of your jacket again, slower this time. His fingertips skim along the seam, hovering near where the weight of the weapon rests. A small, but noticeable, shiver runs through you as his finger traces up the leather. You pretend the reaction is from the cold, even as your pulse stutters against the contact of his hand brushing your side.
His fingers trace upward along the curve of your ribs, teasing the edge of the disassembly lever without lifting it from its concealment. The metal beneath the cloth is warm but firm, and for a fraction of a second, you feel like he’s reading it as though it were a manual.
Then he speaks again, quieter, his lips close to your ear. “Nice piece you got there. Heckler & Koch VP70,” he murmurs. Your eyes narrow as his hand lingers in your jacket, not brazenly touching, but not restricting his fingers, either.
Tongue poking his cheek, he lets his gaze wander a bit more down your frame. Slim-fitted turtleneck, high-waisted bootcut jeans, and a full-grain leather belt to join the pieces together. He looks back up at the Volkspistole briefly, noting the fact that you’ve not moved away.
“Little thing, shoots smooth as silk… betcha didn’t know it had adjustable backstraps.” The words are almost a caress, spoken without a tremor, calm enough to make you trust him even as he asserts control. His eyes are heavier-lidded now, his lashes nearly reaching his cheeks. “Fits you perfect.”
“So what?” Your jaw tightens, unwilling to meet his gaze, unwilling to give him more than he’s already taking. The warmth inside your chest is already intense; now you’re sure of the cologne he’s wearing. When he’s this close, your nose picks up the spicy freshness and woody undertone of Brut 33.
Chris moves with the acceptance of a new exchange, one that doesn’t involve him coming back home with artillery. His fingers slide upward along your side, grazing the curve of your ribs through your jacket, palms hot with intention you aren’t sure of.
“So,” he continues, voice dropping softer, “gonna pull it out for me, or do I gotta find it myself?” His grip slides to your hip and tightens by a fraction, not enough to draw a reaction from anyone watching, but enough to pull you back that last, decisive inch.
The noise of the warehouse dulls. Your gaze lifts to his, drawn in despite yourself and your surroundings. The lights above fracture across his face, painting cheekbones and jaw in alternating bands of harsh glow and deep chiaroscuro. Beginning to register details you shouldn’t, you see how his pupils constrict slightly, focusing on you. The slow tilt at the corner of his lips, subtle but knowing, as if he’s entertained by something unspoken between you.
“How about you let me have a look, eh?” His grin widens once more as your brows furrow. Chris laughs under his breath at how cautious you are of him, “Just a quick one. I’ll show you somethin’.” His hand presses along the side of the frame, guiding without touching the trigger.
A small breath emits from your nostrils; you don’t want to budge just yet. “Why?”
Chris takes note of how your own little expressions come through when being coaxed into submission. “There’s a little part in there you might not’ve seen yet… makes the whole thing run smoother.” His words settle over you like a slow tide, drawing your focus from the noise behind you to the subtle invitation he offers.
“Just… thought you’d like to know.” His authority radiates onto you, wrapped in calm, absolute control, yet unthreatening.
“Fine.”
Carefully, you slide the VP9 from its pocket, fingers brushing against the cool gunmetal as you hand it to him. He accepts it gently, cradling it in one hand while his other remains warm at your hip, never loosening, never leaving you uncertain. His gaze doesn’t leave yours as he lifts it, tilting it slightly, angling it to catch the light so you can see the mechanism, the subtle adjustment he’d mentioned.
You search his breath for the strong scent of whiskey, carelessness, for some sign that this recklessness is born of hard liquor. There's none. What you smell instead is the strength of tobacco lingering in the fabric of his coat, and you now know what's driving him is sharper than alcohol; it's the same thing that runs through you. Adrenaline pumps like a catalyst for bad decisions.
“See?” he murmurs, thumb tracing a small lever, showing you the part you’d never noticed. “Little things like this… make all the difference.” Slowly, he flips the grip for you to take hold, without even checking if his knuckle is hanging the trigger.
You feel yourself lean into him, just enough, drawn not just by the closeness. The way he makes you trust him without asking, the way he makes giving over the weapon feel voluntary, even inevitable. Behind you, the warehouse still hums tensely, but here, in this narrowing, everything slows down.
Then, suddenly, a shot cracks through the warehouse, echoing with a dirty ricochet.
The abrupt ugliness of it jerks both your and Chris’s head towards the cicious scene as the smell of burnt gunpowder slams into the air. A man across from you jerks backward, eyes wide in disbelief, before his body follows. The spray of artery blood that pulses from his neck is disgustingly red as he collapses against a stack of crates.
Your body moves before your thoughts can assemble. You don’t know where the shot came from, where your partner is in all of this, or if there’ll be another casualty, but you’re getting the fuck out. But Chris is right there, locking his eyes on your quick-moving form as you begin to ease yourself from his hold. He’s not gonna let you get away, not after this.
A sharp inhale tears into your ribs as you lithely twist your body, wrenching your shoulder forward, slipping one arm free from the promise of him. Your heel catches on the concrete as you pivot, instinct screaming at you to get distance, to get air, to get away from the press of his heat and the barrage snapping the air apart. But you don’t make it two steps.
Chris moves faster, faster than your panic, than your feet. His hand snaps around your arm and yanks you back against him in one smooth, brutal motion. Your spine slams into his chest, the impact knocking what little breath you’d gathered clean out of you. His arm bands around your middle, even tighter now, fingers splaying wide across your waist as if to measure, to own the space it occupies.
He begins dragging you toward the nearest scaffolding, a frame of steel beams and grated platforms that rises along the far wall. Each step he takes is fast, briefly measured; his boots scrape heavily against the floor, debris crunching underfoot. Fusillade crackles loudly behind you, but he keeps you tucked close, your body practically fused to his.
Your shirt rides up as he drags you, the fabric bunching around your ribs. The cool air kisses your bare midriff, and a small hiss emits from your teeth as it stings your fevered skin. The clang of bullets echoes off the concrete, sparks from ricochets glinting enough to shine in the ocean of his iris. Your head snaps the opposite way as you struggle, writhing in his grip.
“You fucking brute,” you grunt, twisting hard enough that your muscles burn. Your hair becomes a loose mess as you thrash, elbows driving backward, but his forearm snakes up and traps them, pinning your arms against your sides.
Chris’s deep laugh cuts through the noise, low and sharp, a bark that carries more easily than your protest. It draws little attention to you both as you’re hidden, few heads turning towards the noise, few mouths questioning where the “other two” went. The scaffolding provides partial cover: shadows pool in the crossbeams, the vertical supports splitting incoming fire. Bullets ping against metal and concrete around you, but none come close enough to penetrate skin.
“Oh,” he says, voice thick with that Irish lilt, vowels rolling lazy and amused despite the war unfolding within the warehouse. His mouth hovers near your ear, and you feel the brush of his breath against your skin. “You haven’t seen a goddamn thing, girl.”
He adjusts your angle subtly, using the structure before you like a cage, forcing the gunfire to arc past rather than toward you. His forearm presses tighter against your bare stomach as he pulls you behind one of the support pillars, letting you sink slightly into the shadow it casts. Your lungs heave against his chest, the warmth and weight of him anchoring you even as bloodrush spikes through your veins.
There’s nothing protective about it; he doesn’t angle you away from the bullets beginning to fire, doesn’t lower his stance to shield you. He simply locks you against him, his body a wall at your back, unyielding. Once he’s behind a steel beam that’s wide enough, he cages you with his arm and shoots towards the chaos, causing one of the broad-shouldered men to have his shoulder thrown back.
“Fuck!” you jump as a stray bullet shoots the crate beside you, splinters of wood bursting against your neck. He clenches you tight as his opponent falls back into the broken crate from earlier. Not dead, well, you can’t tell.
“Don’t be movin’ so goddamn much!” Chris’s hold flinches before tightening enough to bruise your skin, and you wince as he begins dragging you roughly toward a different edge of chaos. Through the gaps of the scaffolding and beams, only a few men are staggered by the sight of you being held hostage by the audacious Provy.
“Then don’t-” you begin, looking up at him. There’s no reasonable outcome that results in your freedom; you’ll have to come to terms with the fact sooner or later.
His thumb rubs against your cheek before he sternly squeezes them together. Leaning in too closely, you feel the bristle of thick hair above where his lips hotly speak. “Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, and walk, yeah? Don’t wanna have to cancel our date.”
Despite his unruly behavior, you keep up your pace in your thick-platformed combat boots. It’s one thing to wrench free from a captor’s grasp while able; it’s another to run foolishly into a crowd of stupid men, dodging bullets in a steel box that ricochets.
Without looking, you already know Chris’s content with how you’re not slacking behind. “Fast learner. Good, you’re a smart girl, eh?” He shifts his stance slightly, yanking you up with him, repositioning without ever loosening his hold.
Another rounding shot rings out. Someone shouts orders that their translator can hardly keep up with before yelling. Your pulse is a violent thing in your throat, but behind you, his breathing remains steady, almost bored with how rambunctious the surroundings are.
Arriving at a corner behind stacked crates, there’s a dead man lying pallid on the floor that he doesn’t seem to notice, or care about. You curl your back towards Chris as bullets slam into the wall behind you, unforgivingly loud. Burying your face closer towards his Adam's apple, you’re unable to see the wide grin he reveals towards the man across the warehouse, whom he’s shot dead.
“Ever had a man kill for you, love?” He asks, slightly hoarse from the thrill. Chris glances at you as you flinch, your chest hitting his.
“A madman,” you add defiantly, peeking up from beneath his cover now. His nostrils flare above his well-groomed stache as he smiles, leaning in and pressing a hard kiss to your cheek as you try to pull away.
“Fuck, everythin’ you say is hot, girl.” He looks like he could eat you alive, filthy things running through his mind from this ordeal, causing him to lose his better judgment.
A body slams into the concrete behind him, making you flinch as your legs come up, aching now from their previously useless exertion. He doesn’t falter at that abrupt motion, hoisting you midair for a few moments before your feet drop heavily back on the dusty floor. Your head turns as someone shouts about the cops on their way.
Chris feels your footsteps stagger as your hair falls in front of your eyes, obscuring your vision as your steps become sloppy. His palm carelessly swipes up your forehead, not so much thinking about how you appear to anyone at the moment.
Your chest feels as if it’s going to burst from so many close-calls; the kiss on your cheek still burns your young flesh. The worst part is you don’t even know what he wants, not with the way he’s kissing you and making plans for keeping you for later, not with how his fingers clench your waist like he’s controlling your recoil.
“Keep on, girl,” he commands briskly, as if you’re slowing cattle. “We’re near through this mess.” You swear his jaw hinges with less concern than it should. Mind racing, you hastily begin staggering your pace, letting out weak whines with every harsh step. But the moment you attempt to feign hurt, Chris slows with you, his grip tightening as he feels your pace decrease.
You’re out in the open, he’s holding you publicly now as bullets bloom into the walls close by. He leans in close, breath hot against your ear. "Don't try it," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "You're not gettin’ away from me that easily."
Chris is still staring down at you when your focus shifts to something behind him. No, someone behind him. You meet eyes with a colleague and feel a twinge of classic hope.
Your inexperienced partner scurries forward through the noise, boots skidding slightly on the oil-slick concrete as he raises his Barracuda with both hands. His young face is flushed, jaw clenching tight enough that a thin vein stands out along his temple. He swears under his breath, the word bitten off as he takes in the way you’re pinned against your captor.
Chris doesn’t look back at him, stache hairs shifting gently as he exhales. You feel his fingers squeeze tightly now, arm locked around your waist as he leans in. His breath distracts you, hot and heavy, before you feel a cool press to your bare stomach; his gun in the opposite palm. His knee comes between your denim thighs to rest there snugly, watching your lips part in an unconscious noise.
Slowly, he turns you on his heel, letting you lean back against him with a slow rub against your crotch, his thigh gently coming up as if offering a space to sit. Unlike your partner, he doesn’t fumble with his grip or stance. Doesn’t even need to use both hands; his forearm is thick with muscle. The dark revolver sits in his gripping palm as it belongs there, like it’s an extension of bone.
A bullet ricochets off a steel beam above, sending a shower of sparks that flare and die midair above the three of you. Two men sprint past, one clutching his side, blood slick and dark between his fingers. Chris doesn’t turn his FBI Model toward them, doesn’t sweep the room for the source of the last shot. He lifts it to you.
The thick, cold barrel slides under your chin with a slow pressure, metal grazing your skin before settling into place. It feels almost careful, intimate. A controlled touch that coaxes your head upward until your throat stretches exposed. He nearly smiles as your head tilts back against his throat, your warmth steady against his pulse. Your partner freezes.
Chris finally shifts his gaze past your delicious expression, blue eyes steady, almost amused. “Gonna do something stupid, eh boy?” he asks, his voice low and conversational, that Irish cadence rolling thick and unbothered through the noise, sounding like he’s commenting on the weather.
Your partner’s grip tightens on his own weapon. His eyes flick between your face and the revolver pressing into your skin. You’ve never let yourself get this lost before, and surely enough, he’s never seen you so vulnerable. Shaking your head, you let him know there’s nothing he can do. He swallows, then slowly, carefully, lowers his gun.
“Yeah,” Chris murmurs, not looking away from the top of your head now. “Didn’t think so.” You feel his leg lift slightly, not enough to be seen as much as it is to be felt before he retracts it from your loins.
His hold on your waist tightens now, fingers digging in just enough to drag you harder against him. The barrel presses more firmly beneath your chin, nudging until your head tips back and your eyes are forced to meet his. Up close, the fluorescent light carves him into sharpness, lashes casting faint shadows against skin. He’s grinning, the kind that stays close to the teeth.
“Damn, girl,” he breathes, voice dropping deeper, rougher at the edges. “You smell fuckin’ good.” His breath brushes your cheek once more, warm and close, laced with tobacco.
You feel him press another hard kiss to your skin, feeling the way his teeth just barely nip your jaw. There’s still a great deal of rowdy men shooting at each other from the other side of the scaffolding. But you’re safe, for now. Chris’s nose presses against your cheekbone before dragging it towards your cheekbone to whisper in your ear.
"Wearin’ it for somebody?" he asks, voice low and rough, that Irish brogue sending a shiver down your spine despite the fear coiling in your gut. "Got a man waitin' for you at home, worryin' about his pretty little wife gettin' caught inna crossfire?"
Your partner stands a few feet away, uncertain and stiff, eyes darting over the spectacle. The chaos in the warehouse has yet to dull, but the handful of men surrounding you form into a wary perimeter, watching with narrowed eyes. Chris still hasn’t focused on them, still leaned into your ear like he’s sharing a secret.
"Or maybe," he muses, tilting his head to the side, jaw hingeing with a dangerous edge, "maybe you're the type of foxy who likes to play fast and loose, eh?” Your eyes narrow as he finishes. “Keeps her options open for real men.” He’s far too close to notice how your bottom lip is swollen from bites of anticipation, how you’re looking down at the mousy brown hair of his knuckles as he grips his wooden laminate.
“Fuck you,” you grit. Your breath is a bit steadier, and irritates him more. “You call this being a real man? Cornering me in a fuckin’ warzone?” You watch how his eyes narrow at your defiant words, but he doesn't retaliate with anger or violence. Instead, a smile spreads across his face.
“Ah ah ah, none of that now,” he chides softly, tutting the gun gently against your lips. He watches your plump skin bounce the heavy steel against them, imagining something else against your mouth before continuing. "No need to get so... riled up. We're just havin' a friendly little chat, ain't we?"
Chris presses the cold metal more firmly against your mouth, the bitter taste of Ballistol and steel a perverse counterpoint to your parted lips. His leg shifts, sliding between yours until his knee presses against the back of your thighs again, bracing you in place. The contact is firm, leaving no room to step away without his permission.
His arm around your waist doesn’t loosen; if anything, it pulls you closer, the line of his body aligning with yours in a way that feels indecent. He leans in, nose grazing slowly up the side of your neck. His mustache catches against your skin. You feel the way he inhales, deep and unhurried, as though he’s sampling something rare. The faint sweetness of Chanel No. 5 rises under the warehouse’s stink of oil and cordite, and he takes it in like it’s the last time he’ll get to.
Squeezing your eyes shut, your muscles tense, instincts screaming to shove him off, to drive your heel into his shin, to break the goddamn hold. The revolver remains at your throat, steady as a rock, and the few spectators around you are watching the scene unfold.
He adjusts his hold on you, lifting you up just slightly for your attention to focus on the men who’re slowly retreating from the Irishman. Your pulse hammers against the inside of your throat, each beat colliding with the mouth of the revolver.
“This your idea of negotiation?” you manage, pushing the words out carefully against the pressure under your chin. You keep your eyes locked on his, refusing to glance at the men across the warehouse, refusing to show them the torrent of emotions racing behind your stare.
“Ah now,” he murmurs, and the accent thickens, vowels rolling heavier. His fingers press into the soft curve of your side, thumb forcing you in place. “Don’t be makin’ this harder than it needs to be.” The revolver moves again, dragging slowly along the sensitive line beneath your jaw, tracing the curve with precision before settling back under your chin.
“Gonna shoot me?” you ask, softer now. You tilt your jaw forward the smallest fraction, pressing into the metal instead of shrinking from it again. The movement is enough that he feels the challenge; Chris knows you mean it. His eyes darken, not with uncertainty but with something that assesses. His knee pushes higher between your thighs, firm, claiming space rather than seeking pleasure.
“If I’ve to,” he replies quietly. He exhales slowly against your skin, a low hum vibrating through his chest and into your back. “But we both know I won’t be wastin’ these bullets.” His arm tightens around your waist the same moment a man across the room raises his weapon fully, both hands locked around the grip.
The translator stumbles backward, palms lifted, eyes wide and darting between you and Chris as if searching for mercy in either direction. Your eyes roll as your spine lengthens against him. Shouting falters, boots slow their pace, men begin repositioning themselves, recalculating angles and distance. You feel the pivot in the room, the subtle acknowledgment that you’re no longer an incidental attraction. You’re his leverage.
With the ability to lift your hands slightly, your palms open, fingers spread in a gesture that reads as surrender to everyone watching. To Chris, it reads differently. He sucks his teeth as the gun slides up from your chin to beneath your ear, the more sensitive part of your skin. His thumb digs into your waist, a silent correction that tells you not to authorize a damn thing.
He keeps his grip on you firm as he looks up at a man holding up his weapon. “Drop it,” he calls to the far side, his voice cutting clean through the warehouse noise, steady and certain. He doesn’t need a raised pitch for the command to land solidly. A burst of quietness stretches across the warehouse floor. One of them hesitates, IMG still half-lifted, finger not quite committed to the trigger.
“Easy now,” Chris murmurs. His mouth is close enough that you feel the syllables of the words against your cheek. The tone is pitched for you, but it carries, low and even, meant for every man in the room to notice the absence of panic. “Wouldn’t want you tremblin’ and settin’ anyone off.”
A soft breath of defeat escapes your lips as you hear the sound of lowered weapons. Your heartbeat pounds, each thud a private betrayal to your toughness. Instinct pulses through your head, hot and immediate, urging you to twist free, to shove back, to create distance from the metal pressed to your throat.
His arm tightens in response to the smallest shift in your weight, forearm banding harder around your middle, pinning you flush against him. Your hands hover uselessly at your sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants. He wants you still, wants you conscious of every hard inch. Of the gun, and him. You force your breathing to slow, even as your lungs feel too small.
Chris shifts his gaze past you without moving his head. The boredom that lingered there earlier peels back, revealing something colder, more precise. The revolver remains steady in his hand, but you feel the subtle adjustments he makes, minute shifts of his wrist to keep the pressure consistent. Comfortable. For him.
“You’ve your guns,” he says, voice lilting, almost gentle. “I’ve mine.” No one looks to the translator; clarification isn’t needed, the meaning settles over the warehouse in its entirety. “And I’ve somethin’ pretty you’d rather keep breathing.” You feel the metal tap against your throat, resulting in a gulp of apprehension.
A drop of sweat slides from your temple, tracing a slow path along your cheek and down towards your jaw. Every micro-movement of his hand registers against your skin. He adjusts the grip slightly, not to threaten, not even to emphasize, but to sit more naturally in his grip.
“You pansy, gutless-” You begin, before Chris’s eyes narrow as he places the barrel against your soft lips. The noise that comes out of your throat is unexpected, even to you, after these few minutes of being held at gunpoint. It's a hasty mix of burnt pride and shock, but he doesn’t shut you up.
“You’ll all take a step back,” he says lightly, like he’s ushering them onto a dance floor. His tone carries that thick lilt, unhurried. “Slow as Sunday mass.” The words drift out into the warehouse and settle. But the men across from you hold their positions, boots planted wide, knuckles white around their weapons.
Red and blue light begin to flash faintly through the high windows, staining the dust in restless color. One of them glances sideways at another, as if hoping someone else will decide to create a way first. The chrome against your mouth presses harder, and you let out a hiss, as if the gun is red-hot. You swallow carefully, feeling the shift of the top strap as your lips barely part against it.
“Go on,” he adds, almost gentle now. He doesn’t look down at you, your trembling form telling him all he needs.
He watches them, the men, as their eyes lock on his finger against the trigger. One man shifts first. It’s small, almost imperceptible. His heel slides backward with a faint scrape. Then another follows, boots dragging across concrete in reluctant answer. The sound multiplies, rubber and leather against the oil-streaked floor, until the line of them has edged back by inches.
Weapons lower by degrees, enough to signal understanding. Chris watches through half-lidded eyes, the faintest smirk ghosting across his mouth. He doesn't nod in approval; he looks as though he expects nothing less. You feel his heartbeat against your spine now. It’s steady. Each thud measured and unbothered, as if he’s standing in a pub tallying a bar tab instead of holding a firearm to your lips.
“Good lads,” he murmurs. The words are soft, almost indulgent.
Chris shifts his stance. It’s subtle at first, a slight pivot of his boot against the concrete. Then his hold tightens fractionally, and he draws you with him, angling your body to match his. The movement is slow, deliberate. He takes a single step backward, dragging you with him, the sole of your shoe scraping faintly as you adjust to keep balance.
The sound of police sirens approaches rapidly, screaming louder. Men look at each other with worry, until another shot rings and they begin their second riot near you. Someone crashes into a stack of metal shelving, toppling nearby with a shriek.
“Don’t you dare be faintin’ on me,” he says quietly. His lips brush the shell of your ear just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath along your skin and the scratch of his mustache. Your heart hammers wildly, breaths shallow and sharp in your lungs.
“Walk,” he mutters in your ear, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your hip as he guides you stumbling towards the exit.
“I am!” You snap, before he lodges the barrel into your mouth, cold metal prodding against the back of your throat. He hears you gag your jaw forced wider, stretched around the intruding steel. He doesn’t pay your discomfort any mind, listening for the direction the police plan to enter from.
The large sectional door of the warehouse slides open with a metallic groan, and the night slams onto you both. Cold air rushes across your face, slicing through the lingering heat of gunpowder and sweat. It smells like wet asphalt and distant exhaust. The shift is so abrupt your lungs hesitate before drawing it in.
You feel yourself grow dizzy from chill, reminded of the rush of gunfire that stopped on account of him, and only him. Your head tilts forward slightly as your breathing slows, breathy pants coming from your lips. His eyes dip to your mouth, to the pulse beating at the hollow of your throat where the barrel rests.
“Can’t believe I’m doin’ this,” he mutters, words carrying a crooked humor. “Guess I’m not coming home with cash after all.” He slides the barrel out of your mouth with a wet, sticky pop, the sudden absence leaving your jaw slack for a moment.
When he looks down, your eyes are glassy with tears, lashes clumped slightly as you blink them back. His gaze lingers on the way you swallow, on the faint tremor in your throat as you force down whatever metallic saliva had pooled on your tongue. Something in his expression tightens, not quite softening, but shifting into that watchful patience he carries when he’s deciding something.
Chris tilts his head slightly, dark brows drawing together in quiet curiosity. “Still lookin’ at me like that,” he murmurs, voice low and roughened by the night air. His thumb brushes under your chin almost absentmindedly, tilting your face up another inch so he can see you better. “Scared, aren’t you, girl?”
You are scared. Scared of how your skin registers everything at once: the cold kiss of metal at your throat, the heat of his body behind you, the acrid smoke beginning to curl through the air. Scared of what he wants to do with you, of what’ll happen if you’re caught by the police. But most of all, scared of how you didn’t want his gun to leave your mouth.
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice edged. “You’re fuckin’ scared. And you should be.” His hand comes up beneath your jaw before you can turn away, fingers firm as they tip your head back just enough to make you look at him.
Chris leans in again. His mouth brushes your cheek first, rough stubble scraping lightly against your skin as he presses a brief kiss there. He doesn’t pull away after one. Instead, his lips drag slowly along the curve of your cheekbone, the path deliberate as he follows it downward. The warmth of his breath ghosts across your skin as he moves. By the time he stops, his mouth is hovering just shy of yours. Close enough that you can feel the heat of it when he exhales.
“Least I can… control myself,” you seethe. But the way he’s looking at you, it’s too late for control. Your lips part infinitesimally, he notices, and just barely lets his bottom lip press against yours before stopping.
His nostrils flare as he smells a certain, heady scent. It’s not your perfume. This is something thicker, hotter, something you didn’t register as he gagged you earlier. His gaze drags slowly down your body, taking inventory. His eyes travel from your flushed face to your throat, past the rise and fall of your chest, and lower still until they settle between your legs.
The damp spot there has spread through the denim, dark and unmistakable
“Control, eh?” The laugh that follows is loud and unrestrained, a rough bark of amusement that carries no concern for how you feel about it, or for the distant sirens beginning to thread through the night air somewhere behind you.
Heated tears of embarrassment rush to your ducts. Your legs close together quickly as you stay leaning against him, trying not to seem like you’re as turned on as you are right now. But your face is hot, how can it not be? A time like this, and you’re actually aroused. Your throat tightens with humiliation as you swallow hard, but your reaction only seems to amuse him more.
Chris leans down into your space again. “Fucking interestin’,” he murmurs, eyes roaming your face again. “You like it, don’t you, girl?” His leer spreads across his mouth, edged with approval that borders on cruelty. “Mad,” he murmurs. “You’re actually mad.”
“No- I’m… I’m not-”
Flashing red and blue lights interrupt your train of thought. Tires screech to a halt beside the warehouse, unoccupied vehicles of buyers blocking the police from the open door you just exited. Chris looks over his shoulder, grip loosening just enough for you to feel your bruised skin distend. You could run right now; he’s had his leverage.
You feel it immediately. Space. Not much, but enough. Enough that if you twisted hard, shoved back, ran for the flashing lights and shouting voices outside, you might actually make it a few yards before anyone stopped you. But Chris is already three steps ahead. His gaze flicks back to you, slower this time, measuring.
The wild edge from a moment ago hasn’t disappeared, but it settles into something colder now. He had come here expecting cash, weapons, and another quiet exchange that kept the machinery of his cause turning. Instead, he’s got chaos, cops closing in, and a woman who went wet with a gun in her mouth. And judging by the way his mouth curves again, he’s decided that might be the better haul tonight.
“Fuck it,” he says, the decision landing with a blunt finality that cuts through the gunfire still ricocheting behind you.
The .38 Special vanishes as quickly as it appeared. One moment, the metal is cold against your skin, the next it’s swallowed beneath his jacket. You barely register the shift before his strong hand clamps around your arm, fingers biting into your muscle, and he’s pulling you forward. You stumble once, catching yourself before he can feel it.
“Keep up,” he orders, not slowing.
His heart beats solid and steady against you as he steers you toward a narrower, nondescript service entrance tucked along the side of the building, half-hidden behind a rusting metal doorframe. One of his hands slips away from your hip, disappearing into the pocket of his coat as he keeps walking.
“I am keeping up.” You yank your arm slightly, not to break free but to adjust your stride.
Chris exhales through his nose, a sound that might be a laugh or the closest thing he allows himself to one. It rumbles faintly through his chest where it presses against your back. At this point, you’re certain that nothing you say will earn you any real seriousness from him again.
Keys jingle softly a second later. He fishes them out without breaking stride, thumb sliding over the metal ring until he finds the right one by feel alone. His shoulder nudges the door as he brings it up, movements quick, the casual efficiency of someone used to entering places he technically shouldn’t.
All the while, he keeps you close enough that you can still feel the heat of him at your back, his other hand resting possessively at your side, making it very clear that wherever that door leads, you’re going through it first. You hear the harsh click of the lock first, then the slight give as the metal door swings inward.
Stale air rushes out to meet you, thick with dust and the sour smell of disuse, mixing with the smoke and adrenaline already clawing at the back of your throat. Moonlight spills across the interior through a cracked skylight overhead, thin silver beams cutting through the darkness and illuminating floating particles of dust that swirl lazily in the air.
Chris pauses just inside the doorway, broad shoulder still braced against the metal as he glances past you into the shadowed building. One hand remains loosely wrapped around the grip of his revolver while the other nudges the door wider with a faint creak.
“Ladies first,” he says, tilting his head toward the interior. The words come out almost politely, though the crooked edge in his voice makes it clear the chivalry is half a joke. His chin lifts in a small, expectant nod, eyes watching you carefully in the dim light.
Hearing the sharp shouts of policemen across the lot, both of your heads turn at once. Red and blue lights spill across the cracked pavement, strobing against the warehouse walls. Shooting erupts again, louder now, followed by a kind of screaming that doesn’t belong in anything ordinary. It’s raw and guttural, men shouting over one another, bodies hitting concrete, the sound of panic swallowing whatever control the scene once had.
For a moment Chris simply watches, eyes narrowed toward the open warehouse door as the noise spills out into the night. Then his hand moves to your waist again, holding you close as he brings you inside with him, closing the door quietly before you both peek out of an open window. The way he has you feels jarring; his grip is calm and grounding while the world a few yards away tears itself apart.
“Christ,” he mutters under his breath, the words edged with a dry sort of relief rather than horror. His fingers press briefly into your side, keeping you close as another burst of gunfire cracks through the air. “Good thing I held on to you,” he murmurs quietly, voice rough. “Reckon you’d be lyin’ in there with the rest of them otherwise.”
Chris listens for one of your fiery retorts, but none comes. The tense quiet stretches, thick and expectant. Until he leans down, brushing a rough, careful kiss along the top of your head, the only thread of comfort he offers in the madness.
“Watch your step,” he murmurs, though the strength in his grip reminds you that it’s no suggestion. His hand presses against your side, drawing you close until your chest rests against the back of his tricep. Chris pauses, glancing back through the narrow seam of the door.
The distant wash of red and blue strobe lights splashes across the warehouse yard as police shapes move cautiously between vehicles and stacked crates, tension in the air mirrored by every gun-toting hand. He sucks his teeth under his breath, a low, dry sound that holds both irritation and satisfaction.
Without another word, he steps, guiding you deeper into the dark interior. His hand leaves your arm briefly, fingers reaching for another handle. A small, gold-toned key appears, catching the faintest glimmer of light from outside. The lock clicks softly, a muted counterpoint to the chaos fading behind you.
You’re not sure why, but your hands reach out for him after the loss of contact. As if your brain is confusing the fact that he’s held you hostage with him saving you from death. He just hums, relishing in the fact that you’re finally showing a semblance of regaining trust.
The door swings open, and on the other side waits a narrow alleyway, hemmed in by brick walls and stacked trash bins, just distant enough that the police lights only flare faintly against the far wall. Chris steps through first, immediately tugging you after him, closing the door behind with a soft click.
His chest rises and falls against your back, breath coming harder now. “Stay here,” he orders, voice clipped. “And don't move a fuckin’ inch ‘til I tell you to.” He lets go of you abruptly, leaving you stumbling in the confined space.
You watch as he steps back out, reappearing a minute later, driving an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser. It's a rusty thing, black and nondescript; it starts with a roar. There’s a faint whistle under acceleration, as the car’s been illegally modified. The engine settles into a low, rumbling purr as he throws it into gear. He glances at you through the open door, eyes glinting in the dim light.
"Get in," he commands. “Don’t go thinkin’ you’ll outrun what’s comin’,” he adds, voice roughened by engine growl and smoke. “You won’t make ten feet before you’ve blue lights in your face.”
Chris reaches across, pushing open the passenger side door in a clear invitation. The seat is worn leather, faded, but it's dry. Drier than the patch between your thighs, at least. You take a deep breath before hauling yourself into the passenger side, slamming the door shut as the tires screech against the asphalt in constant rotation before smoke billows from beneath the rubber tires and through the rusty tailpipe.
He inhales sharply through his nose like he’s snorting speed, the scent of your arousing pheromones and perfume filling the tight confines of the car. His jaw clenches as he shifts gears, speeding through the dark streets. Briefly, he checks the rearview mirror, making sure he’s got some time before his tire marks fade without possibility of being tracked.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, girl,” he mutters, voice rough and edged, eyes fixed dead ahead. The headlights carve pale tunnels through cracked pavement and shuttered storefronts, yellow lines bending and snapping under the bonnet as he takes a corner harder than he needs to.
You wince, holding onto the edge of the seat, finding it hard to ground yourself in the current state you’re in. Your cheeks are red hot as you roll the window down a few inches in a rushed circular motion, so the interior doesn’t feel like it’s quite as ablaze as your loins.
“Didn’t peg you for bein’ quite that keen.” He shoots you a sidelong glance, eyes flicking down to your damp lap before dragging back up to your face.
“You’re a fucking lunatic,” you retort, turning quickly to look back at the open road behind you. No policemen are catching up to the car, yet he’s still speeding like there ever was one. You turn back, hair swishing as you look over at him. “Can’t you just drop me off, huh? The police didn’t even see us!”
Chris chuckles as he hears the little waver of your voice. But his laughter fades along with the sound of sirens, far gone now. The air thickens, heavy with more than just the lingering scent of sex.
“Ah, now,” he says, voice dropping lower, thick cadence settling in like gravel. “You can behave yourself till we’re somewhere with a door that locks.” His mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. You close your legs, finding his idea of intercourse absolutely ridiculous. Being held hostage? Gun in your mouth, then having your legs spread? It sounds like a porno.
The car decelerates from 110 to 70mph, tires whining against the slick asphalt. One of his broad hands slides from the wheel to your thigh, the weight and warmth of his palm pressing through the fabric. You glance sideways, catching the smoldering focus in his eyes; they never leave the road, but you feel the awareness of him tracing your movements. Slowly, your right hand creeps towards the pull, imagining a possibility of surviving that type of getaway. His eyes flick to you as you gently grip the handle.
The response is immediate. Chris swerves sharply to the right, the motion unbalancing you. You slide across the seat, shoulder colliding with his side as he tightens his hold with effortless strength, locking you in place against him.
“C’mere, baby,” he growls, low and controlled, the sound rumbling through you as your heart stutters. You wince as his lips meet your cheek, the kiss fast, rough, and unapologetic, brushing against your skin with a deliberate edge that makes your pulse spike. “You’re a twisted minx, y’know that?” he mutters, voice low, almost thoughtful. His hand slides down, squeezing your thigh hard enough to make you gasp.
His other hand rests on the gear shift, knuckles white as he grips it tightly. The car careens around another corner, the tires screeching against the slick road. You feel the adrenaline still singing through your veins, the fear and the excitement. His grip shifts from your ribs to your hip, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who’s directing this little ride.
“Girls would cry the moment they felt the damn gat, but you?” He huffs a short, humorless laugh. “You’re sittin’ there drenched like this’s some foreplay.” Another fishtail. Another violent lurch of the car.
“I can’t help it!” You shake your head and keep your legs closed, but the damp patch between your thighs seems to grow with each passing second, the fabric rubbing against your sensitive flesh.
“Fuck,” he curses. “You're nothin’ but trouble, girl.” But he doesn't slow down the car. If anything, it speeds up, flying through the empty streets like a bat out of hell. “What is it then, hm?” he presses, tone mocking in its curiosity. “You like being pinned down? Like a man tellin’ you when to breathe?” His thumb drags slowly along the inside of your thigh.
He’s testing the line of your resistance as he pulls up your leg, hooking it over his that presses hard on the gas pedal, your knee pressing against his sizable crotch. “Maybe you want your wrists held over your head,” he continues, tone rougher now. “Maybe you get off on the chase.” He leans closer, breath hot against your ear. “Or is it the danger? The gun. The speed. Not knowin’ if you’re safe…”
The engine roars as the car speeds, both of you pressing hard against your seats. You keep your gaze fixed on the windshield, on the impossibly fast blur of lights streaking past. No headlights. No one on the road but you and Chris.
He leans in again, mustache bristling against your cheek as he continues in a much more seductive tone. “Go on,” he taunts softly. “What filthy little things you into, hm? You want it rough? You want it reckless?”
“I want you to pull over!” You shout quickly. The tears in your eyes are a mix of anger, fright, and arousal. The overstimulation makes your breath uneasy, coming out in small whimpers. You may not have cried in the warehouse, but you’re seconds from bawling at all this happening at once.
He tugs your leg upward with controlled strength, roughly forcing your knees apart inch by inch. Denim stretches across your thighs as he widens the space between them; the worn fabric pulls taut, outlining the unmistakable stain of your arousal.
“Oh, don’t tell me,” Chris coos, accent thickening to a derisive taunt as the corner of his mouth lifts. “Poor baby, this too much for you?” His hand slides higher, fingers slipping under the hem of your jeans as they slide down to rub your wet heat. “Fuck, yeah it is,” he groans, fingers finding the tuft of hair beneath your Eiderlon panties as he slides his index over the slit. He bites his lip, gaze flicking to the way you’re spread, barely able to focus on the road.
You press your lips into a thin line to stifle any stray moans, but it does nothing to stop the way your hips betray you. Knees jerking at the attention he’s giving your sensitive clit, your peak twitches at his overconfident prodding. You lean over, letting your leg lift for more attention. Chris obliges with pleasure.
You’re nerve-wracked on this sex drive, and you know he’s eager for a nice fuck by now, the outline of his cock pressing up against the side of your knee. The car still hasn’t slowed on the empty highway stretch, giving you both enough time and space.
“Soppin’ wet pussy,” he groans. His hand fully cups your mound, palm pressing hard against your sex. You moan softly at the vulgarity of his words. The movement of your hips is an abrupt, jerking roll forward into the pressure of his hand as if your body has decided before you have.
“Please… Please pull over…” You beg, tears falling freely now. Not out of disgust, but the sheer strength of his digits rubbing between your folds like he’s about to push his whole hand through. Chris bellows with laughter, loud enough that you flinch, fingers digging into your heat as he holds you down by your cunt.
“And what’ll you do after that, hm?” His hand hasn't stopped its deliberate, maddening circles on your sensitive flesh, each rotation sending jolts of pleasure-pain shooting through your core. “You're real mad if you think I won't catch you, girl. Like I caught your sneakin’ self tryna jump out this fuckin’ car!” You can feel the slickness of your arousal coating his fingers, easing the glide.
“I won't run away,” you sniffle now, head low. Your voice shakes as you lean into Chris, his cheek pressing against the top of your head. He speeds up the vehicle, and you cry into his shoulder as the acceleration rapidly increases to numbers you didn't even know were possible for this model.
“What’ll you do, huh?” Chris repeats soft enough to ease, loud enough to hear. You feel him lean back against the driver’s seat and your eyes open wide, watching him smile lazily as his eyes remain shut. You’re terrified of the thought of what could happen, so you clench his arm tight and shake it. “No, please! No! I'll fuck you!”
His eyes open at that. The car slows and screeches to a halt beside the road, gravel flying and tires spinning before the vehicle settles flat with a jolt. The sudden stop jars you both, your bodies lurching forward before settling back. His fingers are still in your pussy, digging into the soft flesh as he holds you in place.
“Christ,” he mutters, a slow, crooked smirk pulling at his mouth. “Listen to you now.” He turns to look at you, tone dipping into something darker, more deliberate. He leans a fraction closer, head tilted slightly as he takes in your mascara-stained cheeks, flushed skin, and heaving chest.
“Shameless thing,” he adds softly. “Sayin’ things like that while you’re sittin’ in my car, breath all shaky, lookin’ at me like you want to see how far I’ll push it.” His eyes linger on your lips, still parted and flushed a deep, tempting color. "I meant what I said," he says finally, voice a low, deliberate rumble. "I'm rough, I'm reckless."
Your hair's messy against your cheeks as your breath slows from its rapid rise and fall. There's no hiding now. You can't force yourself to stay quiet, not while he's got his fingers still buried inside your starving cunt. His other hand comes up to tuck a strand of messy hair behind your ear, fingers trailing down the side of your neck.
Chris feels you shiver, your heat clenching on his thick fingers, telling him you want it hard and fast. He lets his lips hover over yours as he murmurs low, "I'll give you what you want so, girl." I'll fuck this needy cunt ‘til you scream. Use this pretty little pussy ‘til you're raw."
That makes you gush. He feels you shiver and clench weakly, your hand coming to rest against his chest, but accidentally brushing the familiar revolver in his pocket. For some reason, you can’t stop there. Glancing, he sees you slowly pull at the handle. He’s quick to adjust your grip, pulling it up between you as he coaxes your lips onto the steel side.
You can feel the barrel press against your trembling lips. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into yours with a hunger that sends a fresh wave of anguishing sensitivity to your depths. You've never seen such raw, unchecked desire directed at you before.
He drags the muzzle against your cheek, forcing your head to tilt back slightly as he traces the plump shape of your lips with the cold metal. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, the anticipation building with each deliberate movement. "Go on, baby," he coaxes, his voice a delicious rumble that vibrates through you. "Worship my gun."
His thumb presses harshly on your clit, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub as he feels your walls fluttering around his invading digits. The dual sensations of the cold steel against your lips and his heated touch between your thighs create a mind-blowing contrast that has you teetering on the edge.
You move slowly as if being hypnotized by his blue stare. His breath catches as he sees your soft lips part gently around the tip, your pink tongue peeking out against the metal. It’s maddening how slow your frightened teasing is. Chris, being a little impatient, begins nudging the gun deeper until it’s buried in your throat.
“Fuck yeah, girl, just like that,” he growls, watching your eyes widen, tears springing from the corners as you take more of the gun into your mouth. “A little whore, aren't you?” His derogatory language slowly reels you from your heated fantasy. “Bet you've fantasized ‘bout choking’ on some big cocks, haven’tcha?"
His fingers never stop their relentless assault, plunging in and out of your dripping cunt as he rubs your clit with punishing pressure. The pleasure borders on pain, but you crave it, yearn for the ache that’ll leave you walking funny tomorrow. You want to feel it for days, an aching reminder of how thoroughly he's fucking you.
"Mmmph..." You make a muffled noise around the gun, your throat constricting. Chris’s eyes nearly roll back as he imagines burying himself inside your mouth, feeling the slick walls of your wet throat clench and spasm around him.
"Keep goin’, love," he coaxes darkly, his voice rough and ragged. "Gonna make yourself cum from suckin’ my gun, aren't you? Dirty little thing..." He rocks the barrel in and out of your wet mouth, fucking your face with a heavy weapon as you gag and sputter. Your hands clutch at his chest, nails digging into the fabric of his button-up.
His fingers are relentless and deep, but he’s edging you, making you wince and whine as you suck sloppily on the gun, tasting its metallic tones with every reluctant lick. Drool leaks from the corners of your sore mouth, dripping down your lips and chin in thin, watery globs. Your throat makes obscene noises despite the lack of prominent girth, and the inside of your mouth salivates enough for it to drip onto your chest.
After your third gag on steel, Chris bitterly smacks your cheek. Not harsh enough to throw your head, but a warning. “Don't be stoppin’, girl,” he mutters, eyes glinting dangerously. You whine as the long barrel deepens, orbiting your tongue as if drawing it out of your wet mouth. “One more gag from you and we’re movin’ outside.” He watches your eyes water, rivulets of dark makeup dripping down your cheeks from earlier overstimulation.
Now, you’re caught in the feeling of being throat-fucked by something that could shatter your skull. The sight makes his heavy cock throb urgently against your leg. He forces your head down further, until your chin rests on the trigger guard, the barrel pressing deep against the back of your throat. There you stay, gasping and drooling around the gun as he holds you in place, crying from the brutal intrusion. “Keep chokin’ on it, nice and slow.”
There’s too much going on: his third finger sliding inside, the barrel tickling your uvula, and the sound of distant engines approaching as truckers’ headlights begin showing themselves in the dark morning. Chris's breath grows heavier, his pupils dilating with lust as he watches you struggle to accommodate the sensations of his barrel.
“Fuck, look at you, chokin’ on it… So good,” he taunts, punctuating his words with a harsh kiss to your cheek, teeth nipping the skin. His fingers never stop their relentless assault on your dripping cunt, plunging in and out, curling against that spongy spot that makes your toes curl in their leather boots.
“Bet you've never felt so full before, have you, sweetheart? Gonna make yourself cum, huh?” The distant rumble of the approaching highway traffic fades into the background as he loses himself in the debauched scene. The world narrows down to the slick glide of metal in your mouth, the thick press of his fingers in your pussy, and the raw ache building between your legs.
“Mhmmm…” You’re really dripping now, the leather beneath you slick with sticky fluids. The entire scenario is making you lose your mind, the reality of having a loaded gun in your mouth making your walls spasm with every orgasm you approach.
Then, he rocks the barrel deeper, until he’s aware of the tip kissing the back of your throat. Your gag reflex spasms around the intrusion once more, your body's instinctive reaction sending jolts of pleasure through your core. Spittle erotically flies from your lips, and the sight makes him throb..
Chris groans, his hot cock throbbing almost painfully against your thigh, the fabric of his jeans growing damp with dampening in his boxers with pre-cum. Your brows curl up in confusion as he pulls his fingers out of your sloppy mess of a snatch with a tad more gentleness than he had for your mouth. His eyes are heavy, glancing down at the knuckle-deep discharge left on his right hand.
“Told you, girl.” Suddenly, he yanks the gun out of your jaw with a wet pop. He grins as he watches your eyes widen in shock and arousal, the sight of your turtleneck stretching with each desperate gulp. You gasp for air, chest heaving as you suck in lungfuls.
The abrupt removal of the heavy barrel sores your throat immediately. Tears reemerge from your eyes at the rush of pain adjusting itself in your mouth. Before you can catch your breath or let any teardrops fall, Chris is hauling you out of the car by your bellbottoms’ waistline. You let out a small hiccup of surprise as he lifts you effortlessly over his shoulder, your hair cascading down his back.
The sudden movements make your head swim, your body jolting with the force of his grip. Then, you’re set down against the hood, in a position that’s less than appropriate. The door of the car is still swung wide open, but Chris doesn’t give a fuck.
“What’re you-” As he begins pulling your jeans down your trembling legs, you realize with a jolt of panic that you're being exposed in front of oncoming traffic. Headlights of the trucks illuminate your half-naked form, casting long shadows across your skin. “No! Chris- Wait!” You squirm in his hold, a fresh wave of humiliation and excitement crashing over you. Your eyes are wide with alarm, cheeks flushing a deep, telling red as you rethink the danger of your nude exposure so close to the warehouse.
A stinging smack of your bottom makes you squeak as Chris's grip tightens on your waist, holding you firmly in place as he continues to peel your jeans down your quivering thighs. The cool night air kisses your newly exposed cheeks, wet panties still on, sending a shiver racing up your spine.
“Aye, settle down,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your body. “Not gonna let any old truckin’ fuck see what's mine. Promise you that.” His words send a hot thrill through you, even though you rebel at the idea of being possessed.
You want to protest, but the way he's touching you, holding you, makes it hard to think straight. He tugs your jeans the rest of the way off as you’re leaning over the hood, leaving you bare from the waist down. The gravel of the roadside digs into your skin as he sets you back on your feet, one hand gripping your hip to steady you.
“Keep those pretty fuckin’ legs still now,” Chris orders, his breath hot against your ear. “’Less you want to give those truckers a real show.” His other hand traces the curve of your ass as he leans away to give traffic a better sight, making you acutely aware of how vulnerable you are.
“C’mon… Just take me back to the car,” You beg weakly, pressing your thighs together, self-conscious about your nakedness. He watches your forehead rest against the vehicle, you’re beginning to come down from the earlier high.
“Oh, don’t be shy now, girl. We're just getting started.” His fingers dip into the cleft of your rear, tracing the shapely line where your cheeks meet your thighs. “You've got a fuckin’ gorgeous ass,” he breathes, giving your plump cheek a sharp smack and letting it ripple against his rough skin. The sound echoes obscenely in the open air. “Can't blame a man for wantin’ a taste.”
He grips your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he pulls you back against him. You can feel the hard line of his eager cock pressing against you, even through his jeans. For a few seconds, he’s grinding against you, letting his cock lengthen to size, not even bothering to hide it anymore, not when you’ve made it this far.
“Spread those legs ‘nd show Boston what's mine. M’gonna fuck this wet cunt ‘til you're screamin’ for more,” he growls, nipping at your earlobe. His hips retract, feeling your chest press against his back in a familiar embrace.
“Just- Just get it over with…” You whimper at his lewdness, hips bucking against him, desperate for the feeling of his dick. He chuckles darkly, giving your ass another sharp slap. The sun peeks from the edge of the road, enough dim amber light for a few truckers to honk at you.
“Patience, lass. I'll give you what you need. But first…” Chris takes his time trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your delicate spine. You arch, feeling his stache rake over your flesh, tickling you maddeningly. He pauses at the ornate hem of your panties before dipping lower and letting his teeth sink into the tender flesh of your plump ass cheek.
“What the fuck!” You gasp as you feel his sharp points of bone clamp down, holding the soft, pliant flesh between his teeth.
Your legs instinctively try to move you away from the pain, but he clenches your thighs, Irish hands planting you there for good. For a long moment, he gnaws at the fat, jaw working the sensitive flesh. Then, he’s bearing down like a wild animal, making you yelp. His head shakes, threatening to tear your tender flesh apart. He pulls back to admire the first dark imprint of his teeth, the reddening bruise already blossoming on your curvy figure.
A wicked grin spreads across his face at the sight of your legs jerking in reflex, allowing your foot to come up to meet his chest as you lean over the hood. Chris savors every tender bite and greedy kiss, as if he’s a man starved and presented with a gorgeously endowed feast.
Your body trembles under his oral assault, knees growing weak as the sensations of his plucking teeth and tickling hair overwhelm you. He’s dirty with it, switching from cheek to cheek like he can’t decide which of the symmetrical displays tastes sweeter. By now, he’s able to lift his hands back up and grope the flesh, listening to your breathy whimpers after every harsh spank and devious bite.
Finally, after what feels like forever, he leans back on his haunches and looks at the masterpiece of your behind, seeing how your knees wobble, trembling from pain. Your skin is scattered with bites, red scars, and purpling bruises left behind from his working jaw.
You’re semi-relieved he’s stopped, sighing in something more gentle as you lean against the hood. Then, at the sound of your shallow, controlled breathing, his rough palm harshly slaps the opposite side, hearing you squeak as you lie against the vehicle.
Chris chuckles in amusement. “Don’t like being spanked, eh? We’ll sort that soon, naughty girl.” His hand roughly rubs the violated skin of your ass, soothing the sting with his hand before leaning in and pressing a kiss to the scar. “That’s alright. There’ll be time for that later. But first…” He trails kisses down the back of your inner thigh, his mustache tantalizing against your soft skin.
“God, what else?” Your voice wavers. You’re able to feel how hot his breath is as he reaches the apex of your thighs, hovering just inches from your clothed sex.
“Plenty more,” Chris responds lightly as he pinches a profusely sensitive area of your well-bruised bottom, making you cry out sharply before he pulls down the edge of your underwear. “Let's get these outta the way.” He tugs the pretty, patterned fabric down, slowly, teasingly. You feel the lace stretch taut as he hooks his fingers into the waistband. The elastic digs into your hips for a moment before he starts to slowly drag them down.
“Lift up, now,” he commands, voice gruff in expectancy. You obey, raising your hips to help him remove the last delicate barrier between your cunt and his hungry gaze. The damp fabric peels away from your skin, cool air hitting your dripping, still-sensitive folds, making you gasp. A thin trail of discharge trails from your twitching mound. He leans down and blows a stream of cool air over your exposed flesh, making you gasp and squirm.
“Shit,” you moan softly, knees rubbing against each other in anticipation. Goosebumps erupt across your skin at the touch, the night air growing chill.
“Feels good, huh? Spread your legs more for me, sweetheart.” It’s sweet until he taps your calf with impatience, encouraging you to raise your hips so he can slide your panties off completely. He watches the dainty fabric roll down your bottom, your thighs, then pool at your ankles. “There we go, baby,” his voice a mocking coo.
Chris leans in, pressing a searing kiss right between your plush cheeks. His lips linger, mouthing hungrily at your tender flesh, sending jolts of sensation shooting through your core. You can't help but whimper and moan as he begins his sensual assault, the gun temporarily forgotten in his pocket as he grips your ass cheeks tightly.
He kneads the soft, supple globes, fingers sinking into the pliant meat as he parts them roughly. The cool air kisses your exposed skin for a moment before his mouth is back on you, licking a hot, wet stripe up your crack. He takes his time, savoring the taste and texture, before circling your bud from beneath you with the tip of his tongue.
“Fuck, your ass is perfect," he growls, voice muffled against your flesh. "Can't wait to sink my cock in this tight little hole…”
You shake your head, not the biggest fan of hitting the vaseline. You don’t even know what it looks like yet, but you’ve got a feeling it’s not meant for your back door. “Not… Not there…”
Chris pauses, looking up at you with a grin. He sees the apprehension in your eyes, hears the tremor in your voice as you shake your head at the thought of him inside of your ass. But fear fuels him. “Ohh, hush. Don’t you be worryin’…” He coos, voice mocking and low. “I’ll be real gentle,” he nods, leaning in and murmuring the next phrase between your plump cheeks. “At first…”
He punctuates his words with a sharp smack to your tender cheek, making you let out a broken wail. His hands knead the soft globes, tearing the scars that began to heal naturally. The pain is enough to make you cry again.
He smiles as he hears your tears patter on the hood like rain. “Mmm, don’t think I won’t be comin’ back to this pretty hole later, girl.” He warns deeply. “The man has needs, after all.”
With that caution, he ducks back down, burying his face between your plump cheeks once more. His tongue swirls around your tight entrance, teasing, tasting, before he pulls back with a dark chuckle. “Let’s focus on your greedy cunt… Miss havin’ you squeeze my fingers real bad.”
Chris turns you around to face him, feeling the heat radiating off of your skin, the give of your young curves against the hard planes of his body. His hands rest on your hips, thumbs brushing sensitive skin where your thighs meet your torso. You look down at him, failing to notice the squished outline of his well-hung cock in his trousers. Just the sight of you, the filthy knowledge he’s got ahold of a girl who likes being gun-fucked and held hostage, makes him want to be brutal. To see how far you’ll go.
“Fuck, you smell so goddamn good. Bet you taste even better.” His voice is a low rumble as he settles between your barely-parted thighs, his broad biceps pushing your legs even wider.
Your knees slowly lift up for him. Chris takes hold of one ankle, pressing the palm of your foot to his shoulder as he kisses your inner thigh. He turns his face and inhales the scent of you deeply, breathing hot against your bare flesh. You're exposed above him, slick and swollen, clit throbbing with need.
“Sensitive girl, aren't you?” He leans in, tongue flicking out to trace your slit, a preview of what's to come. Breath from his throat is hot on your sensitive flesh as he hums deeply. “Gonna feast on this sweet cunt ‘til you're shakin’ ‘nd beggin’.” Chris parts your slick folds with his fingers, fully exposing your throbbing, sensitive clit to the cool air. You shudder, feeling yourself twitch and pulse as you’re laid bare for his gaze.
“Such a pretty little pussy, all puffy and wet for me already.” He leans in, his stache brushing against your inner thighs as he nuzzles into your sex. He’s not even eating you out, and you’re gasping at the sensation. “Keep still, sweetheart. Lemme taste you properly…” His tongue drags slowly and firmly over your pillowy lips, parting and tracing your tasty entrance. The wet heat of his tongue is intense, making your toes curl against his shoulder blade.
Chris groans into you as you drip on his tongue, the sound muffled against your sex as he begins to eat you out. His eager mouth presses sloppy kisses against your slick entrance, lips sealing over your clit as he suckles. His arms come to wrap around your legs, pulling your knees up and over his shoulders as he rapidly flicks his tongue.
Tears of humiliation prick at the corner of your eyes as you feel his hot breath on your dripping, sensitive flesh. “Fuck, you taste even sweeter than you smell,” he rumbles, tongue delving deep to lap up your honey. “Gonna slurp up every drop ‘til this needy cunt is drippin’ all over my stache.”
You let out wanton hums as truckers slow down briefly at the sight of you both engaging in this so early, like you two are normal people, like this is what normal people do. The awareness that anyone can see you splay out like a wanton prostie, legs spread in the air, pussy on lewd display, makes your heart race.
Chris seals his mouth over your clit again, sucking hard, and your hips jerk forward with a sharp cry. Two of his thick fingers begin to plunge into your entrance, curling to stroke your G-spot as he slurps hard. He begins finger-fucking you fast, the quick and wet squelches of your arousal obscene and hot.
“Yes! There-” Your eyes roll back as your body sucks him in. There’s nothing sloppy about his fingers, maybe just the way his spit lathers over your pubes. He keeps his heavy eyes locked on you, watching every little movement, the way your breathing hitches at his lewd ideas.
“Gonna fuck you ‘til you're shakin’.” He growls, pumping digits in and out of you, weaving into your wetness until your cheeks burn. “Fill this sweet pussy with my cock ‘nd fuck your sweet heat proper.” His tongue laps up the dripping liquid of your barely-trimmed mound, drinking in intermittent slurps.
At the sound of your pleasure, he decides to focus on the attention you’re receiving from his mouth. Thick, Irish fingers slowing inside your heat before he pulls them out hastily, burying his face all the way again.
“Chris… Chris,” you sniffle. He looks up at you with dilated pupils and a pink tongue still lodged deep. It’s obvious; he's waiting for your reaction, gauging how much more you can take before you break. His face turns back and forth, hotly slurping your tender flesh.
“I know, I know,” he chides inside your walls as if a soft man. There’s a moment of tenderness as he looks up at you before he huffs hotly against your clit. “Quit your cryin’, y’like it don’t you?” With that beratement, you sniff the last drop of mucus up your nostril and toughen up.
He’s so pleased by the sight of you obeying, deciding to dive right back in. This time, with teeth.
You whimper and clench your jaw, trying to stifle inevitable cries as Chris’s mouth continues ravaging your most intimate place. He pins down your tender thighs, gripping them tighter and holding you open for his relentless assault. Teeth rake over your weak cunt, scraping painfully as he nips.
“Sweet… So fuckin’ sweet…” His tongue delves deep inside, probing you, stroking you, tasting every inch of your soaked folds. “Fuck… I’m in heaven.”
“Dirty… Fuckin’ dirty angel. Should’ve taken you the moment you stomped my fuckin…” You feel him groan into your flesh, the sound vibrating through you, causing your stomach to clench and your chest to heave with a fresh inhale of cold air.
“Chris… fuck…” You moan, fingers gripping the hood, threatening to fist the metal as you fight the urge to push, to close your legs against his intrusion. But you don’t, you can’t.
Something perverse rebels in this sort of degradation, in how brutal his mouth feels on your pussy. Your body betrays you, true desire causing your hips to buck up, meeting his hungry mouth. Your cunt clenches around his invading tongue, trying to draw his muscle in from the throat.
“Fuck… Oh, you taste so sweet,” Chris growls, surfacing for air. His chin glistens with your arousing juices, lips curved in something wicked. “Such a little whore you are. Gettin’ off from my gun-n-tongue.” His fingers slowly slide up your legs, gripping your bottom roughly as he spreads you from behind. “M’gonna fuckin’ drown here… Die happy…”
He dives back in before you can respond, his mouth latching onto your perky clit, sucking hard. Teeth graze the sensitive nub, you cry out as he bites down until bordering on pain. “Not so hard!” You sob.
There’s a mix of pleasure from his punishing tongue deep in your belly, sending throbbing jolts of liquidated arousal onto his wet muscle. He begins lapping up the fresh gushes, swirling around the puffy lips before plunging back inside. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Chris nods quickly, not wanting to let up just yet. “Just keep your legs open, baby… Just like that…” He’s tongue-fucking your cunt with ferocity as you wantonly cry, knees trembling.
He keeps driving you closer to the edge, to a blissful precipice where you’re dissolving into his raw sensations. Your vision narrows down to him like he’s your savior as he devours you, as if he wasn’t a stranger merely an hour ago.
Slowly, you begin reaching for his sweaty, mousy-brown hair, holding it closer between your legs. It’s an incomparable sting to Chris, his teeth still clenching onto your poor clit every now and then. He keeps a slick, deep pressure with his tongue as he plunders your intimate depths.
You’re so close. Finally, to cumming on his face, to letting him sink in his…
Suddenly, he pulls away. You whimper at the loss of his hot mouth, body arching up, seeking his rough touch. By now, you crave that final push to send your orgasm crashing down on your pelvic floor. “Please…” you beg, voice ragged from stimulation, raw from the gun that tore through your gullet. “Chris, I need… I need…”
Your poor sniffles and trembling legs are becoming too much for him to bear. The way you’re looking at him, like he holds all the power, makes his erection surge with intense arousal. “I know what you need, girl,” he murmurs, kissing your wet lips before rising to his feet.
A rough hand comes up to the back of your neck as he pulls you up from the hood, bringing you against him and down on your knees. The gravel digs into your poor, bony flesh. He’s pressing your cheek right against his thigh for you to smell the visceral lust pulsing inside of him. Your head swims.
He watches as your eyes automatically shoot to his prominent bulge which he’s presenting. He’s fucking packing. The thick outline of his cock strains against the rough denim, the heat of it nearly steaming in the crisp air. He grips your hair, fingers tangling in your damp locks as he guides your face closer to his crotch.
“Get my belt undone, sweetheart,” he orders, voice authoritative and rumbling. “Unbuckle my pants ‘nd take out what you’ve been gagging for.” His other hand reaches down, palming the girthy length through his jeans. Your young eyes widen as you watch the shape of him twitch under the rough fabric, your mouth watering at the thought of tasting him.
Shakily, you reach up and start working on his leather, your fingers fumbling with the buckle in your haste. Chris’s hips roll forward, grinding his erection against your face, painting your lips with his damp residue. The friction sends jolts through you, and for a moment, you’re in awe.
“Go on, baby,” he coaxes, voice dripping with mocking encouragement. “Don’t be makin’ me wait now. I know you’re dyin’ to get those pretty lips ‘round my cock.” He punctuates his words with a sharp tug to your hair, forcing your face harder against his bulge.
The rough treatment makes you gasp softly, clenching around nothing with a mix of fear and anticipation. The buckle finally gives way and you make out the trail of thick hair from his abdomen leading to his crotch. You look up at him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, nearly begging for his guidance.
He smirks down at you before slowly tugging down his jeans. “Go on. Take a look.”
You hear a heavy thud and focus on his massive cock with awe. It’s sprung free from the confines of his jeans, the deep slap against his stomach was his veiny dick. Your eyes widen at the sheer size of him, thick and long, swollen head already dripping in translucent rivulets.
“Fuck.” You can’t help but let out a noise of surprise, mouth watering at the sight of his impressive manhood. “It’s so big,” you breathe, voice trembling. Your hands look dainty as you reach out, wrapping your fingers around his hot, hard shaft. Your hand’s just barely able to close around his girth, the pulsating veins throbbing at your touch.
Chris groans as your fingers grip him, hips flexing forward into your touch. Good girl, that. Wrap those soft lil’ hands ‘round this big ol’ dick.” He bucks into your fist, the motion making his tip rub against your lips, smearing precum against the pillowy flesh.
“Feel the… Fuck… Fuckin’ state you’ve got me in?” The musky scent of him fills your nostrils. His heavy balls hit your wrist gently as he begins urging you. “Go on, girl. Put that pretty mouth to work,” he groans, voice rough. “Tell me how much you wanna choke it.”
You’re confused at how fast this night has unraveled into base pleasure. “I want… I…” Voice shaking, you look back up at his imposing frame and think of earlier tonight, when he was showing you the cogs of your gun. It’s a different mentorship now, one that’ll bind you both more than business.
“Shh,” he orders. He tangles his fingers in your hair, gripping tight as he guides your face closer to his throbbing dick. “Open up now, would ya. Wanna feel that sweet throat.”
With a moan, you part your lips, allowing him to slip his thick length past your lips. Your mouth stretches wide to accommodate his girth, tongue fluttering against the sensitive underside as he pushes deeper. You’re able to take only a few inches of him before the head of his cock hits the back of your throat, making you gag.
“Yeah… Relax your throat, baby. Let me in,” he growls. You’ve got about five seconds to adjust your involuntarily twitching throat before he begins thrusting, fucking your face deep with strength. Each plunge of your nose in his pubes makes your eyes water and your gag reflex convulse around his shaft.
Tears stream down your face as he uses your mouth, saliva dripping down your chin and onto the cashmere of your shirt. Your nipples pebble at the obscene sound of him slapping your face. Trucks honk their horns, roaring over the sound of your own muffled moans and wet, sloppy noises of him violating your throat.
“Fuck!” Chris grunts, hips pumping faster, fucking your gullet with wild abandon. “Gonna fuckin’ paint your tonsils with my cum.” His grip in your hair tightens, your vision blurs as he chases his pleasure. “Y’gonna swallow, yeah? Fuck…”
You can’t nod while sucking him off, so you loudly whine in agreement. Your pussy throbs, aching to be filled, as he ruthlessly fucks your face. You've never felt so used, so utterly at someone's mercy, and it only turns you on more.
With a harsh groan, he slams deep, his cock pulsing as he starts to cum. “Yesss, goddamn, girl!” Thick, hot ropes of semen gush down your throat, the salty-bitter taste filling your mouth. He holds you in place for a minute, groaning as he forces you to swallow around him, to take every last drop. Finally, with a shudder and a gasp, he pulls out. Your lips are swollen, spit and cum dripping down your chin and onto your chest. Chris smirks down at you, not softening one bit.
“There's a good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Took my cock like a pro.” You lean on your butt, back pressed against the side of the car. You're left dazed, throat raw and aching, as you try to catch your breath. He crouches down and caresses your cheek, wiping the mixture of tears and spit from your face. “Don't be thinkin’ we're done, sweetheart.”
You look up at Chris with hazy, lust-drunk eyes, your plump lips still glistening with the mix of your saliva and his seed. Your voice is hoarse from the brutal face-fucking, words slurred as you try to make sense of his statement. “What… what do you mean, we're not fuckin’ done?” you huff tiredly, brow furrowed in confusion.
Chris chuckles darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. He doesn't answer your question directly, instead choosing to grab hold of your hips to yank you up and push you back on the hood. With the hold, he drags up your turtleneck and watches your bare breasts weigh against your ribs. Your legs fall open, leaving you exposed and vulnerable, completely at his mercy.
“Patience, girl,” he coos, voice dripping with false gentleness. His hand slides up your inner thigh, fingers brushing teasingly close to your dripping slit. “We’ve got a long mornin’ ahead.” As he speaks, he reaches for his gun, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. You shiver, a mix of fear and anticipation coiling in your belly as you watch him handle the weapon once more.
“No… No…” You protest, but all he’s thinking about is how pretty you look with mascara running down your face. He watches as you shake your head. You’re terrified, trusting him, but not what could happen to your poor pussy if the trigger snaps. First time fucking him and he’s threatening to blow your cunt to bits.
“Ah, c’mon now, girl. You’ll like it,” he murmurs, pressing the barrel against your slick folds. The noise you make tunes weakly between horror and lust, as if you’re unsure which emotion rushes first.
The hard steel parts your soft lips, tip nudging against your sensitive clit. Your voice is teetering on the brink of terror. “What if… it goes off?”
“Don’t you worry… I won’t let anythin’ happen t’you,” he hums, voice soothing despite the threat of your position. He starts to push the gun inside you, the thick barrel stretching your tight walls around it. “Trust me, baby. I know what I’m doin’.”
“Mmm…” You bite your lip, stifling the cries that threaten to pour from your swollen lips. The sensation is intense, bordering on painful as he forces your pussy open, your slick walls clinging to the hard metal.
Chris stares down at you, watching your head lean back as your chest heaves with every filthy breath. Slowly, he leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You let out a weak noise as his tongue pushes into your mouth, dominating yours as his barrel lovingly plunges inside and out. He swallows your protests, muffling them with his pink lips and tongue as he deepens the kiss.
“Fuck, you love it,” he groans in your mouth, slowly pumping the gun in and out of your cunt. “Gonna fuckin’ wreck your pretty little puss.” His other hand reaches down, thumb finding your sensitive clit, rubbing the peaking nub in rough circles.
The dual stimulation makes your head fall back, a low moan tearing from your throat as he uses your body for his pleasure once again. You can only hold on for dear life, fingers digging into the hood of the car, as he fucks you with the revolver. The obscene sound of your wetness squelching around the barrel fills the air, mixing with your wanton cries and his harsh puffs of satisfaction.
“Look at you, taking my gun like a pro,” he taunts, wrist rolling to drive the length of the barrel deeper. “Such a good girl… Knew you'd be perfect for this the moment I saw you.” His hand grips your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you in place as he starts to bottom out his gun in your clenching heat. “Damn, you’re grippin’ so tight,” he groans against your mouth, hips rolling to drive the hard steel deeper.
Chris breaks the kiss, admiring the way your mascara runs down your cheeks, a glazed look of tumultuous lust swimming in your heavy eyes. Your bra strap has faltered, dipping off your shoulder as a result of languid movements. There’s a hint of reverence as he imagines you less debauched, not crying as he digs into you with metal. For a moment, you see his hesitation, guilty of having been so brutal.
“Chris… Don’t…” You huff, looking up at him. The gun isn’t enough. This isn’t enough.
He knows he should be gentler, but the way you’re spread, willingly at that, is too tempting for him to resist. “Fuck, baby, you look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, reaching out to caress your cheek, a thick thumb wiping away your dripping mascara. “All those tears… Little tease.”
“Pull… pull it out…” You’re about to say something else, to beg. But he leans in, and your lips are captured in another sexy kiss as you feel him suck needy whimpers from your throat as the gun barely brushes against your sweet spot. He hasn’t gotten the angle quite yet, not like his fingers did.
He pauses, smiling down at you with his mouth curling into another teasing remark. He knows what you want, what’ll make this feel even better than his fingers or tongue ever could. “Not a chance, sweetheart.” His hand slides from your cheek to wrap around your throat, applying enough pressure to make your head spin and your pulse jump.
Chris starts to move the gun again, not pulling it out, but rubbing the barrel around in your sensitive walls, finally beginning to prod against your G-spot. The textured surface drags against your slick flesh, sending fireworks of intensity booming in your stomach. Your hips buck as you moan, trying to take the gun deeper, trying to chase the incredible friction.
But no matter how hard he kisses you or plunges the firearm inside of your heat, you’re still not reaching that delicious point. You still haven’t had an orgasm to make the embarrassment worth living through. And by the way he’s been thus far, you’re damn sure he can bring you to one.
“Chris, come on-” A loud horn honks in the distance, interrupting whatever you were going to say. Your cheeks redden as you watch an older, bearded man give you a thumbs-up. That, along with his foreplay, makes you snap loudly. “Oh, just fuck me!” Your outburst makes him pause before you continue. “Fuck me with your fucking cock! Would you?”
Your desperate, wanton plea lights something ablaze in his eyes like a match to gasoline. You feel him still holding the gun inside of you before dragging it out slowly from your dripping cunt and tucking it back inside his coat pocket. “Y’need my cock that bad, don’t you, girl?”
“Yes!” You cry out of desperation and the need for him to replace the barrel. It’s loud enough for drivers of passing vehicles to turn their heads, and Chris glances at a few without turning his head as the early wind picks up.
When he focuses on you, your hair is reaching past your cheeks, spreading across your chest like a curtain of nature. Your chest is swollen in arousal, rising and falling rapidly as your pussy flutters, the hole gaping and drawing him in with every hot puff. He realizes. This. This is what he killed for.
“What’s the magic word, baby?”
“Please…” Your voice is soft, too soft.
He scoffs, eyes actually rolling. “Can’t fuckin’ hear you.”
“Please!” You scream at him, taking the bait.
“Fuck yeah, that’s what I like to hear,” he growls with laughter, flipping you over onto your stomach and wrenching your ass in the air. You make a noise of discomfort as one of your cheeks smushes against the metallic hood, your hands balled in tight fists. But the new position allows him to admire the way your tight hole winks at him, so close above your dripping pussy.
You feel his heavy dick slap against your back before falling down between your thighs. He waves it up again and lets the tip brush against your pubic hairs, shivering at your bristle before pulling back and wedging it between your soft pussy lips. Humming in pleasure, you wait for further instructions.
He smacks your cheek hard, watching it jiggle, before gripping the scarred flesh and spreading you wide open. “Such a pretty hole… Daddy missed it real bad,” he groans, rubbing the leaking tip of his dick back and forth in your slit, coating himself in your juice. “Gonna ruin this pussy, make it mine. No one else will ever feel as good as my cock will stretchin’ you out.”
With that, he thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. A low moan tears from your throat at the sudden penetration, your pussy clenching tight around his invading length. He lets you adjust, barely, watching your back elongate as you take in deep breaths. Every inhale allows him another centimeter of movement until all seven inches are stuffed deep.
Once he’s balls-deep, Chris leans over your back and kisses your cheek that’s turned towards the sky. “Good girl… Such a good fuckin’ girl…” You flutter a little at the praise. He nudges his mustache against your nose as he begins kissing you sloppily, moaning in your mouth as he slowly moves his hips in and out. Pulling back until just the tip remains inside, he pauses for a moment and lets the vivid emptiness fuel your desperation.
Chris stays there, grinning as your sweet rim sucks him inside with a beautiful force. You don’t want to beg again, or even turn your head to humiliate yourself further. But he sees your lips part ever so slightly in what could almost be a breath of need. “I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs against your cheek and kisses it one last time before rising.
Then, he slams forward, knocking the air out of your lungs as your breath breaks into a sharp cry. His hand slides down and digs into your hips, fingers sinking into your flesh as he sets a fast, brutal pace. The hand opposite slides around your waist and up your stomach to cup your breast, kneading the soft mound. He pinches your nipple roughly, rolling it between his fingers as he ruts in you like a merciless animal.
“Fuck, girl! You’re goddamn tight,” he grunts. “My cock was made for you, y’know that?” He continues thrusting, feeling your tit jump in his palm before he grabs hold. “You’re all fuckin’ mine.” The car rocks and tilts with the force of his thrusts, obscene sounds of flesh meeting flesh filling the air, mixing with your wanton moans and his harsh grunts of satisfaction.
He leans back down, his chest pressing against your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he begins to growl filthy praise. “Bein’ so good for me, baby… Aren’t you?”
“Yes! Oh, fuck, yes!” Tears stream down your face as he fills up your channel. He’s slamming into you with savage intensity, each thrust of his tip punching your cervix. You’re scared of how bad this will hurt in the morning, but it’s too fucking good to stop now.
“Yes, you are…” He kisses your cheek again and again. “My good girl…” His words send shivers down your spine, your body responding to his dominant tone and the delicious friction of his cock stirring your insides. He lifts one of his legs up and pushes it against the car, his manhood like a battering ram inside of you now.
Chris’s hips are a blur of motion as he pounds into you, wet sounds of your coupling making your ears ring. It’s ferocious, violent, his cock slams into your cervix with each thrust. He’s not holding back with you no matter how young you seemed while in the warehouse, he won’t give you a single ounce of mercy. He’s claiming your pussy. Owning it.
“I love it! Fuck! Yes, don’t stop!” Your moans rise in pitch and volume, turning to screams of pleasure as he fucks you harder and faster. The pleasure is intense, almost too much, your body shaking from the force of his thrusts. You can feel yourself climbing rapidly towards a massive orgasm, your pussy starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning dick.
“That's it, scream for my cock,” he grunts, one hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back as the other slides down to rub your clit harshly. “Nobody fucks this pussy like I do, baby,” he pants gruffly against the side of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin.
“Mm-mm… Noooo… body…” Your sweet, giggling moans are like music to him. Sure, your voice is broken, and your tears are still flowing, but he can feel your walls fluttering around him; he knows you're close to the edge. He wants to feel you come apart on him, wants to fill you with his seed and mark you. He's close, so fucking close.
Chris dives back in to kiss you as your cries echo into neediness, slowing his hips with intense effort. Your soft mouth hums against his own now as your lips part for him lovingly. You moan as you feel him spread kisses all around your mouth and wet tongue, slurping the saliva from your jaw like it’s a pint of Guinness.
“Say it…” He groans as he kisses you feverishly. “Say you’ll take my fuckin’ cum.” Your eyes widen slightly at his breathy requests, feeling his release building, the way his balls are drawing up tight against his body as they slap lewdly against the end of your cunt. When you hesitate, he turns you around with a gentle grunt as you spin, to face him skewered on his meat.
You feel him grind his hips against the back of your thighs, stirring his cock deep in your core with every thrust his tip deems at your womb’s edge. You attempt to stifle your sniffles and cries, thinking about everything that’s happened tonight as his girth stretches you nice and slow.
He's so close, so fucking close to painting your insides white, he just needs to hear you scream, needs to know you're with him, that you want this as much as he does. For a moment, he wonders if he’ll have to grab hold of his revolver again just to scare you into keeping his child.
Then, just as his fingers closest to his firearm twitch over the cool metal, your legs wrap tight around his hips. Chris freezes, breath catching in his throat as your thighs clench around him like a vice. His fingers hover over the revolver, not reaching for it but not releasing their tension either.
Fuck, if that doesn't make his cock throb inside you, twitching against your walls.
He looks down at you, eyes narrowing as he takes in your expression and the tears that glisten on your cheeks. “You’re gonna look so fuckin’ good with a baby bump, girl. You’ve no fuckin’ idea,” he grins with impish intent.
“Please… Please…” You feel his hips starting to move again in slow, deep grinds. He stirs the thick length of him inside you, pushing against your fluttering walls once more to resume the brutality. You know he’s marking time with every inch of him buried in your delicious cunt.
His lecherous smile widens, turning nearly feral as your thighs tighten around him, body arching into each deep grind. He leans down, breath hot against your ear like a beast eager to devour you.
“Cum on my cock,” he demands again, a hand coming up to fist in your hair. Not pulling, not hurting you… yet. Just holding you in place, making sure you don’t break eye contact. You can’t hide from the wild, desperate hunger in his eyes.
“You’ll take my fuckin’ cum,” he snarls, punctuating each word with a deep, brutal thrust. “You fuckin’ crave it, girl. Say it.” You whine as his hand closes around your throat, making your knees flinch around the back of his hips, reluctant to keep so close to him when he’s this vicious.
You begin nodding, needing the release anyway. “I want your cum! I want it all! Please!”
Chris feels a surge of triumph as your words reach his ears, your desperate, pleading cry piercing through the haze of lust clouding his mind. But to you, he looks as if he expected nothing less.
He just leans in and kisses you deep, beginning to suck every moan from your mouth before saying his final words. “My good, sweet girl,” he growls, voice raw and ragged. “Fuckin’ take it. Take every last fuckin’ drop.”
You cry out against his mustache as he slams into you with renewed fervor, hips pistoning at a bruising pace. The car shudders around you, metal screeching in protest as he fucks into you with abandon. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, sure to leave more dark bruises in the shape of his fingers.
He dives down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. It's not gentle, not loving. It's a claim, a branding. His tongue hotly invades your mouth, stroking against yours, tasting your tears and your cries. Swallowing your pleasure like it's his to own. If you could say anything, though, you’d tell him you’re close to cumming too. Your walls flutter around him, gripping his cock like a vice as he drives into you.
He can feel his release building, balls drawing up tight against his body with each brutal thrust. He's teetering on the edge of a precipice he's never known before.
“Fuck!” he roars, voice echoing in the confines of the car. “Fuck, I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna fuckin’ breed this sweet cunt. Fill you up until you're fuckin’ drownin’ in it!” His words dissolve into a litany of curses and praise against your mouth, a filthy prayer spilling from his lips as he slams into you with a final, brutal thrust.
There’s clear bruising on your cervix as your battered pussy clenches with your own orgasm. Your cunt flinches and shudders as your cunt spills wet, hot juice all over his lap.
“Ohhhh…” Chris groans at the feeling. Of you and him. He throbs deep, pulsing as he spills himself inside you. Hot, thick ropes of cum spurt in your pussy as he grinds into you, stirring his thick release into your core. Ensuring that every drop takes, that every single swimmer has a chance to find its mark.
He pants harshly, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Your chest heaves as he stays buried deep inside you, softening cock still twitching with the aftershocks of his intense release. He rolls his hips, grinding the thick load of cum deeper into your core. A shudder runs through him at the obscene sound of it sloshing inside you as he moves.
“Such a good girl, takin’ my load like that,” he praises lovingly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, wiping away the lingering tears. “You did so well, baby. Fuckin’ amazing.” He leans in, nose brushing against yours as he inhales deeply. Breathing in the scent of sex and satisfaction that clings to your skin. A fucked-out, blissful smile curves his lips.
You gently rub his cheek, thumb brushing the vivid cheekbone as you heavily gaze up at him like your knight in shining armor. “I could get used to this,” he confesses as he leans in, a hint of vulnerability in his gruff voice. “Could get real fuckin’ used to havin’ you like this. Always ready and waitin' for me.”
“Always?” You scoff, shaking your head. He just kisses you again, slower this time. Deeper. More tender. “Stay with me,” he murmurs against your lips. “Stay close. Don't you fuckin’ dare run off on me now.” Your own lips curve as you pant slowly, fingers smoothing out the collar of his shirt.
Chris huffs a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours. “Wouldn’t suit you anyway,” he says. “You’re already right where you belong.”
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | sneaking out for the first time led you to meet your husband whose fallen head-over-heels for you, spoiling you every chance allowed. rebellion, now, has transformed into a domestic obedience
𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 16k+
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 | fem pov, age-gap (20+ yrs), forced marriage, power dynamic present, fingering, consensual p in v, missionary position, doggystyle position, descriptions of smaller chest, non-virgin reader, creampies/breeding, lots and lots of cum
𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | i was gonna write something for valentines with miller, but i’m thinking of making it into something different… enjoy tommy, he’s a little out-of-character, but we’ll just say he’s lovestruck
(!) kinda proofread.
You shouldn’t have been there.
The thought followed you from your dressing table mirror all the way down Iron Row, and it clung to you like the perfume you’d generously dabbed at your throat. You planned your first outing as a young woman with precision, to dare past what your parents expected of you, what society expected of you.
In the mirror, you studied yourself with ruthless concentration. Everything felt new, or at least updated. Your hair, your dress, your demeanor. Tilting your chin higher, shoulders kept back, bosom propped up until you made yourself blush. Your eyes had to be half-lidded, not wide; wide meant young, naïve. You attempted boredom instead, leaning against the burle walnut with your chin resting in your palm.
Refined women, the women who belonged in dimly lit rooms, were bored, you decided. Nothing tonight would surprise or frighten you. Your eighteenth birthday was celebrated recently, you took it upon yourself to make sure you’d have nights like these and stories to tell, to whom you weren’t sure. A smile spread on your face as you looked at yourself in the mirror, and you knew your parents would turn ghastly pale if they saw you.
Peeking out of your doorway, you listened for any signs of suspicion. Your father’s house hummed quietly beyond the door, grandfather clock ticking in the hall, as if counting down the seconds before ultimate misbehavior. There was the faint clink of china as the maid cleared away supper, humming to herself a bit mindlessly.
You moved carefully, lifting the lid of your vanity as if it might have cried out. Red lipstick, borrowed from a schoolmate, was wrapped in tissue and hidden beneath your fur-lined gloves. You’d drawn the line slowly, steadying your wrist. Once, then again blotted.
Then, your eye makeup, it wasn’t meant to look natural, it was meant to shape. Smoky eyes weren’t meant for girls your age, they were mature, subtle.
The woman in the mirror stared back at you, with your large eyes and someone else’s mouth.
The dress was new as well, beautiful on your skin even if it was going to be covered by a mink coat. Your father would have called the neckline “smart.” Navy silk, bias-cut, backless. It fell in a line too fluid to be modest when you moved, and it clung when you breathed in. You bit your lip as it made you more aware of your body than Sunday dresses ever had.
Turning sideways, you looked at how the lamplight traced the curve of your hip. You swallowed, you looked older, old enough. With that knowledge, you began stepping out into the hallway, your heels held by your fingers as you tip-toed.
The large door to your father’s study was closed. A green banker’s lamp cast a hard circle of light across his ledger; columns of numbers marched in obedient lines beneath his pen. The scratch of nib on paper carried down the hall like a metronome.
You paused outside the doorway, shoes in hand, silk hem lifted clear of the rug.
He didn’t look up. Your father liked things that could be totaled. Contracts. Inventories. Losses. Reputation most of all. Reputation could be measured in handshakes and church pews and who nodded first on Coppersmith Lane. He did not account for daughters.
Another clock somewhere on the mantel chimed the quarter hour. Somewhere else in the house, you heard a page turn. You moved steadily
The gravel traitorously crunched under your heels as you crossed the garden. You paused by the hedge, heart hammering, waiting for a shout from an upstairs window that never came. The house remained pristine and respectable behind you. You turned your back on it anyway.
Iron Row stretched unfamiliarly ahead in long, uneven lines of brick and soot. Your mother always warned you to stay out of trouble, to not even think of traveling to the market. Factories exhaled all day; thick smoke and smog hung low, refusing to disperse. It had rained earlier that day, cobblestone, shining like fish scales beneath the lamps.
Your almond-toed heels sounded too sharp against them. Keeping your stride lengthened, you forced your shoulder back the way you practiced in the mirror. Keep your chin lifted, you thought. Eyes ahead, don’t glance. Women who belonged out at this hour didn’t dart their gaze over their shoulders for passerbys.
Men stood in open-lit doorways smoking. Feeling their gazes find you, a small part of you wanted to remind yourself this was for your better persona. One muttered something you pretended not to hear, something that made you pull your coat a bit tighter around yourself. The silk at your thighs whispered when you walked. Coppersmith Lane came into view. So did the Garrison.
It wasn’t like other buildings, it didn’t simply stand at the corner; it seemed planted there, stubborn as a taproot. Red brick dulled to brown by years of soot, windows bleeding light yet clouded with grime and nicotine. The glass was so dark it could have reflected the street instead of revealing the interior.
You slowed without meaning to. It wasn’t hesitation, you were assessing. From inside came the low thud of boots on boards, the dull percussion of laughter, the clink of glass. Smoke seeped from the seams around the doorframe, carrying the smell of beer and something metallic beneath it.
This moment was imagined by you with a certain elegance. In your mind, you would glide in confidently. A glance or two would follow. You would order something daring and sip it slowly, unimpressed. Instead, your stomach tightened so sharply you pressed your hand there, as if to hold yourself together.
You could’ve still turned back. Your father wouldn’t have known. The house would’ve swallowed you whole again. But you reached for the handle. The wood was worn smooth where countless palms had gripped it. It yielded under your hand with a reluctant groan. Heat hit you first. Heat and smoke.
The door shut behind you with a solid thud, and the sound of the street cut off like a curtain falling. Inside, the air was thick enough to chew. Sour ale soaked into the beams overhead. Greasy men and workers clung to the walls. Old wood, scarred and dark, held the memory of spills and fights and years of men leaning hard into it.
The floorboards dipped slightly toward the center of the room. The ceiling felt low. Lamps cast yellow halos that left the corners in shadow. The bar stretched along one wall, heavy oak polished by elbows rather than cloth. Behind it, shelves of bottles glinted through the haze. A narrow staircase rose toward the back, its railing worn smooth.
A dartboard hung crooked near the fireplace, where embers glowed beneath a mantle blackened by smoke. The hearth smelled faintly of peat and spilled porter. Conversation faltered at the scent of perfume, not stopped entirely, but changed.
You felt the shift ripple outward like a stone dropped into water. So extraordinarily foreign in a place you expected to not welcome, but to blend in. A man at a table near the door paused mid-sentence. Another leaned back in his chair, boot hooked over the rung, gaze traveling slowly upward from your shoes to your mouth.
Someone snorted softly. Someone else nudged a companion with an elbow. You kept walking. Drunken chatter resumed its course, though you could feel eyes staring into your back. Each step sank slightly into boards softened by decades of damp. Your heels made a different sound here, muted, swallowed. The silk at your hips brushed your stockings with a quiet hiss. The bar loomed closer.
Up close, the wood wasn’t glossy but layered, thick varnish over stains, over scratches. The edge bore shallow cuts where knives had once bitten. A dark stain near the corner had been scrubbed but not erased; the grain there ran darker. You placed your hands on the counter. It was sticky as the mug outside.
The varnish clung faintly to your palms, resisting when you shifted. The bar came just beneath your ribs. You adjusted your stance so you would not appear to be bracing yourself. The bartender approached without hurry as you slid your coat further down your bare back.
Broad shoulders. Sleeves rolled past his forearms. A towel draped over one shoulder like afterthought. His eyes slid over you once, shoes, hem, waist, mouth. They paused at your lipstick.
“What’ll it be?” he asked. His voice was flat, Birmingham through and through.
You swallowed carefully, as though swallowing steadied your voice. “Gin.”
One brow lifted a fraction. “Gin.”
You held his gaze. “Yes.” You were aware of every breath you took.
He reached for a glass from beneath the counter. It had been wiped, not washed; a faint ring lingered at the bottom. He filled it from a tap behind the bar, the water running cloudy before clearing. You wrapped your fingers around the glass. The condensation dampened your gloves.
Your father would never step foot in a place like this. He would speak of it in numbers; losses, risks, associations. He would shake his head at the recklessness of men who conducted business where fists flew.
Your first sip was harsh, burning your throat bittersweetly. At the illicit taste, you managed to cough a small amount back into your glass before clearing your throat. You were thankful that no one was paying attention to you for the first time since you walked in. Minutes passed slowly, you felt as though the night wouldn’t end.
Then the door opened.
A man beside you, who’d been laughing with his mouth wide and gums showing, stopped mid-note. The sound died in his throat as if he choked it down. You refused to turn, believing it to be, hopefully, another young lady.
A chair leg screeched and then settled. Someone cleared his throat. Glass met wood at the bar. Curiosity, piqued. You looked back, your eyes young and wide at the sight of two Peaky Blinders.
Thomas Shelby stepped over the threshold as if the air parted for him alone. Dark overcoat falling clean from his shoulders, the wool uncreased despite the grime of the street. Flat cap angled low, brim cutting a deliberate shadow over his eyes. His brother, you assumed, followed closely.
A cigarette burned between his fingers, smoke curling upward in a pale ribbon. You hadn’t seen him strike a match, he must prefer carrying them between his teeth. The ember glowed steadily, already halfway through.
The door closed behind them, unhurried. The men nearest the entrance shifted their weight back to clear a path. They knew something you didn’t, or maybe something you were afraid of.
You heard his name spoken in drawing rooms where heavy curtains rippled against walls and the decanters, crystal. Your father had once said it over supper, fork suspended midair. “Shelby.” Now he was here in the flesh, in your line of sight.
He didn’t look at you right away. He spoke to the barman first.
The barman straightened, wiping his hands on a rag already damp. “Evenin’, Mr. Shelby.”
Thomas removed one glove, finger by finger. “Evenin’.” His voice was low. Not loud enough to command the room. It didn’t need to be.
You should have looked away, you knew that. Instead, you stared. Not because he was handsome, though he was, in a severe, cut-glass way, but because there was something wrong about how still he seemed. As if the world moved around him and not the other way round.
Gin sat barely-started in your hand. The condensation of it dampening your glove. You came there alone, no chaperone, no driver outside, you and your feminine hubris. The Garrison had felt theatrical when you stepped in earlier, upon Thomas's arrival, it shrunk to a meek pub.
He spoke to someone at the back table without raising his voice. The man stood halfway from his chair, deferential without quite bowing. Shelby’s expression didn’t change, a murmur and a nod sufficed.
By then, conversation found another way to spark. Thomas took a slow drag from his cigarette, ember flaring. That may have been when you realized what unsettled you; his stillness. Not motionless, of course. He breathed and blinked, but no motion went wasted. He wasn’t young at all, no restless shifting or scanning.
Your father filled rooms, too, but he did it with volume. A booming voice and presence forced outward. This was much different, this was gravity.
Too late you became aware that you were staring. Too poorly did you attempt to correct it and lower your gaze with the excuse of idle observance.
Too slow. His eyes found you.
Blue. The color of winter river water beneath a thin sheen of ice. You felt it strike like a fingertip pressed against your throat. Your breath caught before you could prevent it. Heat crawled up the column of your neck, beneath the silk of your dress, pooling beneath the borrowed red on your lips.
Stop looking at him. Intimidation at its finest caused you to drop your gaze, eyes no longer half-lidded but shy, embarrassed at such a situation. But it was too late.
Unknown to you, that brief exchange was an assessment recorded. He didn’t blink away as other lecherous men had, he didn’t smirk or leer. He measured you. From beneath your lowered, dark lashes, you felt him take you in again.
The dress first, perhaps. Navy silk clinging to your waist and revealing where it shouldn’t cling to a girl who still had to ask permission to dine out alone. The fabric traced the lines of you too honestly. Your waist. The gentle rise of your hips. Not fullness. Not yet. Youth sharpened into something almost dangerous by intention alone.
Your hands, gloveless around a glass of amber gin, hands perched nervously as you trace the rim out of distraction. As if you didn’t want to seem innocent in your serving choice.
Your heels, good leather, wealthy leather. Polished, not purchased from a market’s stall. Your hair, cut a bit fashionably, but still extremely soft at the edges. As if changing times didn’t phase you just yet. Your skin unlined, unweathered. Roundness lingering in your cheeks, both pairs, that no amount of lipstick or dresswear could disguise.
He knew. You did not at all look like a child, but he’d seen too many women to mistake the difference between one who had chosen the night and one who had slipped out to taste it. His gaze returned to your face.
You felt the scrutiny linger on your mouth, the precision of a deep red. Not sloppily drawn. Careful, a girl’s attempt at a woman’s armor. Knowing his gaze lingered, you lifted your chin a fraction higher, as if daring him to contradict your mystique.
The corner of his mouth moved, barely. He took a drag of his cigarette without breaking his stare, smoke leaving his lips as he made out the lines of your back.
The room resumed its murmur around you, but the space between his eyes and yours held steady, taut as wire. You became acutely aware of your pulse, of the slight tremor in your fingers where they touched the glass. You set it down carefully to still them. The base clicked faintly against the wood.
Your throat felt tight. You swallowed against it and found your voice lodged somewhere below your ribs. Look away, you ordered yourself again. Instead, you met his gaze properly. Just for a heartbeat.
The world didn’t collapse. But something in your stomach dropped as if you had stepped off a curb you had not seen. His eyes sharpened with interest. He tilted his head slightly, studying you as though you were a ledger he meant to balance. The silence stretched long enough for you to feel the weight of it pressing against your skin.
You rose from the stool. The movement felt exaggerated, though you kept it smooth. Your knees threatened to betray you, but you locked them into cooperation. You smoothed your skirt down your hips, more to give your hands purpose than from necessity.
He watched every inch of it, every inch of you. You could feel the path of his gaze as you turned toward the door. Not possessive. Not yet. The handle felt cooler beneath your palm when you reached it. The noise of the room seemed muffled now, distant behind the pounding in your ears.
You stepped back out into the comfortable evening. Dusk clung to the street in bruised shades of purple and smoke. Gas lamps flickered to life along Iron Row, their glow catching the edges of still-wet cobblestone. The air tasted cleaner than the pub but no less heavy.
You drew in a breath that trembled despite your effort.
Your gloves were in your clutch. You fumbled them, fingers clumsy, silk snagging on your nails. You forced them on, tugging each one tight over your wrists as if they could restore order to your skin. Behind you, through the half-open door, the murmur resumed its normal rhythm.
Inside, he had not moved from his place at the bar. He didn’t turn his head to follow you or the full-glass of gin you left. He didn’t need to.
He took another drag from his cigarette, eyes still fixed on the doorway where you had disappeared, and spoke to Arthur in a tone so even it barely disturbed the air.
“Who’s that?”
Now, a month into marriage, you wake before him.
The room is dim, washed in the pale grey that creeps through Birmingham before the sun even commits to rising. Heavy curtains soften the cool morning light but don't keep it out entirely. It pools along the ceiling in thin ribbons, tracing plasterwork you have yet to memorize. The air smells faintly of starch and tobacco, even here, even in silk sheets that’re changed twice a week.
Thomas'ss arm rests across your waist. Not draped carelessly out of fatigue. It lies heavy and deliberate, palm flattened against your stomach as if testing him that you remain where he left you. Even in sleep, his fingers curl slightly, the tips brushing the soft silk of your nightgown. His body is warm at your back, solid. He breathes a steady rhythm in your neck, measured and slow.
You stare at the ceiling instead of turning to look at him. Your thumb traces over his scarred one, perhaps the only pattern you’ve recognized are the ones he’s acquired.
A month.
The ring, a navette-shaped marquise, presses cool against your finger where your hand rests on his. It catches on the sheet when you flex your fingers. You roll your wrist slightly and feel its weight, a small, polished diamond that seems denser in the mornings than it did at the altar. Thomas shifts, his face coming into your neck to breathe your hair.
Outside, a car rattles over cobblestone, more likely than not, one of his brother’s stopping by as they often did without protocol. The sound travels through the window glass, muted but distinct. Somewhere further in the courtyard, a man calls out, his voice carrying the flat vowels of early trade. The house is quiet, but not peaceful.
Even now, in the grey hush, there’s always a faint tension beneath the silence, like a wire pulled too tight. The pattering footsteps of old maids can be heard, but the younger ones are the ones who like to talk the most about you amongst themselves. A faint crunch of gravel as someone shifts their stance outside. There are always men at the gate, one near the door. They’ll tip their caps to you when you pass, step aside too. They too call you Mrs. Shelby with careful respect.
Turning your head slightly, you look down to see Thomas's eyelashes resting against his aged undereyes, from this perspective, you can count his gentle freckles. Your hip shifts a fraction beneath his arm, testing the small space between his hand and your waist. You feel his fingers tighten.
“Don’t.” The word is low, roughened by sleep, but it carries an intact edge. You pause, breath stilling halfway in your chest as his eyes slowly open. He doesn’t blink against the warm light seeping in. He simply looks at you, as though he’d been aware of you long before waking.
For a moment, Thomas says nothing. His hand remains on your stomach as he takes in your appearance graciously. His gaze moves slowly over your face in the quiet, hair loose and let-down around your shoulders, the crease at your brow you’d always seem to make when he raised his voice a decibel, and the faint shadow beneath your eyes from a sleep that’s not without overthinking.
Then, he leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering much longer than necessary. Though, his fondness is something you find hard to deny your pleasure to. Leaning in, your hand slides up to the side of his cheek, holding him against you as you sigh tiredly.
“You’re up early,” he says. His voice settles in now, pausing with gentle kisses that trail towards your jaw.
“So are you.” Your tone comes out steady, much steadier than you feel.
A faint curve touches his mouth as he hears the softness of your tone. “I wasn’t.”
He pushes himself onto one elbow, letting your arm fall slowly back down your stomach. The sheet slides down his chest, revealing pale, muscular skin scored with faint lines that catch the light, scars you’ve traced only once, carefully. Your eyes slowly make out his Forrard tattoo against his muscle. His hand remains at your waist.
He studies your expression, the way you’re leaned back against the soft linen, how your brows still curve as if you disobey. You hold his gaze, despite how easy it would be not to. It’d be simpler to look toward the window, out into the foggy morn, to play the role expected of you in this house with its high ceilings and low voices.
“You didn’t sleep,” he says, not a question. Thomas watches the way your hand holds onto the sheet as you bring it over your chest.
You turn on your back, looking up at him, cheek pressing against his bicep. He smells good, like his cologne. “I did.”
“You moved.” He corrects gently, a hand coming up to hold your cheek as you instinctively press against his palm. You swallow as he rubs your bottom lip. “Everyone moves.”
His thumb shifts slightly against your lips, the smallest deliberate motion. His gaze flick to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. “Not that much.”
The curtains stir faintly with the draft that seeps beneath the window. The light glows marginally stronger, outlining the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone. Mornings like this, Thomas looks less like a man just risen and more like one who’s resumed watch. He’s been like this since the wedding; attentive in affectionate ways.
He notices when your voice tightens at the sound of raised chatter downstairs, holding onto his sleeve as if you’re being the one scolded. When you pause too long at the window overlooking the garden, wondering what other views you can take in without being so domicile. When you linger near the door to the yard as if measuring the distance to the gate.
You once asked him, standing in his office with a subtle wall of paperwork between you.
“If you plan on leaving, at least take the carriage,” he’d replied without looking up from the whiskey he was pouring. You’d stood uncertain at the time, your hands fisted in your skirt under the assumed scrutiny.
Your hair was let down, just coming back from visiting the horses. “When may I?”
The amber liquid had caught the lamplight as he tilted the bottle. Thomas set it down with care, lifted the glass, and only then glanced in your direction. He looked as though he already knew where you’d end up. “Whenever you’d like.”
He took a sip, gaze already elsewhere. That had been the end of it.
You know now how quickly he moved after that first night at the Garrison. Arthur had been sent with instructions murmured too low for you to catch. Your family name gathered. Your school records and photos. Parish books, even. The value of your father’s contracts calculated as precisely as any bet placed on a horserace.
You remember the evening your parents called you into the sitting room. Both of them sitting across from one of the plush booths, maids peering in from behind open doorways. Your mother’s hands were clammy and damp where they clasped her skirt. She smoothed the fabric once, twice, then again, as if it refused to lie flat.
A letter had been opened, resting in your father’s clenching hand. He cleared his throat and refused to meet your eyes immediately. More concerned with how you met Thomas Shelby in the first place.
“He’s… an ambitious man,” your father had said, choosing the word like it might bruise if handled roughly. Ambitious. As though that accounted for the way neighbors lowered their voices when the name Shelby was spoken. As though ambition alone could empty a bookmaker’s till without argument.
You said no. First softly, the word barely rising above the ticking clock on the mantel. Then again with enough force that your father’s brows drew together, not in anger, but in something more complicated. The refusal felt unfamiliar on your tongue, as though it belonged to someone braver than you. It left a dryness behind, a faint tremor in your hands that you hid by folding them in your lap.
Your mother had crossed the room before the silence could settle properly. She took both your hands in hers and squeezed until your knuckles pressed together, her rings biting into your skin.
“He can offer security.” Her voice carried urgency beneath its gentleness. You could smell lavender water on her cuffs. You could see the faint sheen of worry along her upper lip.
Your mind had betrayed you then, conjuring the image of the Garrison door swinging inward. The way conversation thinned at the edges when he entered. The men outside who did not laugh, who did not fidget, who stood as if carved into place. You had heard, quietly and more than once, that he did not strike his wife. That he kept a clean house. That he provided.
A week later Thomas Shelby stood in your parents’ sitting room. Hat in hand, yes, but there was no bend in his spine. His overcoat was impeccably cut, dark wool falling in straight lines. The light from the window struck his profile and sharpened it further, cheekbones like something etched rather than formed.
His eyes moved across the room once, taking in the furniture, the framed certificates on the wall, the polished clock, and then settled on you. He declined the cigar your father offered with a small incline of his head. “Not just now,” he said, voice low and even.
He asked about your schooling. About the languages you’d studied. Whether you rode. Whether you enjoyed the theatre. Each question delivered as though he were assessing a ledger entry rather than conducting courtship. His tone remained polite, almost warm. He smiled at your mother at appropriate intervals, reassuring in a way that might have convinced anyone who did not know how to look beneath it. He didn’t once ask whether you wanted him. He didn’t need to.
When he rose to leave, your father walked him to the door. Their handshake lingered a fraction too long. Your father’s shoulders seemed narrower afterward, his hand remaining at his side as though it had been weighed down. Your mother’s smile trembled at the corners until she pressed it back into place.
The wedding followed before you could find another no.
The church smelled of polished wood and cold stone. White lilies lined the aisle, their sweetness heavy in the air, almost cloying. You remember the weight of your veil more than anything else. It brushed against your cheeks when you turned your head, soft but suffocating, muting the world at the edges.
He stood at the altar already, dark suit cut perfectly to his frame. The congregation parted around him without being told, a quiet radius of respect. When you stepped into view, his gaze lifted. It did not flicker. It did not widen in admiration or soften in tenderness. It held steady, blue and exacting, traveling from the crown of your head down the line of your veil, over the silk of your gown.
You felt it pause at your throat, where the pulse fluttered visibly beneath pale skin. Then lower, to the shape of you beneath lace and satin. He measured, then. You walked toward him on legs that felt both uneasy. Each step of your satin heels echoed against the stone floor. The organ hummed above you.
Eyes could be sensed from every direction, but his were the only ones that mattered. When you reached him, he took your hand gently. His grip was firm, not crushing, but decisive. His thumb settled against your knuckles as though fitting into a place already marked.
The vows moved past you in fragments. Obedience. Cherish. Honor. His voice didn’t waver, nor rush. Each word placed carefully, as if it were an agreement being signed rather than a promise offered.
When the time came, he lifted your veil himself. The lace caught briefly on your hair before falling back. His fingers brushed your cheek in the process, cool and controlled. For a moment, you were close enough to see the faint lines of his crows feet, the small scar near his temple.
He looked at you as though the room had emptied. The kiss was gentle, deep, tongue reminding itself to remain where it had been before.. His hand came to your waist, steadying you. His mouth pressed to yours with deliberate pressure, not searching but sealing. The contact lingered just long enough to establish something undeniable.
You felt the faint scrape of his teeth against your lower lip, the firm line of his jaw as he angled his head. Applause rose somewhere beyond you. He didn’t look away when he drew back.
That night, in a bedroom prepared for you by other hands, he closed the door with quiet finality. The house had hummed with voices and celebration downstairs, but up there it was contained, insulated from the world. He removed his jacket first, folding it over the back of a chair with methodical care.
His movements were unhurried, controlled, as though there were no audience left to impress. When he approached you, he didn’t seize. You were frightened, of the thought of being in private with him more dangerous. Thomas touched your face with his fingertips, tracing the curve of your cheek as if reacquainting himself with something already chosen.
His gaze searched yours for a fraction longer than usual, not asking, not apologizing, simply confirming. When he kissed you then, it was slower. Less for display. His hand slid from your jaw to your shoulder, easing you back onto the mattress without force. He moved with restraint, as though aware of the difference in years, in experience, in certainty.
There was weight to him, yes, but also precision. He didn’t want to overwhelm you, he wanted to guide you. Even if tears burned down your cheeks, he was careful. Not gentle in the way of novels whispered about by girls at school, but deliberate.
He watched your face closely, adjusting himself when your breath hitched too sharply, when your fingers tightened against his sleeve. His voice, when it came, was low and brief. “I’ve got you.”
Your gaze flicks back towards Thomas now.
He’s shifted closer without you noticing the exact moment it happened, not that you would’ve sunken back, you don’t do that anymore. His breath reaches you now, warm, faintly laced with tobacco and sleep, brushing the curve of your cheek each time he exhales.
“You’re thinkin’,” he says, fingers resting against your forehead as he plays with your hair. His voice is quiet, but there is no laziness in it. Even in this half-light, even with the imprint of the pillow still faint along his temple, he sounds alert.
“I usually am,” you murmur. The words come softer than you intend. Your throat feels tight from holding too much inside.
His eyes never leave your face. His thumb shifts where it rests against your waist. Slowly. The pad of it traces a line just beneath your ribs, not quite a caress, not quite idle movement either. He follows the rise and fall of your breathing as if he’s decided belongs to him.
“About what?” Nothing in his question is impatient, and that’s what makes your pulse stutter under his hand.
You tell yourself it’s because he’s watching you so closely. Because he’s always watched you this way, as though waiting for the smallest fraction in your composure. “Nothing worth losing sleep over,” you say softly.
Thomas's gaze sharpens at that. You feel it like a shift in pressure. As if you’ve said something worth causing aggravation. “Sleep isn’t what you’re losing, love,” he replies.
His thumb drifts again, lower this time, mapping the narrow line where silk meets skin. The touch is unhurried, testing. You feel heat gathering beneath it, blooming outwards in quiet betrayal. Your hand meets his, holding it gently as he leans in, kissing your collarbone.
“You think too much in the mornings,” he says. His hand, holding yours, slides from your waist to your hip, fingers spreading slightly as if to anchor you there. He leans in further, his forehead nearly brushing yours. The air between your mouths thins. “You wake up, already halfway gone,” he murmurs.
“Gone where?” His gaze drops to your lips. He doesn’t answer immediately. The pause stretches just long enough for your stomach to tighten.
“Somewhere I can’t see.”
You search his face for mockery finding none, just steady blue, but threaded now with something else. Not softness. Something more guarded than that. Something he doesn’t name.
“You see enough,” you say as your gaze lowers, though the admission comes out less certain than you mean it to.
He hums faintly in his throat, unconvinced. His hand leaves your hip only to cup your jaw instead. His fingers are cool at first against your skin. His thumb presses lightly just beneath your ear, tilting your face upward.
“I see what’s mine,” he says. The words settle low in your stomach, heavy and warm.
“And what’s that?” you ask, a playful lilt in your tone. You do not know why you push him. Perhaps to hear how far he’ll go.
“This,” he says simply. His mouth closes the space between you.
The kiss begins as pressure. His lips brush yours once, testing, before returning with more intent. His hand remains firm at your jaw, guiding the angle. You feel the slow exhale he releases through his nose as your mouth parts beneath his, how his tongue lathes over yours salaciously. There’s no rush in him. He takes his time, as though proving something neither of you has said aloud.
His other hand slides back to your waist, fingers curling into the silk of your nightgown, drawing you closer until your body aligns with his. Your hand finds his shoulder without thinking. The muscle beneath your palm is solid, warm. He deepens the kiss gradually, not demanding, but coaxing. The slow drag of his lower lip against yours sends a shiver down your spine.
When he pulls back, it’s only enough to look at you. To take in your flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Your breathing is uneven now. You hate that he notices. You hate more that you know he does.
“There,” he says softly. The word almost to himself. His thumb brushes your lower lip, wiping away the faint smear of color left from last night’s lipstick. “Still here.”
His gaze holds yours a moment longer, searching for something you can’t name. Then his mouth curves faintly, and he leans down again, this time without hesitation, without pause, kissing you with a depth that leaves no room for distance, only the slow, deliberate surrender of breath and thought and the fragile illusion of escape.
The morning light strengthens, cascading in pale bands across the sheets. It outlines the planes of his cheekbones and catches in his eyes, sharpening the blue to something almost metallic. His thumb lingers at your jaw before he releases you, pushing himself upright. The day begins around him quickly.
But by evening, the estate has settled into a different kind of quiet. One that’s domestic, far away from the world of business.
You’re brushing through your hair at the vanity as the fireplace snaps softly from behind the grate, sending up small bursts of amber that flicker against the walls. The curtains are drawn tight against darkened cobblestone, thick velvet muting the nighttime of the outside world to a distant hum. The air carries the faint tang of his cigarettes, woven into the starch of freshly pressed linen and the polish of old wood.
Gentle fingers rest lightly against the edge of the mahogany wood, surface gleaming beneath the lamplight, smooth enough to mirror gold and shadow in molten streaks. Your reflection hovers in the glass, bare shoulders above the neckline of your evening dress, the delicate band of your wedding ring catching the light as your hand shifts.
Your breathing is visible in the slight rise and fall at your collarbone. You tell yourself your expression is composed, that you’re more developed than the mirror shows.
Behind you, the door clicks shut. You don’t turn. You always know when Thomas enters a room. The air adjusts, tightening a fraction. The fireplace seems to steady its crackle.
Even the quiet rearranges itself. His shoes make almost no sound against the persian rug, yet you feel him cross the space between the door and your back. It is not noise that announces him. “Stay there,” Thomas says. Low, even. Not a request.
Your fingers tighten slightly on your brush, feeling the warmth of your hold against the handle. On the polished surface before you lies no velvet box tonight. No hinged lid waiting to be lifted. You swallow as he approaches, looking up at him in the reflection before he whispers under his breath. “Beautiful girl.”
Thomas's eyes linger on yours through the looking glass. He steps in close behind you, hands finding your waist without hesitation, palms settling with unerring familiarity. Heat seeps through the thin fabric of your dress. He doesn’t grip. His thumbs press lightly into the curve of your sides before sliding upwards.
Shivering as he traces up your gown, over the sides of your breasts before pulling something from his sleeve. A necklace. The soft gold catches in the lamplight deliberately. A heart-shaped locket, heavy enough that you can sense its weight even from his palm.
“Thought you’d like something a little less mature, love,” he murmurs. The words brush the shell of your reddening ear, the faint rasp of his voice vibrating through you. Less mature.
Your gaze flickers towards your own reflection. The locket gleaming as he dangles it between his thick index and middle finger. You almost smile at the phrasing; as if you’re not already his wife, as if the ring on your finger doesn’t already gleam with olden finality.
His breath drifts into your hair. Thomas inhales slowly, the scent of Lady York lingering as his chest expands against your back. He likes to do that sometimes before he leaves in the morning, too. As though carrying something of yours with him into smoke-filled rooms and threatening deals.
Thomas's right hand, the one not holding the locket slips onto your side unhurried. He rubs your hip, tracing the laced edge of your chemise slip beneath your evening gown. Slowly, Thomas traces higher until reaching your ribs, rubbing the expanse of fabric below your ample breast.
You feel your pulse quicken before you can stop it, his hand has already found your pulse at your neck. A faint breath of amusement warms your hair. “Still fast,” he says quietly.
You lift your chin, eyes focusing on his through the mirror. “You startle me.”
“I don’t.” He says it calmly, almost conversationally, and the certainty in it sends a different kind of shiver through you. The acknowledgement makes you smile.
“Let me, love,” he adds. You lower your hands without argument.
The necklace is cooler than you expect when he picks it up. The chain whispers faintly as it slips between his fingers, metal sliding against skin. He brings it around your neck, his knuckles brushing the sensitive hollow at your nape.
You instinctively tilt your chin further upward, exposing your throat.
The clasp clicks shut with a quiet, decisive sound. He doesn’t withdraw. Instead, his hands linger at the base of your neck. One thumb drifts forward, guiding the locket until it rests precisely at your collarbone. The gold warms quickly against your skin, the weight settling into place as though it has always belonged there. You look at it in the mirror.
Ornate without excess. The engraved lines catch the light in sharp, deliberate patterns; your initial and his in cursive script. Behind you, his eyes lift to meet yours in the reflection.
The bedroom holds its breath. His gaze doesn’t wander the way other men’s might. It fixes onto the way your lips curve in a gentle smile. At the knowing of his subtle claim, charming you with delicacies. There’s something almost reverent in it, and beneath that, something far more possessive.
“Perfect girl,” he murmurs, the words escaping like a thought not meant to be heard.
Your throat tightens. His hands slide from your shoulders down to your waist again, fingers spreading wide as if reacquainting themselves with territory already claimed. Thomas draws you back against him until the line of your spine aligns with his chest. The steady beat of his heart can be felt through his shirt.
You search your reflection. The locket gleams against your throat, a bright, deliberate heart resting where your pulse beats strongest. Lamplight slides across its engraved edges, catching in the hollow at the base of your neck. Your cheeks hold a faint flush that deepens when you tilt your chin. Your lips are parted slightly, softened by his earlier kiss, though you don’t remember parting them.
You don’t see the girl who stood at the Garrison bar with borrowed lipstick and a practiced stare. You see someone composed. Chosen.
His mouth brushes your cheek, then the angle of your jaw. The kisses are unhurried, measured. Each one placed with quiet precision, as though he is charting territory only he understands. His breath warms the sensitive skin beneath your ear before his lips follow, slow and deliberate.
“I’ll give you the world if you ask for it, princess,” he murmurs. The endearment lands softly, almost tender.
His hands tighten fractionally at your waist, drawing you back until your spine presses fully against him. You feel the steady beat of his heart through the layers of fabric. His thumb drifts along the curve of your hip, then stills.
“I’ll give you anything,” he continues. The words settle between you, heavy and sincere in their own way.
The fire shifts in the grate with a sharp snap, sending a scatter of sparks upward. You watch them in the mirror for a moment, their brief flare and fade. His mouth lingers at your neck, then pauses. You feel his breath change.
“And what would you ask for?” he asks quietly, his lips gently pressing against your pulse.
You consider the gold at your throat. The silk at your waist. The warmth of him behind you. You think of the house with its tall windows and guarded gates. Of shopkeepers who bow their heads and neighbors who lower their voices.
Your fingers lift slightly, brushing the locket as if to test its weight. Thomas moves up from behind you, his arms encircling your waist.
“I don’t know,” you admit.
He exhales softly, almost through his nose, and the sound brushes your hair. “That’s because you’re tryin’ to think of the right answer.”
Your gaze flicks to his in the mirror. He watches your reflection, not the jewelry. “Is there one?”
“There usually is.” His hand leaves your waist and slides upward, not possessive now but guiding. His fingertips skim your shoulder, then your collarbone, tracing the line just above the locket.
“You don’t have to stand so straight all the time,” he says after a moment, before chuckling against your scalp. “It’s like you’re imitating me.”
The remark catches you off guard. “I’m not-”
“You are.” There’s no accusation in it. Only certainty.
“You walk into a room like you’re negotiating terms.” His mouth curves faintly. “Chin up. Eyes level. Measuring.”
Thomas slowly begins massaging your shoulders as you huff, a small pout threatening to reveal itself to him as your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You feel heat rise along your throat, though his tone is mild.
“I don’t want to look foolish.”
“You don’t.”
The response is immediate. His hand slides down your arm, taking your wrist gently. He turns you toward him, not sharply, just enough that you have to meet his eyes without the mirror between you.
“You don’t have to be so grown all the time,” he says. The words are quiet.
You search his face for mockery and find none. Only that steady focus. “You think I’m pretending,” you say carefully, “like I’m some unmannered... temptress.”
He smiles with his teeth and shakes his head, lowering his stroking fingers until reaching your smaller hand. “I think,” he replies, brushing his thumb across the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters, “that you’re trying to be someone you aren’t.”
The room feels warmer, the he fire humming behind you. You’re aware of how young your skin looks in his, the flesh smooth, the veins faint beneath it. You look down at both of your silver bands barely touching each other, the sacred covenant they entail.
“I’m your wife,” you remind him softly.
His gaze warms a fraction, not in weakness, but in consideration.
“You are,” he agrees. “That doesn’t mean you have to carry the whole world on your shoulders yet.”
Yet. The word lingers. He lifts your hand slightly, studying the ring there. His thumb circles the band once, thoughtfully.
“You’re allowed to laugh too loud,” he says. “To want things that aren’t sensible. To ask for sweets instead of diamonds.”
A faint crease appears between your brows. “You bought me a diamond bracelet last week.”
“I did.”
“And now you’re telling me to ask for sweets?”
He huffs a quiet breath that might be amusement. “I’m telling you,” he says, stepping closer, “that I don’t need you to be anything but what you are.”
Your gaze drops briefly to the space between you, to the line of his tie, the rise of his chest. “And what is that?” you ask.
He tips your chin up with two fingers, not commanding, steady. The fire has settled into a patient glow by now, embers sending up tiny sparks that die against the chimney. You can feel the locket’s weight against your throat with each shallow breath you take, a small, hot presence at the base of your neck where silk meets skin.
“You’re young,” he says simply. “Be young.”
The tone surprises you, carrying none of the ledger’s economy you’d come to expect from him. It isn’t the blunt currency of bargain; it sounds, oddly, protective. You search his face for the usual hard geometry, the absence of irony leading you to his intimate stare.
“I don’t want to seem like…” You drift, quieter now. You feel ridiculous voicing them, as if confessing a private practice of disguise.
Sometimes, you’d been careful on purpose; a lifted chin, slow smiles, and practiced indifference you’d learned from Thomas at parties. For him, it’s armor, for you, a costume.
“You won’t,” he assures you with a swift and gentle turn of your bodice to face him. His hand moves to your waist, gentler this time. His thumb brushes the edge of the locket, letting it sway slightly against your skin.
“Stop trying to look older than you are,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Your breath catches.
“What does?” you ask, wanting to see whether he’ll answer with more contract talk or with something that belongs only to you. He laughs then, a sound that surprises you as it softens the line at his mouth. It’s low, private, like a thing meant for safes.
“This,” he says, and when the single word falls it comes with the light movement of his hands: not letting go, but opening enough that you can read the shape of his meaning.
He tips your chin up with the pad of his thumb, exposing the pale line of your throat, the place where the locket nestles warm. “Not all the time,” he adds quickly, as if he fears being mistaken for a fool with sentiment.
“Not that you should throw things away. But laugh louder, love.” His hands come to hold your shoulders, squeezing them together.
“Wear the color you like without counting the years. Dance in the kitchen at two in the damn morning if it pleases you. Let someone else be sure for a while, let me take care of it all.”
You feel heat, embarrassment, maybe, and something stranger like relief, rising behind your ribs. The offer of small rebellions sounds almost dangerous when it comes from Thomas; from the man whose name shapes the town and whose presence can make a room full of men hush.
How can you accept the liberty he proposes without conceding that you had, up to now, been playing a part he or anyone else could interpret at will?
“So, not always grown?” you say, testing the way the words fit in your mouth. You let your voice wobble on the last syllable deliberately, watching his reaction.
“Not always,” he agrees.
He slides his hand up through the hair at the nape of your neck and presses his forehead against yours. The motion closes the distance between thought and action; a small, private collusion.
His breath warms the hollow of your ear. “Be reckless in ways that don’t ruin you,” he whispers. “I’ll cover the rest.”
There it is again, that promise that feels like a shelter.
Your laugh comes out before you can stop it, brittle and honest, and he matches it with a smile that softens his whole face. You let your hands leave your lap and splay against his chest, feeling the steady beat there, a counterpoint to the panic you’d learned to keep at bay.
“There’s my spoiled girl.” Thomas smiles, kissing you quickly.
The words brush over you in a tone that might be teasing, but the way his hand tightens at your waist makes it something else, something indulgent, edged with ownership.
You feel the laugh fade from your mouth, though the warmth the kiss sparked still lingers in your chest.
“I don’t recall being spoiled,” you reply warmly, though your voice carries less bite than intended.
Your palms are still spread against his chest, fingers grazing the line of his waistcoat. The fabric warm beneath your hands, faintly scented with tobacco and starch. You can feel the steady thud of his heart under the layers, unhurried, certain. His eyes drop to your mouth before lifting again.
“No?” he murmurs, as though considering it. “You laugh at me. You question me. You look at me like I owe you something.” His thumb traces the seam of your bodice, slow and deliberate.
“That’s not how most people stand in front of me.” The reminder slides between you like a blade wrapped in velvet.
You tip your chin slightly higher, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Perhaps you should stop standing so close.” He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, not quite a laugh.
Instead of stepping back, he leans in, pressing the line of his body more firmly to yours. The contact steals the air from your lungs in small, controlled sips. His hand moves from your waist to the laces at your back, fingers testing the knot there without undoing it.
“Stay,” he says softly.
The request settles in your stomach. Not an order barked across a room. Just that low, even tone meant for you alone. You become acutely aware of every inch of yourself, the way your shoulders draw in, the rise and fall of your breathing, the faint tremor in your hands as they hover uncertainly at your sides.
His fingers work the laces loose with practiced patience. Each tug loosens the bodice a fraction, the fabric easing its grip on your ribs. You feel the heat of him close behind you, feel his breath ghost across the exposed skin at the nape of your neck.
“You hold yourself too tight,” he murmurs, more to the stubborn laces than you. “Even now.”
“Maybe I have reason,” you whisper, though the protest lacks force.
The gown slackens further, and you draw a deeper breath than you had all evening. It feels almost indecent, the way relief mingles with anticipation.
The dress slips from your shoulders under his guidance, careful hands catching the fabric before it can pool at your feet. He sets it aside with an attention that surprises you, smoothing it over the back of a chair as though it were something precious rather than an obstacle.
When his hands return to you, they don’t rush, they skim along your arms, down to your wrists, then back up, mapping the shape of you as if reacquainting himself with a claim he had already made.
You turn back to face him, suddenly unwilling to remain half-hidden. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the measured way his gaze moves from your face downward and back again, lingering without apology.
“You don’t look spoiled now,” he says quietly.
“What do I look like, then?” you ask, though your voice comes softer than before.
He steps closer, closing the last inches of space between you. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing lightly beneath your lower lip.
“My wife,” he answers, not as a boast, not as a threat, but as a simple fact he expects the world to accommodate.
The word sends a slow warmth down your spine, pooling low and insistent. You reach for him, fingers moving to the buttons of his waistcoat. If he notices the slight tremor in your touch, he doesn’t comment. He only watches, eyes hooded, as you work each button free.
The fabric parts under your hands, revealing the crisp linen of his shirt beneath. “You’re staring,” you murmur.
“Mm.” His hands slide to your hips, drawing you closer until the layers between you feel negligible. “I’m allowed.”
You roll your eyes, but the gesture lacks conviction. The final button comes undone, and you push the waistcoat from his shoulders. He shrugs out of it easily, letting it fall wherever it lands.
Your fingers move to his collar next, loosening it, tugging it open just enough to expose the line of his throat. His breath changes. It deepens, roughened slightly, though his hands remain steady.
“Careful,” Thomas warns, but the word carries no real restraint.
“Be foolish sometimes,” you echo softly, meeting his gaze with a challenge that makes his mouth curve.
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead he bends and captures your mouth in a kiss that carries underlying desperation. His hands slide up your back, fingers splaying wide.
You feel the shift in him, the protective promise giving way to something more immediate, more urgent. Not careless, never that, but eager in a way that makes your pulse stutter, yet again. When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at you, to take in the flush rising along your cheeks, the quickened rhythm of your breath.
“Bed,” he says quietly, the single word thickened by want.
You don’t argue. Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him carry you, the fire casting long shadows against the walls as the night folds in around you.
Thomas’s breath steadies against your neck, not yet ragged with desire, but measured with control. The kind of control that makes you anticipate this moment more than any demand or threat.
His fingers trace the line of your stocking where silk meets skin, following the seam with the same precision he uses when he studies ledgers. The touch is unhurried. As though confirming something he already owns.
“Relax.” It’s not a request. Your spine stiffens its arch anyway.
The mattress dips beneath his knee as he shifts closer, and his other hand slides to your lower back, broad palm spreading, anchoring you where you sit. He doesn’t force you down. He hardly needs to. The pressure is firm enough to remind you of the size of him, the certainty of him.
You become acutely aware of the difference in years, in experience. The ring on your finger feels heavier in this light. You’ve been married scarcely long enough for the housemaids to stop staring at you with curiosity.
He’s been a husband before. He knows how this goes.
His mouth brushes your neck. Not quite a kiss. The warmth lingers without claiming. He inhales, and for the first time, you catch the faint shift in him, the restraint drawing tight beneath his skin.
“Steady yourself, love.”
You swallow. “I am steady.”
His thumb slides a fraction higher along your thigh, testing the truth of that. Your breath betrays you before your pride can intervene.
“Look at me.” The command from him is soft. You turn your head, and his eyes meet yours in the dim glow of the fire. They’re not wild. As if he’s gauging not just your reaction, but his own. There’s whiskey and smoke on his breath, but there’s also hesitation, faint but real, flickering beneath the surface like something he does not allow many to see.
“You understand what this is,” he says, quieter now. Not a question. Not quite a statement. Your heart beats hard enough that you feel it in your throat.
“Marriage,” you answer carefully.
Thomas’s jaw tightens. “More than paper.”
His hand moves higher, not invasive, not abrupt, but with a certainty that leaves no room for pretending innocence. He watches your face as he does it. Every shift of your mouth. Every hitch in your breath. He doesn’t look away.
“Don’t make this something it isn’t,” he says. His forehead lowers until it rests briefly against yours. The contact is startling in its softness. “I won’t hurt you, sweetheart.” The promise is simple.
Your hands rise slowly, almost cautiously, until your fingers brush his jaw. The stubble there scratches your palm. He stills at the touch. It is the smallest pause, but you feel it.
“I know,” you whisper. Something in his expression flickers. Relief, perhaps. Or something closer to fear.
He kisses you, not with hunger, not yet. It’s slower than before. His mouth moves against yours with restraint, as if he is reminding himself that you aren’t a conquest to be taken, but a wife to be kept.
“You belong here,” he murmurs, the words almost inaudible. “With me. To me.”
His lips finally touch your neck again, this time with more intent. The kiss is soft but insistent, a brand. A promise. His grip tightens briefly in your hair, then loosens, fingers smoothing the strands back into place as though correcting himself.
“You’re my girl,” he says against your lips, the words roughened by something deeper than desire.
You hesitate only a heartbeat before answering. “I’m your girl.”
Your mouth parts beneath his, from the simple fact that you forget to guard yourself in time. He feels it. The shift is immediate, though subtle. His inhale falters as his tongue weighs onto yours. His hand tightens in your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough that you feel the decision in it. His composure does not shatter outwardly. It draws inward, condenses, like heat forced into a smaller space.
“Greedy,” he murmurs against your mouth.
There’s no mockery in it. If anything, the word lands closer to approval. He kisses you deeper, and the restraint he has been wearing all evening thins to something transparent. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, slow, testing.
When you respond, tentative at first, then with more certainty, his breath roughens. He lowers you back against the mattress without breaking the kiss, one hand braced beside your head, the other still threaded in your hair as though he needs the anchor. The weight of his body hovers, controlled. He doesn’t collapse his hips onto yours.
The firelight flickers across his face, catching the hard angles of his cheekbones, the scar at his temple. His eyes search yours with a look you have seen across boardroom tables and over betting slips.
There’s hesitation.
“You want more, love?” he asks. His voice low, stripped of the sharpness he uses with other people. Your throat feels dry. You nod anyway.
For a moment he just watches you, as if testing whether you understand the weight of that answer. Then he exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, but not amused.
“Christ,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
He shifts, settling between your thighs with care. The pressure is deliberate, his body aligning with yours in a way that makes your breath hitch. He pauses there, giving you space to push him away if you choose to. You don’t.
Your hands hover uncertainly at his shoulders before gripping the fabric of his shirt. His palm slides along your hip, thumb pressing into the curve as though steadying both of you. He moves with patience that feels heavier than urgency ever could.
When his fingers slip beneath the hem of your chemise skirt, the contact is warm, unhurried. He traces the edge of your stocking again, following it upward inch by inch, giving you time to feel every second of it.
“You’re trembling,” he says quietly.
You are. The tremor runs through your thighs and into his hand.
“Not afraid,” you manage softly. His mouth tilts slightly. It’s not the sharp, public smile. This one is smaller. Private.
“Good,” he says. “Because I won’t rush.”
There’s something in that tone that makes your chest tighten. He leans down and kisses you again, slower now. His lips move with a kind of concentration, as if memorizing the shape of your mouth.
When his hand slides higher, skimming the delicate edge of your undergarments, both of you go still. The air shifts. His breath catches audibly. His eyes lift to yours, and for the first time tonight, you see something unguarded there. Not lust alone. Something closer to uncertainty.
“Tell me you want me,” he says.
The words aren’t possessive. They’re raw.
“I do,” you whisper.
His eyes search yours one last time, as if he expects the answer to change. When it doesn’t, something inside him settles. Not completely. Thomas Shelby doesn’t surrender completely to anything. But enough.
The words settle into him like a benediction. His shoulders relax incrementally, the tension that's been coiled in them for hours finally easing. He doesn’t rush. That’s not in his nature when it comes to you, but he doesn’t hold back either.
His fingers slip beneath the delicate edge of your lacy undergarments, and the touch is as if he's afraid of breaking something precious. You’re wet, not sopping, but damp.
“Fuck,” he mutters, the curse soft against your skin.
His other hand slides down your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your chemise. He pulls you closer, aligning your bodies with a precision that speaks to years of careful planning, even this.
Even intimacy with him feels calculated in some fundamental way, as if he's mapped out every possible reaction. As his fingers trace the soft outline of your slit through the chemise, he breathes out slowly through his nose, jaw clenched as though fighting some internal war.
“Tell me again,” he says, his lips brushing your ear.
“Tell me you want me. Not the idea... Not what I could be for you.”
His other hand’s thumb presses against your throat, and you feel him take hold of your neck, pressure emitting a breathy moan from your lips. “You. All of you,” you whimper, and mean it.
His breathing hitches. For a moment, his control slips; you see it in the way his hand trembles against your cunt, the way he presses his forehead to yours.
“Sweet girl,” he breathes, the word strangled.
His fingers sink deep into your cunt, making you whine as his thick knuckles curl into your sweet depths. Thomas feels you lean into his neck, your small hands clutching at his shirt like a stretching cat. The sound you make, soft and helpless as your nails gently claw his back, it does something to him. Something he doesn't have a name for.
Thomas’s digits are fully inside you now, knuckles pressing into your tight walls, the feeling of your wetness almost overwhelming to him.
He’s seen bodies before. Used them for his own pleasure when the loneliness consumed him.
But this is different. It’s you.
He holds you tighter, the arm wrapped around you pulling you flush against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong against your ribs. The scent of him fills your senses.
“Shhh,” he murmurs against your hair, though you’re not sure what’s troubling you more. The unfamiliar fullness or the way he’s looking at you in a way you’ve never been before.
He shifts his fingers inside you, watching your face in the flickering firelight. The shadows play across his sharp cheekbones, his jaw, that scar at his temple. You look up at him, whimpering soft noises.
He looks like a man who's seen hell and survived it. You wonder if this, you, are part of his salvation or another layer of damnation.
“You're squeezing tight,” he breathes, the admission small and rare. His thumb finds your clit, stroking with a gentleness that's almost contradictory to the rough man he is in every other moment.
“Thomas,” you gasp.
He kisses the top of your head, holding you like you might break if he moves too fast. His arm slides down from your throat to encircle your waist, holding your elbows behind your back as he grips you.
“I know, sweetheart.”
He feels you tighten around his fingers, your body trying to accommodate him with small, fluttering movements that make his breath catch. He adds another finger, pushing in slowly, deliberately, giving you time to adjust.
“Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his lips against your ear. His words are rough, sincere in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
You write gently as his wrist rotates gently, the obscenity of his actions blurring into his gentle cradling of your back. It’s as if there’s a knot of fire within your core, something unfamiliar, something you didn’t allow yourself to feel the night of your wedding.
“So perfect. Taking me like you were made for it.”
His hand tangles deeper in your hair, holding your head steady as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. Not that he’d ever say it aloud, but his grip tightens, possessive and desperate in a way that has nothing to do with domination and everything to do with need. He slides his fingers in and out of you slowly, testing, preparing.
You can feel him watching your face in the firelight, studying every expression that crosses your features. There’s something raw in his eyes, a vulnerability he rarely shows, like he's checking in with you, making sure you’re still with him.
“Tell me if you need me to stop, yeah?,” he says, though his voice suggests he’s terrified of the answer being yes.
Nodding, a small whimper escapes from your throat. His thumb brushes over your clit again, and your hips buck off the mattress involuntarily. He groans at the sight, low and guttural.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing you again, deep and hungry, as if he can't get enough of you. His fingers move faster now, scissoring inside you, stretching you open for what's coming next.
“You're going to take all of me, aren’t you?”
Your breath is a sweet hum in his mouth as your voice tinges with soft whining. You nod, his lips still attached to yours with a connection that borders manic.
“Mmm… Yes, Tommy,” you manage breathlessly.
Thomas hears you say his name like that, Tommy, and something in him cracks completely. “Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, his fingers sinking deeper, faster.
He watches your face, the way your eyes go hazy and unfocused, the way your lips part around his name. It's a sight he’ll burn into his memory.
His thumb presses harder against your clit now, rubbing in slow circles that make your thighs tremble. He feels you clenching around his fingers, your body getting ready to come for him. The thought makes his breath hitch. “Come for me,” he commands softly, his lips trailing down your neck.
His voice cracks on the words. “Come 'round my fingers like a good girl.”
Knowing you’re both so vastly different in age makes him feel a wave of guilt so sharp it almost hurts. You’re so young. So perfect. So good for him in a way that feels almost obscene. But looking at you, watching you trust him with this, with your body, with your pleasure, he can't find it in himself to regret it.
“You're mine,” he whispers, his free hand sliding from the grip he has on your elbow into the dip of your waist, cupping your breast through your chemise. His thumb brushes over your nipple, feeling it harden under his touch.
You arch as he roughly gropes your chest, looking away with a hot flush on your cheeks before feeling him press open-mouthed kisses to your neck, up to your soft cheek.
“My sweet girl.”
His fingers move with increasing urgency now, and you can feel him hard against your thigh, can feel the tension building in his shoulders, the way his jaw is clenched tight. He's fighting himself, trying to hold back, but you're too perfect, too willing, too his.
“Tell me you're mine,” he demands, nipping at your earlobe. “Say it while I fuck your little cunt with my fingers.”
Your cheeks flush with heat as you whimper quickly, “y-yours…”
Your orgasm is at the brink, and when Thomas slowly arches his fingers, you cum on his hand. He watches you unravel, your body shuddering and clenching around his fingers in waves that make his breath catch. The sight of you, so lost in pleasure, so utterly his, does something to him that he’ll never be able to part from.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, watching your glistening cunt gush out onto his wrist. Your knees are shaking at the edge of the bed as you huff, your stockings hanging from your ankles like soft chains.
“Tommy,” you huff, eyes brimming with overstimulated tears as he cradles you in his muscular arm, rubbing your back as you whine.
“Look at you. So perfect. So mine.”
He pulls his coarse fingers out slowly, one by one, and you feel the emptiness like a physical ache. But then he holds his hand up, showing you what you’ve done to him, his fingers sopping with your wetness, slick and shining in the firelight.
“You see this, love?” His voice is rough, filthy, as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you. His eyes are dark, possessive.
“This is you, sweet girl. My gorgeous wife.” The sucking noises he makes on his own digits are obscene and embarrassing, his cheeks hollowing as he watches your expression.
When he’s finished lapping up your remnants of arousal, his rough hands gently begin at the edge of your chemise. You close your eyes before feeling him pinch the edge of your shirt, lifting it over your head before watching your chest rise and fall, nipples perked from arousal.
Thomas looks down at you, watching your chest rise and fall beneath his palms. Your nipples are pinkened and swollen, your skin flushed in the firelight, and he can't help but admire you.
As an aging man, even after mere weeks of knowing your body, he can’t get enough of you. He cups your breasts with reverence, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks and watching you shiver.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, the word like a prayer.
His touch is gentle now, almost worshipful, a stark contrast to the rough fingering before. You look up at him as his gaze remains focused on your bare chest, the movement slight beneath him as he rubs the softened, plump flesh.
“You’re small,” he says, his voice rough with emotion he won't name. A mad blush flusters your face at his comment, you look away and towards the fireplace. Thomas breathes an amused sigh.
“Still so fucking perfect... I’ve always loved these.”
His thumbs circle your nipples, and he watches your face, the way your eyes go soft and hazy again. His hands slide up to your shoulders, gripping gently, holding you like you might disappear if he let go.
Legs still suspended by air, you huff in embarrassment. “You’re lewd, Thomas.” Something in his jaw clenches imperceptibly at the breathless note. His hands remain where they are, curved possessively on your breasts whilst he presses your hips flush against his.
“Am I?” His voice is low as he leans in, hovering close above your face. He watches you from beneath his lashes, assessing the way you slightly tremble before looking away.
Precious, he thinks.
He doesn’t move his hand to touch your face or lift your chin. Instead, he lets silence stretch, just to see you become uncomfortable when he’s letting you lead, or at least offering. The kind that makes ordinary people squirm and confess.
But you remain quiet; his shying, young wife.
“You know what I think?” He leans down slowly, deliberately, until his breath ghosts across your ear. “I think you’re the one who’s been lewd. The way you waltz into my rooms. Lookin’ at me like that.”
You look up at him hazily, feeling him lean down to suck at your skin.
His thumbs trace over your nipples as they harden. “Tell me, love,” the nickname rolls off his tongue with dark familiarity. “What did you expect when you wandered into The Garrison, eh?”
“I wasn’t wandering,” you whine softly, feeling your sensitive peaks being brushed by his tongue.
“No? Who were you looking for then?”
He hums against your sensitivity as he smiles, because he knows you’ve been caught in another meandering facade. His teeth gently clench onto your chest as he suckles, squeezing the opposite breast before lifting himself off.
Thomas’s hand begins moving to his own belt, unfastening it with steady fingers, keeping his eyes locked on you before tilting your cheek to look at him.
“Eyes on me.”
He’s breathing hard now, his control fraying at the edges. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong as his hand slides down to fish out his heavy cock.
Thomas watches you as you part your legs for him, the gesture sending a jolt straight to his groin. He’s already half-hard, throbbing in his hand as he strokes himself, but the sight of you, spread and wet and wanting him, erects him fully in seconds.
He grips his shaft, stroking down slowly as he looks at what's on offer, your soaked cunt glistening in the firelight, your thighs trembling and spread for him, and your sweet locket glimmering with every faint breath you take. He swallows hard, his hand tightening on his cock as he leans in close.
“You remember our wedding night?” he murmurs, his mouth hovering over yours. “All the filthy noises you made when you tried to hide them?” He bites your lower lip gently.
Your chest rises and falls in anticipation, voice meek.
“What about them?”
“I heard them. Every fuckin’ sound. And I want to make you scream even louder. Make you wake the whole estate with how much you need me.” His hands slowly open your legs wider as you bite your plump lip. “I’m going to make you feel so good, love,” he promises, his voice low and guttural.
His eyes never leave your face as he positions himself at your entrance, pressing his cock against your slick folds. The sensation is almost overwhelming, the heat of you, the soft give of your folds, the way you clench around his musk even without him being fully inside.
Your eyes squeeze shut at the hot pressure, your lips have barely parted, only beginning to take his heaving tip. He watches as your mouth parts, thanking him silently for making you cum beforehand, knowing the mistake it was to attempt to fit all of him the first time you fucked on your wedding night.
Thomas breathes out in increments, trying to steady himself. He knows he should be gentle, knows he’s already too rough with you, but God, you’re so perfect. He presses in slowly, watching your face, listening to the wet slide of his cock into your cunt. You’re tight, so impossibly tight, and it makes his breath hitch.
“Thomas…” you whine, head leaning back as you murmur erotically again, “please…”
He’s always had the ability to melt the words in your mouth whenever he fucks into you, it’s never savage, but he savors the unspoken words that remain inescapably in your mouth.
“I know, love,” he nods, gently holding his hands underneath your knees as he sinks deeper, “I’ll go slow.”
He smiles as you let out another wanton sigh. You aren’t begging obscenely, yet, and that’s what makes him think you’re the sweetest thing. Your eyes squeeze shut as he buries himself inches at a time, his hands gripping your soft legs, holding you steady as you open up for his cock with every flutter of your aching pussy.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
When he’s finally seated to the hilt, he pauses, letting you feel all of him. Breathing slows as you try to relax around him; he’s always had to wait a few moments before moving, not wanting you to tear or cry from pain.
“How’s that feel?” He murmurs, seeing the utter bliss etched on your face.
“Legs up s’more, sweetheart.”
You nod weakly as his hands retreat from your knees, shakily wrapping them around his muscular back, stockings dangling on one ankle, soft cotton tickling the back of his thigh.
Thomas lowers himself now, his elbows meeting the sheets as his fingers begin toying with your hair, gently moving strands out of your face so his palms can cup your cheeks without obstacles. His cock is twitching, aching deep inside of you, but he doesn’t move just yet until you’re ready.
“No burning?” He asks softly.
The first time he fucked you, he stuttered his hips inside too quickly, deeply. When he pulled out, there was a distinct tear that bled onto his thick pubes. You had to lie in bed with a cold bottle of bourbon between your thighs for three whole nights.
You slowly blink, half-lidded eyes looking up at him as you manage a tiny breath. “No.”
He’s still getting used to having you, and only you, this way. Usually, he’d be finished by now, patting a whore’s thigh and telling her the money’s on the nightstand. Even if he treated them well, even if he used to make time for that bargain, he always knew it was a mere transaction.
But with you, he’s relearned how to take his time, how to fuck without scaring you into burying your face in his neck. His presence lingers still, even if you’re his wife. After all, he’s Thomas Shelby, you can tell when it’s him entering through any doorway.
You nod, eyes squeezed shut as you wince. “It’s…” you moan, feeling his hips arch slightly until his cock tents from inside your stomach.
“Use your words, Mrs. Shelby,” He doesn’t often call you that, especially not in bed. His hips roll slightly, just a small movement, testing. When you whimper and roll your head back against the sheets, he starts to move slowly.
Parting your lips and slowly looking up at him, you finish. “It’s big…”
Thomas grins as he holds onto the hair at your scalp, gently pressing you deeper onto his cock. The wet sounds of his hips beginning to slowly roll into you fill the room, slick and obscene.
“You knew that, didn’t you?” He roughly mutters.
The gentle rocking becomes a harder, more insistent rhythm. Thomas feels you clench around him, your cunt gripping his cock like it's the only thing keeping you together, and it makes his breath come in harsh, uneven gasps.
“Ah, ah..” you huff, it’s wanton, hot to him.
Your nails gently claw onto his shoulders as he fucks into you. Thomas watches your exasperated face, the way your eyes roll back as you try to move your head to look down.
The clasp of his hand in your hair falters before he leans into a deep kiss, his other hand sliding down to grip your hips, using you to pull himself harder inside. The wet schlop of his cock sinking into you fills the room, slick and obscene as he pistons into you.
Thomas releases your lips, the wet string falling onto your lips as he grins darkly, watching your hair sway with every thrust.
“Tom-” You wince, your back softly arching before his lips catch a hold of your dampening skin. He keeps his teeth clenched onto your neck, biting hard enough for you to wince before licking the bruising wound.
“Christ, you're so good for me,” he mutters, his breath harsh against your neck.
You wince, feeling the scars forming from the mere cuts of his sharp teeth. “That hurts…”
“You’ll take it.” He mutters, knowing how well bruises will pair with your new gold. “You’re a good girl…”
Thomas likes the way the term of endearment rolls off his tongue, his lips sucking your youthful throat, feeling each vibration your moans become the culprit of.
His movement transitions into a slow, deep rocking that grinds his thick tip against your cervix, dick curving into your sweet spot as your escaping moans lift their pitch.
His hands clench your hips before lowering his hips quickly, hands grabbing hold of your waist as he lifts your back. He feels you clench around him, your cunt pulsing and trying to milk him already, and it makes his control slip further.
“I can’t,” you pant, tears falling down your cheeks. Not from pain, far from pain. “It’s too much, I can’t!” Your whimpers are quiet, hiccuping with overstimulation, chest undulating with every deep thrust.
“You can.” He assures, hands sliding to cup your chest as he lowers his face between the valley of your breasts. “You’re being so fuckin’ good,” Thomas mutters, his voice vibrating against the side of your breast he’s kissing as he fucks you deeper.
“No, please, I c-” You cry out at the feeling of him biting your nipple, the sting making you clench around him, gushing around his cock.
“Fuck, you’re soaking,” he groans, his head buried in your breasts.
His movements are getting more desperate now, losing the careful control he's maintained since the moment he entered you. The sound of skin slapping against skin, the slick glide of his cock fucking into your tight cunt, the rough huffs of his breath, it all combines into a symphony that makes his head spin.
Your eyes have rolled back by now in lustful haze, your previous protest blending in with utter pleasure as his hips dominate against yours. His hands slide up from the sides of your soft chest, tracing your nipples before reaching to cup your face, thumbs brushing your flushed cheeks.
“Tell me who you belong to,” he commands, his thrusts growing longer, a bit deeper.
He delves his hot tongue straight onto yours, mouth sucking at yours deliciously, swallowing every petite moan you can handle, the escape of. His breath is hot in yours, lips hovering barely to mutter filthily onto your lips.
“Tell me who this sweet little cunt belongs to.”
“You… Tommy,” you whimper, he smiles against your mouth. His movements speed up slightly, still barely controlled but losing some of that careful precision. You cry out as he shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that makes your legs squeeze his lower back.
“Yeah, sweetheart. Mine.”
He can feel your inner walls fluttering around him, clenching and relaxing in waves that threaten to send him over the edge. The thought of you coming again so soon after he just brought you to your first orgasm makes something primal in him wake up.
“Don’t stop,” you beg weakly against his lips. Thomas cradles the back of your head now, rocking his hips into yours slowly.
“That’s it, love. My good girl,” he rumbles, dark eyes drinking in the picture of sweet submission you paint. His other hand traces the elegant column of your neck, pausing at the racing pulse he finds there.
“I've barely had to raise my voice. Not a flicker of defiance in those pretty eyes.”
You sniffle, panting against his lips as he holds you still. “I’m there…”
He slowly begins pulling out, making you whine before he shushes you with a kiss. His cock drags out of you until his tip is lodged near where your hymen used to be torn apart.
“Look up at me.” He orders, squeezing the back of your neck as you tense. You obey, tears wetting his palm as you try to move your hips against his.
“I’m not gonna pull out tonight,” he whispers. Your eyes widen, yet you aren’t entirely afraid of the idea of carrying his firstborn. A part of you wants to shake your head, but you’re frozen, all but for your hips attempting to suck him back into you.
He takes in your silence before murmuring. “You’ll be a good mother, I know you will,” he nods.
“But I’m not…” He lets you pause, slowly sinking back inside. “Not even…” You can’t finish moaning gently as his cock buries itself back inside. A method of madness he’s used on only you.
Thomas stirs his cock deep inside, brushing your hair out of your face once more. “You want me to finish inside, love?” He asks roughly, though he knows your question will be subdued by his ministrations.
His finger takes hold of your hand, trailing down until holding it against the tent in your stomach as more tears fall from your blushing cheeks.
“Right here, sweetheart.” He murmurs in your ear, feeling your hands tremble on his back. “I’ll fill you up here.”
You imagine him plotting with other members of the gang with the same precision, but never the same amount of lewdness as in this moment. Thomas pulls you flush against him as he grinds deeper into your soft pussy, feeling its walls and ridges arouse him further.
“Fuck... This is what it means to be my wife, fuckin’ adoring all of you.”
You wince as his other hand fists in your silky hair, forcing your tearful gaze up to meet his heady stare.
“Tell me, love. Tell your husband how bad you need his cum to fill up your greedy cunt.”
It's not until now that you’ve noticed the way his balls feel as they twitch against your taint, heavier than you'd wanted to acknowledge. He begins quickening his pace, not wanting to lose your orgasm. Except now, his pounding begins outside of your pussy, and it rams deep into you until your throat emits broken sobs.
His large hand comes up to pet your hair as he groans above you. “Shhh, don't cry, sweetheart...” he murmurs. “I'm going to fill you up... fill you up so fuckin’ full.” His voice rumbles lowly as he laps up the salty tears of your cheeks. Your breath hitches as you sob sweetly.
“Breathe for me,” he coaxes breathlessly, his thumb swiping across your trembling lower lip. “Let me hear you, loud as you can now.” His hips snap forward, burying his thick shaft to the hilt.
You convulse around him, a silent scream tearing from your raw throat. Thomas leans in, biting your pulse point again, snarling as he feels your tight heat beginning to throb.
“I'm gonna cum,” you sniffle, crying as he nods his head.
Chest heaving, he grips onto your wrists and dives his chest onto yours, pinning your limp form beneath his sweat-slicked muscles. He captures your mouth in a searing kiss, plundering the warm cavern with his tongue. You whimper into the invasion, tasting traces of your arousal mingled with his triumphant male musk.
Your body stiffens beneath him, spine arching as your sweet climax crashes through you with devastating intensity. You wail in his mouth, voice ragged and desperate. Tears stream down your flushed cheeks as your velvet walls clench and spasm wildly around his pistoning cock, milking him for every last drop.
Thomas deepens the kiss with a guttural groan, driving into you one final time as his cock erupts. Ropes of hot semen paint your insides a pearly white, flooding your fertile womb with his potent seed.
“Fuck, that's it, sweetheart.”
He rocks into you, grinding his pelvis against yours as spurt after heavy spurt pumps into your convulsing sex.
“Take this fuckin’ load,” he groans against your tongue as his hips roll again and again, not stopping until your stomach begins to swell subtly from the sheer volume, stuffed to capacity with his virile essence.
You keep crying, knees wobbling as he holds them against his sides, your own strength faltering as you feel yourself dripping onto the bedsheets.
“My beautiful girl,” he pants against your bruised lips. “You took your husband’s cum so well. Such a good girl.” His large hands stroke along your curves almost reverently as you both bask in the aftermath, bodies entwined and sated.
You feel his hands slowly begin turning you, and your breath becomes a forced, tiresome murmur. “Tommy, wait-“ You huff as he rolls you onto your belly, tear-stained cheek pressing into the rumpled sheets. His calloused hands roam possessively over the lush curves of your ass, kneading the plush flesh.
“Shh...” He parts your thighs wider, exposing your dripping, well-fucked cunt to his hungry gaze. Watching intently, he sees rivulets of his thick cum oozing out of your swollen, stretched hole, painting obscene streaks down your inner thighs.
“Fuckin’ hell, look at you... leakin’ everywhere.” He reaches out and catches some of the pearlescent fluid with his fingertips before bringing them to his mouth. Licking them clean, he hums in satisfaction. “Mmm, your pussy tastes sweeter.”
Turning his attention back to your glistening slit, he parts your folds with two fingers and pushes the rest of his escaping release back inside your fluttering passage.
You bite onto the bedsheets, trying to halt the twitching of your holes before whining. “Stop it...”
Thomas chuckles from behind as he plunges his digits deep into your core, curling them upwards to rub insistently against that sensitive bundle of nerves nestled within your depths.
“Don't be embarrassed,” he whispers, giving your bottom cheek a sharp spank. The sound echoes loudly in the quiet bedroom, followed swiftly by your yelp of surprise, followed by the heaving of your back as you cry. He massages the reddened skin before gripping your rear hard enough to leave imprints in your supple flesh.
Coming back up, he presses his lips against the shell of your ear. Hot breath washing over your neck sends tingles racing down your spine.
“Sweetheart...” He cooes softly, rubbing your bottom as he hardens once more without your knowledge. “You took me so beautifully,” he praises huskily as he continues pumping his fingers slowly, working his load deeper into your spasming walls.
Each thrust forces another burst of cream to ooze out and trickle down his invading knuckles.
“This sweet little quim, all fuckin’ mine,” he declares with arrogance, circling his thumb firmly against your swollen clit as his free hand drifts to squeeze the underside of your breast possessively, rolling and plucking at your nipple until it pebbles tightly against his palm.
“Don't say that,” you huff, sniffling.
Thomas pauses before shaking his head.
“Let me worship you a little longer, love.”
His lips kiss your cheek before he tilts your face with one hand, tongue lathing over your lips as he sucks some of the blood off your cut. He releases you as you huff, watching your leg slowly come up.
“And this perfect body too,” he emphasizes, giving your curved hipbone a light pinch as he nips sharply at the juncture of your shoulder blades. The sting quickly fades into pleasant pulses of pleasure radiating outward. His teeth scrape teasingly over your nape before he suckles a dark mark into the tender skin.
“You'll carry my children soon.”
He predicts smugly, knowing instinctively that his seed has found purchase in your fertility. You whimper at the plurality. His ego inflates with each inch his cum travels higher, burrowing deep into your vulnerable cervix. Soon, in the coming months, you'd swell round with his offspring.
“Stay right there,” he murmurs, pressing your hiked-up knee against the mattress. He withdraws his soaked fingers only to replace them with the broad head of his rehardened cock, nudging demandingly against your entrance.
You try to turn your head, “I thought you-”
You’re cut off by a swift flex of his hips as he sheathes himself fully inside your dripping channel once more. Bottoming out, he grinds his pelvis against your ass as he hilt his thick cock deep within your clasping cunt. Reaching new depths previously untouched by missionary.
“There we go...” He groans, squeezing your bottom as you arch.
He’s filling you impossibly fuller than before. Stretching you wide around his girth as he sets a steady rhythm, pumping languidly into your molten heat.
Thomas grips your hips tighter, lifting them higher off the mattress to force you into a lewd display. Your cries of pleasure escalate, tears flow freely down your burning cheeks as he exposes your dripping, thoroughly used sex. He’s so deep you can feel a foreign twitch in your throat. Rivulets of his thick cum dribble down your thighs as he spreads your legs wider, pushing your knees apart.
“Please, Thomas, not so hard!” you beg, voice choked with emotion.
He lines himself up once more, the bulbous head of his member nudging insistently at your puffy, sore entrance. You're incredibly sensitive, nerve endings screaming from the intense fucking you just received.
“I know, I know, I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs as he drives forward with a soft grunt, diving into your wet pussy with one deep thrust. He hilts himself completely now, balls slapping lewdly against your clit. Your pussy, slick with your combined juices, offers no resistance to his renewed virility.
“Thomas!” you whine desperately as he starts pumping into you, setting a restrained pace.
Each drive of his hips forces fresh gouts of semen to bubble out around his pistoning shaft, splattering onto the bed below. The vulgar squelches and schlicks of your coupling fill the air.
“There, sweetheart. Take your husband's cock like a good girl,” he growls, gripping your hips hard enough to leave livid marks.
One hand snakes around to find your sensitive clit, rubbing firm circles around it as he pounds mercilessly into you. He's determined to fill you, to have a legacy begin tonight.
Tears blur your vision as you arch helplessly into his dominance, impaled on his rigid, heavy flesh. Broken sobs escape your lips with each brutal impact of his pelvis against your upturned bottom. Pleasure and stinging pain intertwine, overwhelming your senses.
Your pussy, battered and abused, flutters weakly around the invading intruder. Thomas leans over your arched back, covering you with his larger frame.
He bites your earlobe before whispering hotly, “Gonna pump you so full of my seed, sweetheart... Fill this greedy cunny 'til it’s drippin' outta ya...”
You blush, feeling him grin before kissing your cheek, his hands removing themselves from your hips and moving to intertwine with your fingers from behind. Sighing into him, you unclench your heat and allow even more of him inside.
He smiles against your lips before huffing. “Deeper now, love?”
Sniffling beneath him, you manage a breath. “Yes… Please...”
Thomas nods, staring into your eyes before allowing your face to press against soft sheets. He lifts himself, looking down at your bodice beneath him, the chain of your necklace being weighed by gravity. His hand sweeps over your neck and moves thick hair to weigh past one shoulder instead of your damp back.
He groans, letting his head fall back as he lets his hips find a proper rut inside you. The bed creaks ominously beneath the force of his thrusts. His grip on your fingers tightens as he increases the tempo of his relentless thrusts.
“Ah, fuck!” He grits his teeth, his own whines gravelly and drawn-out, fighting the urge to explode prematurely.
Sweat beads on his brow and trickles down the cords of his neck as he loses himself in you. He watches the ridges of your back beneath him and curses to himself. Leaning back down, he latches onto your shoulder, sucking a vivid hickey into the delicate skin, marking you as irrevocably his.
“That’s it, take it! Fuck, your sweet cunt...” He gasps, hammering harder, chasing his rapidly approaching climax. The obscene slap of flesh against flesh fills the room, accompanied by the debauched squishing sounds of your overflowing pussy being stirred yet again.
Thomas hasn’t fucked you like this, ever, spurred on by the debased sight of you sprawled beneath him, drowning in ecstasy and desperation.
You knew he was holding back, but you shudder at the thought of him still restraining his base needs even now. His free hand finds your neglected breasts, pawing and kneading the generous mounds. He pinches and rolls the stiff peaks cruelly between his fingers until they ache deliciously.
You wince as his fingers pinch your nipples, knowing the sight of them isn't what turns him on most, although his cock is practically ripping through your back.
Humming beneath him, you feel another wave come crashing down onto your hips, and your knees buckle as he continues pounding into you. Overstimulated and needy, you cry beneath him. Thomas moans as you cum onto his cock so soon already, he quickly increases his pace.
“Gonna... pump you so fuckin’ full.” He snarls savagely against your neck, sinking his teeth into the tender junction of your collarbone and throat.
Biting down hard enough to draw a bead of crimson, marking you, claiming you utterly and completely. His rhythm turns erratic, hips jerking spastically as he nears the precipice of release.
“Fuuck!”
With one last violent surge forward, he hilt himself to the root inside your clutching pussy. His cock pulsing and throbbing uncontrollably as he unleashes a torrent of scalding seed straight into your vulnerable cunt.
Thomas collapses heavily upon you, crushing you into the mattress with his superior weight as spurt after copious spurt of potent semen pumps into your spasming core.
“Unggh… Fuck. Yes,” he groans gutturally, shuddering and twitching as the last vestiges of his release drain into you.
Finally spent, he drapes over your nubile form, heaving and panting hotly. His cock remains inside you as you breathlessly exhale, feeling him turn you around, cum seeping from the sliver of an opening your stuffed cunt allows.
His pupils relax their dilation as he stares down at you, the fireplace's embers gradually burning out as he cups your face.
“Oh, sweetheart...” He lowers himself onto you again, kissing you as you hold onto him, hands searching immediately for his support.
Pride and possession suffuse his expression as he gazes down at your ravaged beauty, drinking in the sight of you defiled and debauched, dripping with his essence.
Tenderly, he strokes the sweat-damp tendrils of hair plastered to your brow and cups your tear-streaked cheek in his broad palm.
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | tom relapses after marianne cheats and realizes he needs you like no other, flesh becomes a language only the two of you speak, and fantasy is the bliss you both share
𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 9.8k
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 | fempov, not-too-considerable age-gap (10+ years), unrealistic cocaine side-effects, reader is a widow, themes of exhibitionism, public sex (at night), tom's praise AND humiliation kink, comfort/worship dynamics, deserved marital infidelity
𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | a bit more from tom’s perspective, wanted something good to happen to him, aka you.
(!) hardly proofread. i will revise sometime during summer
“Oh… Oh God…”
Tom Finnerty sobs messily, sounds tearing out of him, wet and humiliating. His hands can’t stop shaking. Everything was becoming too sharp; his desk lamp felt as if it were buzzing inside his skull, his pulse jackhammering against his throat.
He lunges for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and misses.
“Fuck,” he pants.
Quickly catching the neck, he pours himself a glass until it overflows.
The whiskey burns on the way down like liquid fire, useless against the frantic electricity that courses throughout him. Cocaine has hollowed him out and is making him too wired to sleep, too wrecked to stand still.
He stares at himself through the reflection of the darkened window, eyes blown wide, jaw clenching enough to be sore. An alcoholic-cocaine addict. That’s who he was becoming because of Marianne, because of the surgically precise way his soon-to-be ex-wife had dismantled him and left him pacing in messy circles.
Just a few nights ago, he’d learned the truth; the reason for every fight, every way Marianne had twisted the knife and then sworn it was his fault. She’d been cheating. Repeatedly. While he was trying, actually trying, to stay clean. The knowledge broke his heart.
Months of white-knuckled sobriety and close calls to relapse, collapsed in a single evening. Now his nerves are flayed raw, every feeling amplified and rotting at the same time. His grief and shame turned sexual, desperate. His body demands touch the way lungs demand air.
He drinks until the bottle is empty, until his mouth is numb with dryness and the taste of chemicals. The room tilts, pulses with artificial light. His heartbeat stutters. He laughs once, too loud, too sharp, then gags and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Staying inside feels impossible. The walls are closing in and confining him. The silence is too loud; his ears ring. Tom stumbles out of the study and makes a crooked line for the front door, barefoot except for one sock on his left foot.
He needs something, noise, cold, someone, before his own thoughts finish him off.
The porch light snaps on, harsh and exposing. He hisses, grunting as he leans against the doorway. There’s another, softer, light in the distance. He squints and realizes it’s you.
The widow next door.
You stand half-turned on your own porch, cigarette glowing between your fingers, night air brushing the thin, silky fabric of your robe. You’re much younger than him, too young, really. Young enough that it had startled him the first time he saw you dressed in black.
You’d last met at your husband’s funeral. Tom remembered that vividly. The way your soft hand trembled when you thanked him for coming, fingers barely warm despite the sun. The hollowness behind your eyes, left with a poignant absence.
What struck him most wasn’t how beautiful you were, though he knew you were, but how composed you tried to be for everyone who attended. You listened to stories more than you spoke. You met people’s eyes fully, as if you weren’t the one in need of being comforted. When it was his and Marianne’s turn, you held his gaze longer than necessary.
He’d thought about that look more than he should have.
Marianne had squeezed his arm afterward in a quieter corner of the funeral home and whispered, ‘She was too young for him anyway,’ with a sharpness that felt unnecessary even then.
When Tom and Marianne first moved in, you’d been warm. Open. The type of neighbor who brought bread still warm from the oven. You’d all eaten dinner together one night, awkwardly pleasant and domestic. You asked questions about their marriage, as if you believed in it.
That was another part that stayed with him.
The dinner came back to him now with a near chemical clarity; the three of you around your small mahogany dining table, candles lit because you expressed the overhead light was “too cruel.”
The flame had thrown everything into warmer relief; your face, your body, even your eyes were darker by candlelight.
Your husband had been there, of course. Significantly older. Grey at the temples, polite in the distracted business way of a man used to being deferred to. He wasn’t leering or crude; worse than that, he was confident.
He spoke of investments and travel plans, his hand resting on your shoulder like a mark of earned reward.
You, younger. Beautiful in a way that felt natural, you were quick to smile and respond. You were playful with your husband, where he lectured, and you couldn’t go more than ten minutes without kissing his cheek. You met conversational volleys, sparring playfully with Tom when he made offhand jokes.
At one point, you lifted your hand as you spoke, gesturing, and the ring caught in the candlelight. A large diamond, 12-carats no less. Impractical and impossible to miss.
Marianne had nudged Tom beneath the table. Did you see that? The nudge spoke. Jesus.
You looked over at the two of them, Marianne trying not to turn green while Tom contemplated his spending on his wife’s ring, internally cursing at himself. You smiled politely and turned your hand slightly, as if to show it better, your other fingertip brushing the band in a small, unconscious circle.
“It still feels… strange,” you said lightly, stroking your ring finger a bit shyly. “I forget it’s there sometimes, but um… it…”
Your husband chuckled deeply. “It’s hard to miss, if you ask me.”
The house echoed with soft, polite laughter afterwards. Later, you pulled out your phone, scooting out of your chair and walking behind the couple.
“I should show you,” you said, already scrolling. You leaned forward between him and Marianne, close enough that Tom could smell your perfume; soft, indecently warm. Your shoulder brushed his chest as you angled the screen.
Photos spilled past, Tom made out dinners and quiet mornings. You dressed in white on a vineyard terrace. You kissing your husband’s fat cheek, his hand firm at your waist. You looked radiant in everything, all smiles with adoring eyes for your expensive spouse.
Tom murmured polite admirations. Marianne smiled tightly. When you straightened up, you saw that only Tom’s plate was empty and smiled. “I’ll grab dessert,” you said, “Tom, would you help me?”
Marianne looked over, the lamb chops still unfinished on her plate, as she gave Tom the “go on then” expression, bored. It was harmless. Normal. That’s what he told himself.
In the kitchen, the air felt different, charged. You moved easily, opening cabinets, setting plates on the marble countertops.
“This was really good,” Tom said a bit too quickly, then steadied himself. “The food, I mean. You… ah… really know what you’re doing.”
You turn to smile at him, youthfully sarcastic as you said, “high praise.”
“No, I’m serious,” he added. “Marianne and I… we don’t really cook. Just negotiate on restaurants or… takeout.”
That made you laugh. “I just had time,” you said simply, reaching for the oven, pink mitts on your hands.
“He likes things done properly, got me a culinary teacher and everything.”
You saw him standing a bit awkwardly in the doorway. “Sit, don’t sit, whatever you want. You can help if you want.”
“Ah, what do you need?” Tom asked.
You hesitated, just for a second, as if considering. “Plates,” you decided. “And, could you cut the cake? I always make a mess of it.”
He washed his hands at the sink, aware of your back turned behind him, of how close you were standing. Close enough that when he turned, he nearly bumped into you. “Sorry,” he said.
“You apologize a lot,” you replied gently. Not unkindly.
He laughed shyly, embarrassed. “Occupational hazard.”
Moments later, you watched him cut the cake, head tilted slightly. “You’re good at that,” you said. “Most people rush.”
“I don’t like ruining things,” he said without thinking. Something flickered across your face at that, interest, maybe.
“Well,” you said softly, reaching past him for a plate, your hand brushing his wrist, “you both are welcome here anytime. If you need a break from takeout.”
Before he could respond, Marianne’s voice cut in from the doorway. “Everything okay in here?”
And just like that, the space between you snapped back into shape. The moment folded neatly away as if it had never happened.
The rest of the night, you barely touched your slice, watching instead.
Not in a flirtatious way, nothing so easy to dismiss, but with attentiveness that made Tom acutely aware of himself.
Your eyes drifted to him when Marianne spoke, not rudely, just long enough to register. You seemed to clock his reactions, the pauses before he answered, the places where he softened or stiffened. When you asked how long they’d been married, what they argued about, and whether they’d always lived so close, it felt less like casual curiosity and more like quiet data-gathering.
Hypnotizing, in hindsight.
He remembered the way your gaze stayed on him while your husband talked about work, numbers, and future plans. The faint, thoughtful tilt of your head when Tom admitted, a little too honestly, that marriage was work. Not unhappy. Just work.
You politely smiled then, not broadly, not invitingly, but slow and private, as if he’d said something that confirmed a theory you’d already been forming.
The walk across the street was silent at first.
Then Marianne exhaled sharply. “She’s… intense.”
Tom glanced at her. “What?”
“Her eyes. She watches you,” Marianne said, choosing her words carefully now, less sharp than she’d sounded earlier. “I’m not saying she’s doing anything. I just… did you notice it?”
“I think she’s just… lonely,” he offered. “You saw her husband, he’s older, too. She probably doesn’t get much conversation.”
Marianne stopped walking. Not angry. Just still.
“I don’t want you alone with her,” she said. Calmly. Not accusing. “Not because I don’t trust you. I trust you. I just... don’t like the dynamic.”
Tom frowned. “That seems a little unfair.”
“It’s not about fairness,” Marianne replied. “It’s about boundaries. She’s married. You’re married. And she’s very aware of how she comes across.”
After a beat, she added, lighter, almost joking, but not entirely, “And… Yes, I think she married him for the money. That doesn’t make her evil. It just means she’s… strategic.”
Tom shrugged, unwilling to turn it into a fight. He kissed her temple, told her she was overthinking it. But the memory hadn’t left him. Not really. It was lodged somewhere deep behind his ribs; the look in your eyes, the questions you’d asked, the feeling of being seen in a way that felt neither innocent nor overt.
Then your husband died and you vanished.
At first, it was seemingly dramatic. Condolences left at the door, a black ribbon tied on your doorknob. Then it became quiet and strange. You became a stay-at-home widow in the most absolute sense: curtains drawn, lights still low. Marianne called it creepy, half-joking, half-mean. She said to him it was like you were haunting your own house.
Tom remembers the fragments that followed. You taking out the trash late at night, hair down and loose, barefoot on the sidewalk as if you didn’t care who saw. You on the porch some evenings, soft sniffling, your signature robe tied just loosely enough to feel deliberate.
Marianne would nudge him then, stage-whisper something darkly inappropriate, “careful, or she’ll kill you next,” and laugh too loudly.
Sometimes Tom laughed, sometimes he didn’t.
Sometimes, God help him, Tom noticed you there while he was still married, still faithful in the technical sense.
Cocaine sharpens those memories now, making them throb. His body feels electric, skittish, oversensitive; every thought sliding into something physical. He remembered thinking about you at the worst possible moments: half-asleep, aroused unclearly; mid-dream, your face replacing Marianne’s without permission.
He would catch a glimpse of you through the glass as he made love to Marianne, your shape faint and full in his peripheral vision, and feel something twist in his chest that he refused to name.
Now, standing on the porch, shaking and ruined, he sees you clearly for the first time in years.
Still lush, watching.
And the way your eyes rest on him like you’re unafraid makes his knees feel weak. You aren’t naïve, but there’s still something to you that hasn’t curdled into fragility. You look soft and undone. Not young or pristine. Real, and watching him.
Tom freezes.
His heart slams painfully in his chest, cocaine-fast and desperate. Sweat coolly gathered at his hairline and slid down his temple. He wiped his palms on his dresspants, subtly hoping that you wouldn’t notice the tremor of his figure.
Tom looks crazy; his shoes missing, pupils blown now too. He knows exactly what it said about men his age: wired wrong, midlife crisis. But he straightens anyway.
Pulls his shoulders back, smoothing a hand through his hair as if his presentation matters at this point. As if dignity could be arranged with enough effort under his condition. He wants, absurdly, to look presentable to you.
You don’t flinch. You keep looking at him as he so clearly stares, his figure leaning slightly, assuming he’s drunk or high, none of the above. Your brows are threaded with something that looks dangerously close to concern.
That concern feels erotic now, like fingers pressing masochistically into a bruise. He feels shame, twisting together in his gut until something that hasn’t been paid attention to in months stirs in his pants.
For a split second, Tom considers retreating. Locking himself in his pre-determined penitentiary and letting the night swallow him whole, while he worked on inducing his own alcohol-related death. But instead, he steps closer to the edge of the porch. Tom lifts his hand before he fully realizes he’s decided to.
The wave was small and a bit apologetic. Fingers barely leaving his side, palm tipping forward like he isn’t sure he deserves to be acknowledged. He hates how weak it looks, even as he does it, exposing him.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then you shift your weight.
You raise your hand slowly and wave back, unhurried. You chose not to look away. Your fingers curving slightly as they moved, cigarette smoke flowing beneath your dim porch light. Something in his chest gives.
His shoulders loosen as he exhales, as if unaware he was holding his breath. The sweat on his brow had cooled by now in the night air, becoming aware of his own skin.
You study him for another second, deciding if what you’re about to do is reckless. But you lift your hand anyway. One finger curls inward.
Tom knows it isn’t seductive nor playful, just curious, the same gesture your eyes gave him the last night you spoke. It’s an invitation that makes him hesitate.
But his body betrays him. The cocaine has him hypersensitized, nerves ringing as his blood rushes hot and directionless. His pulse thunders low in his groin, embarrassing in its immediacy.
He swallows hard, throat tightening, suddenly conscious of how close his pants feel, and how shallow his breathing has become.
He walks closer, the bare palm of one foot stinging beneath him as he steps towards you beneath the streetlights. You were becoming clearer, his focus presented on you and the way your collarbone revealed beneath your porch.
You look ethereal, like the woman he’s imagined beneath him ever since he inhaled your scent.
God, what an angel. Tom thinks.
It hits him as he steps closer, subtle but unmistakable.
Something warm and animal beneath the smoke. It’s not perfume, not exactly. It’s deep and familiar, like a flesh-covered memory. Sweet, feminine, musk similar to the bottle of L’eau d’Issey he’d been introduced to. It’s settled in his lungs now, and it refuses to leave.
He remembers you clearly now.
That night, years ago. The way the scent had lingered after dinner, after you’d leaned between him and Marianne to show your photos, after you’d brushed past him in the kitchen. How it followed him home, clung to his clothes, made him fuck his wife like an erratic beast. Early the next morning, he’d woken up hard and confused, approaching his window and seeing you dancing with your old bastard in the kitchen.
Pheromones, Marianne had joked once, later, drunk and barely clad. “Maybe she wears something chemical. To keep the old man interested.”
Standing before you now, he knows, knows with a certainty that makes his stomach drop. You’d dabbed it on that night deliberately. Pulse points, not to seduce him exactly. To be unforgettable.
Tom’s cock throbs, insistent against his pants, humiliating him. He shifts his weight to his other leg and hopes you don’t notice. He feels obscene in his own body, in front of his own house. It’s not about sex, not entirely. It’s about proximity. Being close enough to breathe you in again.
Up close, he sees you look tired in a way that feels intimate, almost sex-messy the way you appear tired and faintly steaming. Grief has rearranged you deliciously, softening the edges of your silhouette and sharpening your gaze until he feels drawn.
You look down at him, unamused, leaning against the post of your porch, your cleavage bare enough to reveal the dip between your breasts. You’re unapologetic.
“You don’t look good,” you say quietly. There’s no judgment in your observation.
He huffs out a laugh that dies halfway. “Yeah… that’s… yeah.”
You nod once as if it answers something. Your fingers curl around your cigarette, then relax. You don’t offer it to him, obviously.
“I saw your lights on,” you say. “Thought it was one of those… late nights.”
Tom shakes his head. The movement makes him dizzy. “No. I-” He stops. Swallows. “I… couldn’t sleep.”
You inhale the smoke, then look at him again. Slower. “Me neither,” you say.
The admission is heavier. Of course, you couldn’t, didn’t, not anymore.
He clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to…” He gestures vaguely, toward the space between your houses, as he stifles a pant.
“I wasn’t trying to… to bother you.”
You take a deliberately slow inhale of your glowing cigarette, assessing him as you stand in front of the porch light. Tom sees now that your hair is damp, darkened strands clinging to your neck, creating residue on the shoulders of your robe.
“You aren’t bothering me.” Your words are gentle, your posture is not.
An arm is crossed over to hold your opposite elbow, the robe separated slightly enough to reveal the dip between your breasts. Tom’s eyes track the movement of your arm crossing, the way your fabric shifts and settles.
He swallows hard, throat clicking audibly in the silence between your words. The cigarette smoke dances in front of him, but he can’t focus on it anymore. All his attention is fixated on the dip you’ve unintentionally exposed.
You aren’t bothering me, echoes in his mind. Something in your voice makes his stomach clench dangerously, until it almost hurts.
Tom’s hands twitch at his sides, fingers spasming with intent before he can stop them. The urge to reach out is almost violent. He shoves his hands into his pockets instead, nails biting into fabric, fists clenching hard enough to ache.
“I… thank you.” The words scrape out of him, rough, uneven. He clears his throat, but it only draws attention to how shallow his breathing has become.
Everything feels too close; his shirt clinging damply to his spine, his skin hissing like ice meeting incandescent metal, the limits of his own body suddenly intolerable.
“I didn’t mean to- I just-” The sentence collapses under its own weight.
What was he going to say? That sleep had become impossible? That his thoughts ran in tight, frantic loops he couldn’t interrupt? That your face, your scent, had been riding him for years, surfacing at the worst moments, now sharpened to a fucking knife by coke and loneliness?
He watches you instead.
You’re standing there in the porch light, robe hanging open without apology, damp hair dark against your shoulders. The sight detonates memory. That dinner. The kitchen. The way you leaned in too close under the pretense of politeness, how your warmth had registered before your body did.
His cock throbs now, hard and insistent against his zipper, a cruel, undeniable punctuation. He shifts again, jaw tightening, pulse roaring in his ears. It’s painful. Mortifying. The cocaine won’t let anything stay contained, every want surging straight to the surface, raw and unfiltered.
“I just- ” he tries again, then stops.
His chest rises and falls too fast. He feels skinned alive under your gaze, certain you can see every fracture, every filthy thought, every place he’s unraveling.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words escape before he can intercept them. He freezes the moment they land, heart stuttering, waiting for impact, for ridicule, for distance, for you to shut this down and save him from himself. But you don’t.
You just look at him.
In the dim porch light, your expression gives nothing away. Not shock or even approval. Attention. And that, to Tom, is worse.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” he adds quickly, backpedaling too late, voice thinning as adrenaline spikes.
“That was- I shouldn’t-” He trails off.
Because even as he says it, his body is screaming the opposite. He doesn’t want distance. He doesn’t want restraint. He wants the pressure to break. He wants to be close enough that thinking stops altogether.
“I haven’t even stepped off the porch.” Your voice is teasing, albeit tired, but playful. Like you’re missing familiarity of need, of want.
“You’ll have to come a little closer for what you want, Tom,” you murmur.
His breath catches at the sound of his name on your lips. Not spoken casually. Placed there. Soft, deliberate, edged with something that makes his pulse spike and his chest tighten painfully.
“I…” The words die before they can take shape, because the truth is already roaring through him, louder than cocaine, louder than shame.
His hands stay buried in his pockets, knuckles white against the denim. He doesn’t trust them. Doesn’t trust himself.
He does want it. Not just you. Not just tonight. He wants to be wanted in a way that doesn’t require effort or caretaking or vigilance. He wants to be looked at and chosen. To be the object, not the function. The one who is needed instead of the one who manages needs.
With Marianne, love had become maintenance. He was always tending, always adjusting, always waiting for permission that never came. Every attempt to be seen dissolved into responsibility. He was useful. Reliable. Necessary. Never worshipped.
The ache in him is dizzying now; low in his gut, tight behind his eyes, spreading heat through his veins until he feels hollowed out by it. Cocaine strips away his defenses, leaves only the bare want underneath: Please see me. Please want me. Please let me be enough.
He steps forward. Each movement feels ceremonial, irrevocable. His shoes barely make a sound on the walkway, but everything else is deafening: the rasp of his breath, the frantic, uneven thud of his heart, the whisper of fabric as he moves closer to you. Now he can smell you clearly.
Shampoo and skin. Clean, warm. A faint floral note beneath it that doesn’t match the memory exactly, but comes close enough to make his thoughts blur and scatter. Close enough that his body responds before his mind can intervene. He stops at the base of your porch steps and looks up at you.
From here, you’re elevated symbolically, and the position does something terrible to him. His throat goes dry.
“I want you,” he says. The words come out low, rough, stripped of performance. Not seduction. A confession.
Then, quieter, fractured, honest in a way that scares him more than desire ever could. “Please.”
“Which part?” you ask quietly, head tilting, not teasing, not defensive. Curious.
Your cigarette slips from your fingers and dies on the porch wood, a small black mark left behind like an offering you don’t bother to look at.
You step closer, lifting your hand with care. Ash is long forgotten. Your fingers settle against his jaw, thumb brushing the damp skin just below his cheekbone. You’re able to feel the heat of him, the tremor running through his body, and you keep your touch steady.
Tom startles when you touch him. Just for a breath. His eyes close as if in prayer, as if bracing for judgment. Your fingers graze his sweaty cheek, warm, deliberate, and the contact wrecks him, his body responding before his mind can catch up. He locks his knees, grounding himself, ashamed of how quickly he wants.
When he looks at you again, it’s with something close to awe. His breathing stutters.
“You-” His voice breaks. He swallows, tries again. “I don’t know how to say this.”
His hand comes up slowly, reverently, covering yours where it rests against his face, holding it there like it’s something sacred. His thumb moves once, tentative, as though asking permission. You don’t pull away.
“I’m sorry for coming… coming onto you,” he says quietly, the cocaine blurring his edges, loosening his confessions. “I keep reaching for the wrong things. But you…” He exhales, a hollow sound.
“You feel… good.”
His other hand tightens in the fabric of your robe. As if he’s afraid he’ll drift apart without something to hold onto. The robe falls open a little more, unintentionally ceremonial, and his breath catches hard at the sight of you standing there so calmly, so mercifully present.
“I don’t want to ruin this,” he admits, almost pleading now. “I don’t want to… I just…” His forehead dips closer, not touching. Waiting.
“Tell me how to stay. Tell me what you want from me.” You’ve seen his face before, in a church amongst the sinners who ask for forgiveness.
You bring his cheek towards your chest, feeling the way he nuzzles against the expanse of your breast as he hugs your waist tightly. A hand runs through his dampened hair, the other grazing his back in a maternal, loving way.
Tom goes rigid at first, as if bracing for impact. Then he breaks. A shuddering breath leaves him, and his weight settles into you, face pressed to your chest like it’s the only place left that will hold him.
His hands creep up your back, fingers knotting in the robe, drawing you closer. He’s shaking, he knows it, hates it, but the need overrides the shame. He can’t stop touching you. Can’t stop breathing you in. “I need you,” he murmurs against your skin, raw and unguarded.
“Fuck. I need you.”
“You say that,” you reply, almost amused, “but you disappeared after that dinner.” A pause, deliberate.
You hum softly, not pulling away. You’ve never had a man like this before you, never one so devoted under these circumstances. Your husband never cried in front of you, not once. One hand stays steady in his hair, fingertips massaging his scalp as if you’re thinking it over.
“Didn’t come back once.” He stiffens just a little.
You tilt your head, teasing but not unkind. “So,” you murmur, mouth close to his ear now. “What do you mean when you say you need me, Tom?”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are glassy, nose red, unfocused from exhaustion, from weeks of holding himself together with sheer will. He looks wrecked, and he knows it.
“I-” His voice scrapes. He swallows hard. “I tried not to.” A humorless breath leaves him.
“I tried to be good… I tried to stay where I belonged.”
You rub his cheek some more, feeling him ease into your palm. “And?”
“And I felt so empty… the whole time,” he admits, the words tumbling out now that they’ve started. His forehead drops against your collarbone.
Your fingers slow in his hair as you hum. He knows you’re not stupid enough to give him the benefit of the doubt from the way you lean in. “That’s not an answer, Tom,” you say gently.
“What do you want from me?” Your breath is a whisper against his skin.
He shakes his head once, frustrated. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding… fucking pathetic.”
“Try,” you murmur.
He exhales sharply, then buries his face against you again. “I want to be wanted, the way I was with you that night,” he says, voice breaking. “Not tolerated. I want…” His grip tightens.
“I want you,” he finishes, softer now. “But not just like before. I want… permission to stay.”
“Please. I don’t know what to do anymore.” His hands tremble where they rest on your back. He hates the weakness. He hates the need. But he needs you anyway. God, he needs you.
Across the yard, up in Tom’s window, a curtain stirs.
Marianne stands vividly at their bedroom window, drawn by the porch light and the shape of him folded into you. She watches the way you hold him, your arms around him with a tenderness that reads as ritual, something she recognizes and resents in the same breath.
She sees the way his head fits perfectly against you, the way your hand moves through his hair with practiced patience, and the way you allow him to cling to you pathetically.
It isn’t obscene. That’s what unsettles her.
There’s no haste, no spectacle, just a devotion, raw and unhidden. He looks smaller than she’s ever seen him. Younger. Like a man finally admitting defeat.
“Marianne’s watching,” you murmur into his ear. He stills.
“From your bedroom window,” you add, quieter now, sharper.
“Listen to me.” You tilt his chin up, forcing his eyes to meet yours. There’s heat there, yes, but it’s edged with something harder. Resolve. “I don’t want you to choose me… because of her.”
His breath stutters. “I-”
“You either go back to her,” you continue, voice steady, accusing, “and you walk away from this porch like a grown man.” Your lips are pressed against his ear, hot breath ghosting over his clammy skin, and he feels the tremor of your own hand.
“Or,” you say, quieter now, more lethal, “you stay.”
Your gaze lifts as you stay leaned into him, but it’s far past his vulnerability. It roams toward the darkened window across the yard. Toward Marianne’s silhouette, barely there but rigidly unmistakable. You refuse to break eye contact with the glass as you finish your proposal.
“And we fuck on the porch.”
His throat works as he looks up at you, body reacting before his mind catches up. A heated pressure, humiliating and undeniable, pressing against your leg as if summoned by your voice alone.
Shame flickers across his face. But want is present in his eyes is hotter, meaner.
“I haven’t been touched,” you say, low and unflinching, “since my husband died.”
A car passes at the end of the street, headlights washing briefly over the porch. For a moment, you’re both exposed; two figures caught mid-reckoning. The engine fades. The quiet rushes back in.
“Three years, Tom.” Your thumb presses once at his chin, grounding, not inviting.
“If you think you’re going to use me to bleed out… whatever she’s taken from you,” you huff, releasing a breath of emotion as you meet his gaze, “don’t.”
He looks so terribly needy. Wanting. Aching. Tom exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. His hands move, sliding up to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your heartbeats are a rapid medley entwining as your chests meet.
Tom exhales pitifully in a short breath against your lips, raggedly filling the space between you. His hands continue to hold your waist, tightening until he’s holding on hard enough to bruise.
“I-” His voice wavers, cracks. “Fuck.” His sentence is swallowed by another shaky exhale.
You feel him fall apart. His forehead drops again, contacting your chest. He’s shaking in a fine, uncontrollable tremor. The cocaine has burned itself out, leaving him raw and hollow, utterly exposed.
Sighing, you lean in and hold him tightly, a part of you needs him, needs this, too. Your lips press against his forehead, unfamiliar with the affection inside of you that you thought was long lost. Tom groans, looking up at you just enough for you to see his eyes blown and wrecked, searching your face for any sign, as if the kiss weren’t enough, was only a distraction.
The porch light shines enough to reflect in his baby blues. Highlighting the wreckage of control, his chiseled cheekbones, and the tenseness of his strong jaw. He’s on the brink, teetering on some edge you can’t name, or are afraid to.
“Tell me what to do…” his breath is whiny, broken. His cock throbs against your leg, outline undeniable as it presses against your bare, shaven leg.
“Please,” he sobs. “I’m so fucking lost.”
You pull his head forward and up, breathing against his lips as he moans imperceptibly. “She’s still watching us, Tom,” you whisper against his mouth, and it’s like a key turns into his lock. All of his barely-managed control shatters.
His hands slide to the edges of your robe without realizing it, fingers bunching in the fabric like it’s the last thing keeping him standing.
“God… God, you smell so fucking good,” he groans, the words torn from his sore throat.
He pauses, breath hitching, looking up at you, permission-seeking written all over his face. Your head leans back graciously, and he kisses your throat. The robe loosens beneath his thick fingers, slipping from your shoulders in surrender. His hands barely roam, holding every bare inch of your skin as you run your fingers through his hair once more.
When he lifts his mouth to yours, the kiss lands heavy. It’s not rushed. His mouth opens against yours in a heady claim, heat bleeding through the wet contact. Tom kisses like he’s starving, disciplined enough to fear he might take too much.
Your lips move together in a deep, dragging rhythm that devastates him. He tilts his head, fitting himself to you instinctively, the kiss deepening as he searches for your soft skin beneath his palm.
“Yes,” he breathes against your mouth, voice weak and deep. “Yes. Right here. Right now.”
He’s shaking again, but he can’t seem to care. He kisses you like he’s drowning, like you’re air. Tom begins lathing hot, open-mouthed presses against your cheek and trailing down to your neck as he rubs your still-clothed hips.
Tom used to have to discipline himself when it came to you; you had been off-limits in every sense of the phrase. Now, he’s opening your robe further, kissing your neck with a hunger he refuses to deny. Eyes tracking every inch of exposed skin. He’s panting, his entire body trembling. His head dips down, mouth finding the skin of your collarbone, sucking gently. His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples.
You gasp and arch into him, and he groans, the sound guttural and desperate. “Say it,” you murmur breathlessly.
“I need you,” he repeats, voice cracking. “I need you more than anything. More than-” His hand moves to his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “More than fucking sanity.” That’s when you intervene.
Your gaze softens, gently taking his hands and stilling him, easing him. Your touch is deliberate in a way that cuts deeper than primal urgency ever could. You press the slowest, softest kiss to his cheekbone, lingering there.
“Easy, baby,” you whisper, warm and steady. “Go slow.” You guide his hands back towards your chest before you slide your fingertips down his abdomen.
Tom watches, entranced, as you follow the path down, his hands sliding up your chest and cheeks before he holds your hair beneath him. You’re kneeling before him now, the roles reversed deliciously. He exhales shakily, fingers tracing your damp hair. Looking down, he sees the way you lean back, nymph-like and seductive.
He relishes your sweet face, whining softly as he cups your cheek with one hand. He’s loving this, loving how hot your expression is without even knowing it. His cock is throbbing now, dripping so much precum that there’s a small bead of it seeping through his dress pants.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice ragged. He feels the heat of your breath blowing against his cock as you lean in closer, the way you’re looking up at him like you’ve never looked at anyone else, like he’s the only thing worth looking at.
He watches your eyes direct to the window once more, where Marianne still stands watching. The knowledge does something to him, ignites a dark thrill that makes his cock throb harder against the confines of his pants. He’s being watched while wanted.
“Look at me,” he says, voice hoarse. His fingers tighten in your hair just enough to angle your head, to force you to meet his gaze.
“Don’t look away.”
When you comply, holding his eyes, something in his expression cracks. The facade of control splinters. He looks vulnerable in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to be, blue eyes swimming with raw emotion.
You lovingly kiss his stomach, hearing him moan distantly as his head tilts back, feeling your hands gently rake where his well-overgrown happy trail has formed. His hips shift unconsciously, seeking pressure, seeking contact. The fabric of his pants is damp with precum. He’s harder than he’s been in weeks, maybe months, certainly not from cocaine, but from pure, desperate want.
“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he admits, quiet and broken.
His hands slide from your hair to your shoulders, holding you steady. “Missed having someone who actually…” His throat works. He swallows hard. The unfinished admission seems to undo him. His jaw clenches, eyes squeezing shut for just a moment before opening again.
“Please,” he whispers, the word stripped of all its earlier performance. This is just him now. “Please.”
“Shh,” you murmur, and he nods, tries to. Tries to breathe through the overwhelming rush of sensation. You’re kneeling for him, looking up at him like that. His cock is straining, hot and hard, and he can see the way you’re watching him; hungry and knowing.
“I’m scared,” he admits quietly, voice thick. His hands are moving now, one sliding down to adjust his own shaft through his pants while the other cups your face. "Of how… I crave you.”
But even as he says it, he’s moving. His belt drops to the ground with a soft clink, his hands moving to his slacks. They’re tight, straining over his erection, and he shivers as you help him undo them, sliding them down his hips with agonizing slowness.
“I know,” the way your voice sounds is like sin.
“Oh fuck,” he gasps, standing there in his boxers, heavy cock outlined clearly through the thin fabric. You’re still kneeling, looking up at him, and he’s so focused on you that he almost forgets to breathe.
“Press it on my tongue, baby,” you murmur headily. Your hands are holding onto his thighs, rubbing agonizing circles on his skin. Tom freezes for a moment, staring down at you, kneeling, lips soft in invitation. His whole body goes rigid, every muscle tensing.
“Let me kiss your cock,” you beg softly.
“I-” His voice breaks. He has to stop, pant, and steady himself. This is too much. You’re too much.
Then he’s moving. Has to move. His hands grip his boxers and yank them down in one motion, freeing his cock. It springs up, hard and flushed and already leaking heavily, standing at rigid attention. He grips your hair more firmly, not hard, not punishing, but holding on as he guides himself closer. The head of his cock brushes against your gentle lips, and he shivers, breath catching in his throat.
“There we are,” you murmur against his tip, leaning back to kiss the rest of his big cock, tongue tracing his pulsing veins as he moans gutturally. Your mouth gently sucks his skin, kitten-licking the base as you look up at his towering shaft.
“Fuck,” he breathes again, the word escaping on a shuddering exhale.
“Yes. Oh god yes.” Tom’s entire body goes rigid at the sensation of your soft mouth on him, the gentle suck of your lips and tongue nearly undoing him.
“You’ve got such a pretty cock, Tom,” you compliment. “Handsome… Just like you…”
“Oh fuck,” he gasps, his hands gripping your hair. His cock jumps at the contact, pre-cum leaking freely now in thin streaks over your tongue.
He’s trembling now, shaking from the combination of cocaine withdrawal, arousal, and the raw emotion that’s been building and building until he feels like he might explode. Your words wash over him; pretty cock, handsome, and his whole face flushes hotter.
“God,” he gasps, watching you work him with that soft tongue. His hips buck involuntarily, trying to shove more of himself into your mouth, but you’re taking your time, loving him slowly. His cock jerks in your mouth, precum bead after bead leaking out to keep your tongue slick.
“You make me feel fucking beautiful. So…” He can’t finish the sentence, too overwhelmed. His cock throbs, sensitive to every flick of your tongue, every soft kiss. He’s leaking all over you now, wetness dripping down your chin as you suck gently at him.
Tom’s hands are moving without conscious thought, one sliding down to grip his own shaft, stroking in tandem with your mouth. His other hand stays in your hair, holding you close even as his body bucks against your lips.
His head falls back against the wooden post of the porch, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent moan. The dual sensation, your tongue on his cock and his own hand on his shaft, is almost too much. He can feel the orgasm building, tight and desperate, and soon.
“You like this, don’t you?” You whisper against his heavy balls. “Does Mary worship you like this, does she praise you, baby?”
Tom’s entire body goes rigid, a strangled sound tearing from his throat as you take one of his balls into your mouth. The combination of your words and your tongue on his most sensitive flesh sends a shockwave through his system.
“You’re a good man, Tom. So… so good…” You say softly as you take one of his sweating balls in your hot mouth, sucking it as his tip leaks onto your cheek
The contrast of your mouth on his balls while you talk about Marianne sends a jolt straight through him, painful, hot, and so fucking wrong it’s almost right.
His voice breaks. “Fuck, yes. Yes, I fucking love it.”
His hands are shaking so badly now that he can barely hold himself steady, one gripping your hair while the other clutches at the porch railing for support. Every word you whisper is a blade twisting in his gut, the comparison to Marianne, the reminder that he’s here with you when he should be with his unfaithful wife.
“No,” he gasps out, voice cracking.
His cock throbs against your tongue, so hard he thinks he might actually die if you keep going. His hands tighten in your hair until you must be uncomfortable, but he can’t stop. Can’t stop listening to you, tasting you, feeling you. His hips buck harder, fucking your mouth with desperate, untrained movements.
“She doesn’t-” His breath hitches. “She doesn’t. She hasn’t in… fuck.” He swallows hard, his throat making a visible bob as he struggles to swallow around his arousal.
“She hasn’t touched me in… fuck, I don’t even know anymore.”
His balls draw up tight against his body as you suck on one, and he shivers. The feeling is intense, almost too much, but he’s so close already that it’s pushing him higher instead of pulling him back. His cock throbs, pre-cum leaking steadily now.
His whole body is shaking now, trembling. He’s so close he can barely breathe, can barely think. His hands are fisted in your hair, gripping desperately, and he’s making these small, ragged gasps of sound; “ah… fuck… please…”
“Look at you…” You coo softly, kissing his hefty balls. “Poor baby…” You murmur.
“I’ll tell you how good you are, just tell me how you want it, honey.” Your voice is sweet, innocent, despite how perfect you are at glorifying his cock.
“Do you want to finish on my face or in my mouth?” You ask softly, kissing his hip bone as his aching cock bobs on your bare shoulder.
Tom’s body shudders with each word you beautifully utter, as you press that soft, pliant mouth against his aching cock. His eyes are shut tightly, light tears trickling down his flushed cheeks now. He’s so far gone that he doesn’t even notice the wetness expelling from his tear ducts.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice broken. His hands are fisted so tight in your hair that his knuckles are white and your scalp stings.
“I don’t- fuck, I don’t know.” His cock throbs desperately in your hand, so hard he thinks it may actually hurt. He’s leaking so much precum now that it’s dripping down his shaft, his balls, and his thighs in a steady, pooling stream.
He’s so close, so achingly close that he can barely think straight anymore. His balls feel like they’re about to explode. The contact is almost too sweet, but he needs more. Needs to feel you, to claim you, somehow.
“I-” He swallows hard, struggling to form coherent words. “I want… fuck, I want…” His face twists, caught between shame and desperate need. “I want you to let me finish on your face. Want to watch you look at me while I- while I-”
He can’t finish it, too overwhelmed. His whole body tenses, balls pulling up tight, and he gasps as the first spurt of cum leaks from his tip, dripping down onto the porch step. His legs buckle slightly, but he catches himself on the fence.
“Tell me how good I am,” he begs again, voice hoarse and desperate. "Please. Tell me I’m still… still good enough. That I- " His breath hitches as another wave of arousal crashes through him, his whole body trembling on the edge.
You blow gently against his tip, murmuring, “You’re so good, baby.” Your hand strokes his cock, where his palm remains absent as he cries.
“So good to me… you’re a sweetheart, Tom.” A choked sob tears from his throat as he cums, hot and heavy, the first hot rope of fluid streaking across your face and neck. His breath is coming in ragged gasps, and he’s making these small, broken sounds; “fuck, fuck, fuck-” under his breath.
You engulf his sweet-tasting cock in your mouth. His hips twitch, but he forces himself not to thrust yet. Instead, he watches you with those wide, desperate blue eyes, memorizing the sight of himself in your mouth.
“Nnh-” The sound escapes him involuntarily as you suck his cum.
His hands are still fisted in your hair, gripping desperately even as his arms go weak. He can feel you stroking him, feel your mouth on his skin, hear your voice cooing sweet nothings.
“Oh fuck,” he gasps out, voice cracking. His whole body is trembling, muscles spasming as another wave of orgasm rolls through him. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears still streaming down his face, and he’s gasping for air like he’s drowning.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice barely audible over his own ragged breathing. His hands loosen slightly in your hair, fingers carding through the damp strands gently now. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-,” But he can’t finish the sentence because another sob tears from his throat. He’s cried more in the last five minutes than he has in months, and he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop.
His cock is still half-hard in your mouth, twitching occasionally with aftershocks, and he can feel the way you’re still stroking him, still holding him. It makes his chest tighten painfully; a good ache, a healing ache.
Tom looks down at you, streaks of thick cum splattered on your once-innocent face. His eyes are wet and desperate, and he’s barely standing on his own. Even as his vision blurs, he hears you loud and clear.
“Come down here,” you say quietly.
Tom’s vision blurs as your words sink in, his brain barely processing what you’re saying even as his body responds instinctively. His cock throbs harder, precum gushing down his shaft as the image of you, spread open beneath him, inviting him in a way no one ever has, sends his arousal through the roof.
“You’re good, Tom.” You reassure him, seeing his fingers rake through his hair.
“Fuck… oh fuck…” he gasps, his legs threatening to give out from under him. He catches himself on the porch railing with shaking arms, his whole body trembling from the combination of pleasure and emotional overload.
When he looks down at you, really looks at you, wiping the tears from his face with shaking fingers, something in his expression shifts. He’s so close to the edge he can taste it, but this… this is what he needs. You help him kneel, his hand intertwining with yours without question.
“Fuck,” he whines, his voice hoarse but stronger now. He shifts his weight, lowering himself gradually, letting his hips settle between your spread legs. The contact alone is enough to make him gasp, his cock aching as it presses against your entrance.
He trembles, his control slipping further. “I don’t, fuck, I don’t want to hurt you,” he admits, voice cracking. “I’m so fucking turned on right now I don’t think I can…” His hand that’s not gripped in your hair comes down to wipe your lip.
“I know… I know, baby,” you acknowledge thoughtfully. But then you suck his thumb into your mouth, and the sensation of your tongue on his skin, the sight of your lips wrapped around him, it’s too much. It breaks what little composure he had left.
“Come on now…” You encourage softly, “take care of me.” Your words are unfamiliar and sweet.
“Yes. Oh God, yes, I want it. I want to fucking bury myself in you.” His hands move to your hips, gripping them firmly as he settles between your legs. His weight presses down on your thighs, spreading them wider, and you can feel how hard he is, desperately hard, needy.
He guides himself inside with shaking hands, and the first inch is enough to make him see stars. The heat of you, the tightness; it’s perfect. It’s everything he’s been craving. He sinks in another inch, then another, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Ah… fuck,” he gasps against your lips, his mouth breaking away just enough to speak before diving in. Tom slides into you inch by inch, his whole body trembling with effort and desperate need. When his lips meet yours again, the kiss is hungry and raw, tongue demanding entry, seeking taste and connection and proof that you want this as much as he does.
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in. His hands are shaking as they slide up your sides, under your shirt, touching your skin. Every touch is reverent, desperate, like he’s trying to memorize you in case you disappear.
He kisses you, hot and deep and hungry, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming you. His hands slide back down to grip your thighs, pulling them higher, opening you further for him. He can feel the damp heat of you against his cock, and it makes his whole body shudder.
“Fuck,” he groans against your mouth, the word muffled as he steals another kiss. His hips buck, sinking deeper, and the sensation of being inside you, really inside you, makes his cock throb painfully.
Your lips press to his cheek as he pants, his thrusts slow and deep. “You’ve got… such a handsome cock…” Your words are breathy and pleasured.
The weight of his cock is heavy within you, creating a vast outline against your stomach as you moan. Dipping your head into his neck, you murmur, “so… fucking big…” Tom makes a sound, a noise of pure, desperate relief. The praise hits him like a drug, flooding his system with warmth.
“You’re a good man…” You whine into his neck.
He’s so used to being called useless, broken, and a disappointment. Hearing that he’s handsome, that his body is wanted, that he’s good… it nearly breaks him again, but in a better way now.
“Fuck,” he gasps out, hips bucking slightly as you praise him. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging in just a bit, not hard, just desperate. He pulls back to look down at himself, at the hard length between your legs, and it’s like seeing himself through your eyes.
“I’m good,” he whispers, almost incredulously. His voice is thick with emotion.
“You think I’m good?” He presses his forehead to yours again, breathing hard. His whole body is trembling, not from physical exertion but from the weight of your words. He’s trying so hard to be worthy of them.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. His hands slide up to cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks.
The way you smile against his lips is enough to make him go crazy. His hands are shaking as they rest on your face, gentle and adoring. He’s so desperate to please you, to earn the praise, to be the man you’re holding. It’s almost heartbreaking how much he needs this.
He shifts his hips again, grinding his cock against you, and lets out a groan. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, let me worship you. Let me be good for you like you want me to be.”
Tom fucks you like he’s dying. It’s desperate and raw and beautiful. His movements are rough, almost punishing, like he’s trying to pound something out of himself, yet he remains careful. Always careful not to hurt you. His hands tremble on your hips, his breath comes in ragged gasps, and his eyes are wet the whole time.
Your eyes flutter open as he shifts slightly, the angle changing inside you. He watches your face intently, cataloging every twitch of your brow, every parting of your lips. When your eyes meet, the depth of his adoration is terrifying, absolute.
“So fucking beautiful,” he breathes out, the words a reverent whisper. He seems surprised he was allowed to say it, as if you might suddenly snatch back the permission.
He begins to move again, slow and deep at first, then faster as your body responds to him. His hips roll against yours, a steady, relentless rhythm that has you gasping. He’s so lost in it that he doesn’t notice you watching him, doesn’t realize how much of himself he’s revealing. A car passes again, its headlights sweeping across the porch, and for a split second, he freezes, caught in the act.
But the moment passes, and he doesn’t stop. If anything, the near-exposure seems to spur him on, to push him deeper into the reckless abandon he’s found with you.
“I can’t…” he gasps out, but he doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.
“Cum,” you beg weakly, “do it inside…” The breath he gives next is a laugh, almost unbelieving. Then, you leg-lock him tightly, looking up at him with the same heavenly eyes he stared at that night at dinner. But this was so much more. This was raw.
He buries his face in your neck, mouthing at your throat as he brokenly groans, “I’m gonna… I’m…” He can’t even form the words, just a series of desperate, whiny sounds. His hips slam into yours one last, deep, punishing thrust, and then he’s gone, spilling himself inside you with a sob that tears through him.
Your nails claw his back through his sweat-damp shirt, tearing the fabric animalistically as he collapses against you, heavy and shaking. “Oh…” he groans again, the word muffled against your skin.
Every nerve in his body hums, half from the aftershocks of what you’ve shared, half from the quiet intimacy that follows. He blinks slowly, taking you in, the curve of your lips, the soft warmth of your skin against his.
“Sleep with me tonight,” you murmur, cupping his face reverently, kissing his sweat-dampened face as he pants. Tom gulps, holding onto your trembling form shakily. Steam emits from both of you, like smoke from your long forgotten cigarette, as he lies on you with no intention of leaving.
He’s so exposed that for a terrifying moment, he can’t speak. He nods, a small, jerky motion against your palm. He pushes himself up, hands braced on either side of your head, and looks down at you. His expression is a mixture of awe and disbelief, like he can’t quite believe you’re real, that this is happening.
“I…” he starts, then stops. Swallows. Tries again. “I don’t have any shoes,” he says, and then a breathless, watery laugh escapes him. It sounds rusty, unused. His gaze shifts past your shoulder, toward the dark window of his own house.
You laugh softly, laughing with him as he watches your mouth curve. For the first time tonight, the thought of Marianne isn’t a wound, but a distant fact, a separate life from the one he’s in now. He looks back at you, at the kindness in your eyes, and something inside him settles.
“Okay,” he says, his voice stronger now, clearer. “Okay.” He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Let’s go inside.” The night air and the musk of sex clinging to you both.
The two of you slowly rise; he helps steady you, sliding your robe back onto you like a doting husband. A faint smile plays on your lips as you watch him fuss over your robe, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he ties the sash.
You pull up his pants, tucking him in as if familiar with the outline of his body already. The tenderness is almost painful. He catches your eye, and for a moment, he looks flustered, like a boy caught doing something sweet.
“Let me,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s sweeping you up into his arms.
A soft laugh swallows your gasp as he carries you easily over the threshold, the door closing with a soft thud.
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | emmett spots you at a bar while you're in town for your graduation present. one thing leads to another...
𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 16k
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 | fempov, age-gap (20+ yrs), pre-apocalypse/noapocalypse, 2000's AU, diner-date, emmett has a dog, no power dynamic (boooo), p in v, handjob, (guided) virgin reader, forced deepthroat, ballgasm(?), creampie/breeding
𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | i was listening to blurry by puddle of mudd, i think he’d listen to old rock as a cool-front, but his real interest is twangy country - doesn't have much to do with the story other than the beginning bar scene. first tumblr fic ayyy, also you text lowercase, because i text lowercase.
(!) mostly proofread
The road is a glowing vision of reflected streetlights with active puddles of rain splattering against asphalt. Rainfall patters softly on the silver roof of your friend's Toyota. You count the fluid lines spreading across the window pane, hearing groaning voices echoing somewhere around you.
“Damn, is it gonna be like this the whole week?” The girl in the driver’s seat groans, leaning forward against the horn as she looks haphazardly at the sky.
“Lucky us,” the passenger replies, wanting desperately to smoke a cigarette.
None of you expected this type of weather while you were at the beach, wanting to soak up the sun and get a better tan. At least it was only for tonight.
“Are we there yet?” Another girl asks, happy to annoy the driver, giving you a knowing nod and nudging your shoulder playfully.
“No, shut up.” You snort at her curt reply. She’s been driving you all for the past four hours.
“Yes- Wait- Turn right.”
After hearing the ruffle of a paper map and the mention of several shortcuts, you ended up at The Garrison. A midwestern-looking bar, privately located on the Coast, it resembles something out of a ‘90s film, and so do the individuals surrounding it.
You aren’t the type to feed into the superstition that tough-looking bikers hovering near the entrances of bars are bad, that’s not why your hands cling to your elbows as you step inside. Truth be told, you aren’t used to this kind of scene, or even being let out of your hometown with friends.
The moment you walk in you feel the potent waft of beer hit your face, along with the not-so-faint scent of smoke that lingers on the clothes of the bartender and all whom he serves. You remain close behind your few friends, your finger being held protectively by someone in front of you. Somewhere behind the bar, a TV plays a muted baseball game no one’s really watching.
Looking up, you see the reflections of orange and red scatter along the tin ceiling, poorly reflecting flip-phones and pool tables. There’s a small part of you that wants to smile at the absence of a kids menu. The jukebox whines something angsty, a rock ballad meant to be heard by divorcees. The floorboard groans loudly under the weight of your group, but that isn’t what makes people turn their heads, because in their minds all they know is that you aren’t from here, from their parts.
But Emmett knows it first.
He’s already there when you walk in, leaning over the pool table mid-shot, cue in hand, the eight-ball waiting for its fate, and a lowball glass of something strong. One of his thick sleeves is rolled up to the elbow, forearms streaked with traces of black oil and sweat from work. He hadn't changed for the bar, just wiped his hands, flicked a glance at the clock, and drove into town.
“Alright, Lee.” He doesn’t bother looking up, telling his partner to strike the billiard when he hears the familiar sound of loud teenagers.
“Fuck, I didn’t lock the car.” One of your girlfriends curses, heading back out beneath the gray clouds and into the thick fog that now surrounds the outside of the bar.
“Here, I’ll go get a booth.” Another replies, the other two follow her. You’re still distracted by how different this type of atmosphere is. Emmett lifts himself from the corner of the table, adjusting his cap before walking around to the edge of where he left his whiskey at the bar.
He looks over at the exact second you’re left alone. And that’s it.
Everything in the room slows. The chatter of your friends become muffled echoes, jukebox thudding like a heartbeat under his skin. Emmett doesn’t pretend like he’s going to ignore you, return to his game like nothing. He doesn’t need to. He just leans against the bar, gaze locking onto you like he’d remembered how to crave something.
Your hair looks delicious against your skin, wearing a dark halter top revealing just enough of your creamy body to make him pause, ache. He wonders what’s beneath, beauty marks, freckles, tattoos, anything he can memorize with his tongue. Damn.
He becomes entranced with how you move, careful, guarded, like every gesture’s a defense. Against who? He wants to know, has to. He walks back over to his waiting friend, sinks the eight-ball without breaking his stare, grin tugging at his lips like he’s got a plan.
Emmett watches with intention as you pass by him towards a red vinyl booth, and for a moment you glance up at him. His eyelids are hooded over icy blue, meshed with the glow of golden bourbon. They drink in as much of this moment as they can hold, had it been your lips meeting you would’ve felt breathless.
When you turn away, he’s brought back, feeling a friend’s hand clamp onto his shoulder and pulling him towards reality. But his body moves before his mind resonates, his calloused grip wrapping around his drink, and within the minute he’s approaching your table, approaching you.
“Evenin’ ladies.” He smiles at the crowd, not caring a bit about glancing too long towards anyone except yourself.
He leans closer against the booth until he can rest his elbow on the wood that separates you from the other table, eyes roving over your bare shoulders as he mutters something softly to you, deliberate enough to make your pulse twitch. “Don’t usually see cute girls like you in here,” he says, voice slow and thick with Southern drawl, the type that made every syllable stick. “You got a name, sugar?”
“We’re not interested,” your friend sitting beside you speaks before you gently nudge her foot beneath the table. You meet his gaze with a shy smile that nearly tells him how young you are. You tell him your name. His smile deepens at the sound, as if he almost imagined its flavor.
“Girls like me, huh?” You tilt your head, giving him a cocky grin, the background of your friends blurred instantly and he was drawn towards a fantasy. He doesn’t respond, just gives a grin knowingly. His teeth are sharp, crooked canines with a history of clenching toothpicks and holding wrenches.
“Name’s Emmett,” he says, lifting his glass toward you. “Was hopin’ you’d come say hi first, but hey… I can improvise.”
Cocky, like the upperclassmen of your high school. By now, he’d pulls up a chair from the table beside him, since you’re not making room. He’s sitting next to you eye-level and making his own impression. You roll your eyes, half amused. “Aren’t you too old to improv?”
He chuckles low, the feeling of his warm breath curling around your face like an invisible mask. “Maybe, but I’m patient” he lies, shrugging with just enough to make it impossible to ignore.
You wonder what concoction is swirled in his drink, and if you’d taste it later. “Patient, you say?” You grin, not sure what else to say, where to start, as if you’ve ever met someone with this much audacity and charm.
“Depends… But good things come to those who wait, right?” You feel the weight of his words, the truth doesn’t need proof. “Sometimes,” you reason softly, sipping your soda.
“Y’know, you’re a hard thing not to look at.” He notices you pause, the way you listen to him as your lips wrap around your straw. But he wants to catch his chance while his ego is fueled.
Your friends talk amongst themselves, but it’s hard not to view the taboo spectacle. Two strangers who appear from completely different backgrounds… and ages, carrying a flirtatious conversation. “But I’ll behave,” he adds, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “‘Less of course you ask me not to.”
You smile, your grin barely concealing how exciting it feels to connect, you can’t help it, though your mind tries to protest. You see the shadow of his bicep contrasting against the overhead lamp, and recognize the heady scent of cologne emanating from his wrist. “Tell you what,” he murmurs. “You tell me what you lil’ girlies are up to and why I haven't seen you before, and I’ll let you outta here without askin’ for your number.” You laugh. “That’s a bad deal.”
But you give it to him anyway. He doesn’t look at you the way others do, in a room full of wandering eyes, he makes you feel seen. And it’s true, he can’t go ten seconds without looking you up and down. “Usually is,” he says. “Still works more often than it should.”
You lean back against the vinyl booth, which sticks faintly to your bare thighs from the humidity everyone pretends not to notice. “We’re in town for a beach trip. Sort of a… last hurrah.”
Emmett’s brow lifts as if he were filling in the details. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. End-of-the-year thing. Sun, bad decisions, too much sugar.”
He smiles into his glass, ice clinking softly as he tilts it back. The amber catches the overhead light and throws it across his knuckles, rough hands, not too dirty nails. “Sounds like college to me.”
You don’t correct him, letting the assumption take shape so you’ll still have a chance. There’s something easier about it this way. He takes another sip, eyes still on you, not drifting, not scanning the room like most men do. One of your friends pauses in her conversation, looking over at you with skepticism before you just smile.
After some joking, you hear his deep laugh. It’s real, unguarded, shoulders lifting as the sound rolls out of him. He catches the bartender’s eye with two fingers lifting. “Another round,” he calls out easily, then tips his chin your way. “Somethin’ nice for her,” he winks, all-knowing
You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what I’m drinking.”
Emmett looks over at your club soda, which is clearly a mix of grenadine and non-alcoholic sweetness. His mouth curves into a grin that’s all confidence. “I think I can guess.”
A few minutes after talking, the glass float arrives sweating cold. Tiny bubbles race to the surface as you look down at the foamy rim and the bountiful pile of whipped cream. “This is a kid’s drink,” you laugh, picking up the cherry he’s been eyeing since it was brought over.
Emmett just shrugs, his arms crossing. “I’m not tryna find out if you’re a lightweight, baby.”
You smile and hold up the maraschino, waving it in front of his face. He doesn’t move at first, just watches you with a slow smile, eyes flicking from the cherry to your face like he’s deciding whether he trusts you with it. “For me?” he asks lazily.
You lean a little farther over the small diner table, elbow near the sweating glass. “I don’t see anyone else eyein’ this thing.” He snorts softly at that but finally leans forward, one brow raised in mock suspicion. “Alright then.”
You hold the cherry up again. “Say ahh.”
He rolls his eyes like the whole thing is beneath him, but he opens his mouth anyway. “Ahh.”
The second he does, you push the small red sweetness into his mouth, feeling his lips closer on your index finger and thumb. You watch him grin around the sweet syrupy bite, his eyes staying on you. Reluctantly, he releases your fingers with his arms still-crossed. He watches you bring the damp digits into your own mouth before groaning in the back of his throat.
“Yummy, huh?” He asks, knowing you haven’t even tasted your drink. You nod, smiling, and reach for the tall spoon sticking out of the float. The ice cream is already soft around the edges, foam sliding down the side of the glass. Emmett stares as you scoop up a spoonful; soda, ice cream, whipped cream all together, and take a bite, eyes lighting up immediately.
“Okay,” you admit through a laugh. “That’s actually… really good.”
Emmett leans back in the booth, arms folding across his chest again, satisfied with himself and the order. “Told you.” You take another spoonful, then slide the glass a little toward the middle of the table. “Your turn,” you say.
“Nah,” he answers.
You pause mid-scoop. “You ordered it.”
“Yeah,” he says. “For you.” There’s no big show in how he says it. Just a simple fact, delivered in that slow drawl that makes everything sound like it belongs exactly where it landed. You study him for a moment, then dip the spoon again and hold it out across the table.
“Fine,” you say. “But you’re still trying it.”
He looks at the spoon like it’s poison. Then at you. “Well,” he murmurs, leaning forward again, “if you’re feedin’ me, that’s a different story.” He takes the bite without breaking eye contact, and when he leans back again he nods once, conceding. “...Well, damn,” he says. “That is pretty damn good.”
He’s close enough you’re able to make out the tattoo on his arm, the faded remnant of a scar on his chin. Without thinking, your finger lifts and traces it, feeling his warm breath brush onto your knuckle.
“You always like this with girls you just met?” you ask, testing him. He lets you touch him with heavy eyelids, you don’t ask him where it came from. Not yet.
“The ones I plan on rememberin’.” He leans in, stretching out, arm draped along the back of the booth behind you. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your shirt.
Behind him, the pool table cracks loud as someone breaks, the sound sharp against the hum of conversation. A familiar voice cuts through it. “Emmett,” a man calls, equal parts annoyed and entertained. “You plannin’ on flirtin’ all night or you gonna finish this damn game?”
Emmett doesn't even blink. Doesn’t look away from you. He just lifts his glass in Lee’s direction, arm relaxed. “Give me a minute.”
Lee scoffs. “You said that ten minutes ago.”
Emmett smiles wider. “Then I reckon’ I’ll say it again.”
His friend shakes his head, muttering something about him being hopeless, and wanders back toward the pool table. The balls clack again, more laughter following.
You laugh softly, leaning closer to him without realizing it. “You’re gonna get in trouble.”
Emmett leans in, murmuring in your ear and making you shiver. “Worth it, honey,” he says.
The night settles into something easy after that. Conversation slides between you both without effort, the kind that doesn’t feel like small talk even when it is. He asks about the music you like, teases you gently when you admit to liking something he pretends to hate. Your friends, by now, have been listening long enough to know he’s turning into your type, the first good thing to happen to you in a long time. He talks about back roads and long drives, about places he’d ended up just because he missed an exit and didn’t mind seeing where it led.
You tell him about how you missed the ocean. About standing at the edge of it at night, how it makes everything else feel smaller and bigger all at once. How it feels like the start of something, even when you don’t know what that something is just yet. Every time your glass dips low, another appears. Emmett never asks if you want one. Never making a show of it. He just notices and pays.
The bar gets louder as the night goes on. Someone feeds more money into the jukebox for some late-night dancing, he almost asks you for a little something until your friend sweeps you with her. Another group near the door cheers too loudly as he watches you, smile, watches you laugh. The air grows warmer, heavier. Through it all, he stays right there, body angled toward you, eyes finding yours again and again like gravity…
The drive home is a blur after that. Your friends fill the car with giggling noise, laughing too loud, replaying half-remembered moments from the bar, arguing about who spilled what. You sit in the backseat, knees tucked up, cheek pressed lightly to the window. Your face aches in that good, stupid way it only does after smiling for too long.
“Jesus,” one of them says, craning around to look at you. “You gonna tell us what his deal was or you just gonna keep grinning like you won the fucking lottery?” You duck your chin, laughing despite yourself. “Fuck you, It wasn’t like that.”
“Mhm,” another one chimes in. “He forgot how to blink.”
Your little Motorola Razr buzzes in your palm before you can answer. You let it light up the dark for just a second.
New Message ✉︎ “Told you I’d behave. You home safe yet, darlin’?”
Something in your chest flutters at the thought of him spending his time at the bar talking with you, even when you aren’t there anymore.
“not yet,” you type back, thumbs quick and familiar on the worn keys. You picture him still at the bar, jacket slung over the back of his stool, sleeves rolled up, that quiet half-smile he gets when he’s pretending not to be pleased. Kind of like yours.
Emmett takes his time replying. You can almost see him hunting and pecking at the keys, squinting down at the screen like he doesn’t have his reading glasses on. “Don’t like you drivin’ this late. Lotta dumbass boys out. Worse. Text me when you get home, alright?”
At the bar, his eyes are a little tired as he imagines you on the road, brows furrowing as he glances out the window at the deluge. He can’t stand the thought of you out there on those winding roads alone, not with the way the rain crashed against the roof of the bar.
“don’t worry, i’m not driving. my friend is” Emmett reads that and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders dropping just a notch. Good. At least someone has sense left in them.
He rolls the phone in his palm, glancing towards the pool table where Lee had been earlier. His friend had stumbled out twenty minutes ago, laughing and promising they’d catch a baseball game before the week was over. “That kid’s trouble,” Lee said, clapping Emmett on the shoulder.
Emmett just snorted. “Aren’t they all?”
He knows he’s holding himself back, partially because pressing the tiny keys is a pain in his ass, and because the last thing he’d try to do is scare you off.
The bartender slides a fresh beer across the bar. “You look like a teenager, man,” he said, eyeing Emmett’s phone.
“Aw, shut up,” Emmett mutters as he catches the glass, but there was no heat in it.
Back in the car, your phone buzzes again. “That’s a relief, but you still text me when you get in. Door locked. Lights on. All that good stuff.”
Something about the way he sends it makes your stomach flip. You don’t bother hiding your smile this time. Then another message comes through. A picture. Grainy and a little crooked. The pool table, the eight-ball sunken clean, and one of your plastic cups still sitting on the bar, your lipstick faint on the rim.
“You like your drink alright?”
You laugh softly, lifting your own empty cup from the cupholder, and snap a quick picture of it wedged between your thighs before thinking better of it. Too late. Sent.
“i did… thank you, em”
Your thumb slips and heat rushes to your face. You correct it immediately. “Emmett”
Emmett stares at the photo longer than he means to, muttering something under his breath that makes the bartender raise an eyebrow as he wipes a glass. “Naw,” he types back, quick this time. “Em’s fine. You can call me that.” He leans back, the stool creaking under him, an old Johnny Cash song humming out of the jukebox.
“Knew you couldn’t take anythin’ too strong. Was wonderin’ if I made it too sweet. Hate when a drink lies to you.”
You rest your head back against the seat, watching rain bead and scatter. “no, no it was good, i don’t usually like sweet”
That makes him smile. Not the cocky kind. Something soft. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’ll get you another one soon.”
He doesn’t send anything else right away. Sets the phone down, and takes a sip of his drink he doesn’t really want to finish. “You close up soon?” Emmett asks.
“Ehh, ‘bout an hour,” he says. “People going already, though.”
Your friends are still talking, laughing about something you half-heard, throwing your name into the conversation every now and then like a tease. You stay quiet, eyes fixed on your phone, the glow warm against your palms. “So…” one of them says. “You gonna tell us his name or what?”
“Later,” you smile.
“So,” he texts. “What made you ‘nd your friends scurry off so damn fast?”
You think about the way you’d left him at the bar. How it hadn’t felt rushed, exactly, just complete. Like the moment had landed where it was supposed to. At least it did for you.
Emmett pulls out a clean napkin and starts to help wipe down the bar, hands moving automatically while his mind stays elsewhere. On a dark car driving through rain, on a girl with big eyes and a smile that feels too good to be innocent.
“early morning tomorrow, going to the beach. you know about topsail?”
His eyebrows lift slightly when he checks his glowing screen, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in something between amusement and genuine interest. Topsail. Christ, how many years had it been since he'd heard that?
“Topsail? Hell yeah, I know it honey,” he sends back. “Used to go there when I was your age," he types, leaning back against the bar. Where you kids gonna stay?” The message sends with a soft buzz. He watches the screen, waiting, while some drunk at the other end of the bar stumbles on empty bottles.
His jaw works silently before he adds: "Early mornin' at the beach sounds exhausting. Y’all’ll be dead on your feet by noon." He sets the phone down, running a hand over the scarred wood, but his attention is already split. Part of him wants to ask who else is going.
The phone buzzes again. “it’s our first time at the beach unsupervised. but i just wanna walk on the shore. and what do you mean my age? how long has it been since you were eighteen?”
Emmett goes still. Eighteen. The word settles heavy and sharp. How long since he was eighteen. When had he last been that young, that reckless? He doesn’t panic. Doesn’t spiral. Just smirks it off anyway. You hadn’t said that to him the whole night, not that he would have picked up his chair and moved away anyhow. The humor in his expression dies, replaced by something closer to... respect? Admiration? He can’t quite name it.
“You avoided tellin' me that, huh?” His thumb moves across the screen. “Smart girl. Don't need that kinda pressure on a first night.” He pauses.
The bar is really emptying out now, just a few stragglers attached to drinks they've been nursing for two hours. “Been what, fourteen years? Maybe fifteen since I was eighteen. Don't remember it bein' that long till I looked in the mirror one day and saw my dad's face startin' to show up."
You bite your lip, smiling. Imagining him in front of a mirror, shaving cream on his face, steam on his mirror… a towel draped around his waist. “Know that look,” your friend grins, poking you as you laugh. The car slows as you pull into the drive of a rental street. Your friend parks, kills the engine, and turns to look at you with a grin.
He types slowly: “You gonna crash on that drive home or you gonna text me when you're in bed? Don't need no accidents on my conscience.”
The silvery car parks in the driveway to the beach house. Your friends pile out, still laughing.
“Sooo,” one of them says, leaning back in. “You keeping him or what?”
“Shut up,” you groan, laughing, grabbing your bag.
You all are inside now, chatting about where the next place to eat will be, sandals kick off into a corner near the door. Your damp towels hang over chairs as you sit on the edge of a coastal-themed couch and type. “we made it, doors locked, happy now?”
The reply comes almost instantly. “Yeah, sugar, I’m happy. “Was hopin’ you’d say that.”
You stay perched there, phone warm in your hands, heart doing that irritating little sprint. The room smells faintly of sea salt and shampoo. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes. Normal sounds. Too normal for how wound up you feel.
“What’re you doin’ right now?” he asks.
You hesitate, then tell the truth. “trying not to overthink.”
He sends back a low chuckle in text form. “Good luck.” You smile, rolling onto the cushions of the couch with your legs hanging off the armrest. “I’m still at the bar,” he continues. “Finishin’ a beer I don’t really want. Thinkin’ about how you looked when you laughed. Right before you caught me starin’.”
“you were starin’,” you type, mimicking his drawl that seeps into his style.
“Guilty,” he replies. “A man’s allowed to appreciate a girl like you,” he texts back, pushing the phone onto the bar face-down. Emmett’s hand comes up to scrub at his face, trying to wake himself up.
“you’re trouble,” you send.
He contemplates briefly before picking it up again like you’re irresistible. “Mm,” he answers. “Only if you’re bored.” The room feels too quiet suddenly. Too still.
You shift, sitting up again, knees drawn close. The thing is you aren’t bored, you’re excited. You don’t want this to be a fling, you don’t think he wants that either. “what happens now?” you ask, surprising yourself. Another pause. You can almost feel him considering it, not rushing, not posturing.
He catches the bartender's look and pockets his phone, grabbing his keys as he slid some cash towards him. The leather feels worn under his palm, familiar. “Be seein' you, Miguel.”
“Have a good one, man.”
Outside, rain has stopped but the streets are still slick, paint-thin water puddles reflecting the neon signs bleeding into them. His truck is still where he'd left it, engine cold. “Well,” he finally replies, “now I either wish you a good night and let this be a nice memory.”
Your chest tightens. You hate how much this feels like a goodbye.
“or?” you type.
“Or,” he continues. “I ask if you’d like to see me again. Properly. No crowd. No noise.” He stands there a moment longer, waiting like his life depends on it, before he finally grudgingly climbs into his truck and locks the doors. You don’t answer right away.
You think about his voice, the way it had dipped when he spoke close to you. About the way he hadn’t deliberately touched you, somehow that meant more. “when?” you ask.
Tomorrow would have been too eager. Next week too careful.
“How’s tomorrow?” He texts, like it hasn’t cost him anything to suggest it. “I know a place on the pier that makes a mean breakfast. And I promise not to stare… too much.”
You smile to yourself, already picturing him. “okay,” you type.
His reply comes slower this time. “Good.” You can almost hear the weight behind it. “And,” he adds, “I meant what I said earlier.”
“about another drink?” you ask.
“About you bein’ hard not to look at,” he says. “Behavin’s just a courtesy.” He sat there a moment longer, engine off, before finally starting it up again.
You laugh, shaking your head, feeling that warm pull low in your stomach that had nothing to do with humor. “goodnight, em,” you type.
The phone buzzes. Once. Then: “Night, darlin’. Sleep easy.”
Emmett doesn’t leave immediately. Just sits there, hands on the wheel, telling himself this is fine. Harmless. That he isn’t about to be the kind of man who complicates things just because something feels good. He starts the engine, shifting the truck into gear and easing out onto the slick asphalt, and leaves the bar behind. Telling himself it’ll be easier than it is. It isn’t.
Hours later, when the unfamiliar house finally goes quiet and the fan hums you gently toward sleep, your flip phone buzzes again. A different rhythm this time. A call. You stare at it for too long before you sneakily get up and head downstairs to the kitchen bar.
Your pajama pants pool around your ankles as you answer. “Hey,” you say softly.
“Hey,” he replies, voice lower now, closer. “Didn’t wake you, did I?” Emmett’s been up for a while since the bar. He walked his dog for a half hour before settling in and washing off. He doesn’t want to keep you up too long, wanting to see you upright the next morning.
“No,” you say. “Just… thinking.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.” There’s a pause, comfortable and charged. “Listen,” he says, clearing his throat. “I meant what I said earlier. About lettin’ this be simple. But I’m not real good at pretendin’ I’m not thinkin’ about you.”
“What are you thinking about?”
He chuckles on the other end, you can hear it. “I’m thinkin’ about you thankin’ me tomorrow for breakfast.”
“Oh?” you tease. “how exactly?”
“Well,” he says, unhurried, “I’ve got a spare room, if need be. And I’ve always appreciated a… personal thank-you.” He rubs the back of his neck as he looks around his own bedroom, clearly needing to change up the quality of the space before he goes out with you.
Your pulse spikes. “You’re subtle.”
He chuckles. “Didn’t say tonight. Just sayin’... I plan ahead.”
You close your eyes, imagining his hand on the doorframe, the way he’d look at you when he finally stopped behaving. “Goodnight, Em,” you say again, softer.
“Night, darlin’,” he replies. “Tomorrow.”
You hang up, heart racing…
Both of you start your days completely flip-flopped. You, waking up at 6:00, Emmett’s usual break at the auto-shop, and him, 7:08, groggy and unconfidently trying to remember what happened the night before. Something he’s aware of and you’re too satisfied to change. He picks up his Motorola from the nightstand.
Beginning to type, he reminds himself to stay calm. But the words already leave his fingers, and now he’s staring at the screen like it might judge him. “Mornin’, sugar.”
Emmett gets up, makes coffee, feeds the dog, does all the morning routines, and tries not to think about you too much. Tries and fails.
“Morning, Em.” You send a few photos of the sunrise along with your text. The “drinks” he bought you have worn off now, you’re running on the pure thought of Emmett being near you again. Today, you don’t have a time limit, or curfew.
At 7:15, he’s driving toward the beach because he keeps his promises, even impulsive ones he’d made to a girl he just met. The road is empty, wet with morning dew, and his phone sits silent and unjudgmental in his pocket. Maybe he should’ve just gone to work. But he'd promised himself a good breakfast. And you.
You say bye to your friends as they hug you and tell you to keep them updated, that they’d be waiting with sunscreen blotched on their backs and lathered in tanning oils at noon. The walk towards the shore nearby parking lot is easy, but you’d be lying if you said you aren’t nervous about letting him see you like this.
The only thing remotely modest you’re wearing is an old button-up you used to cover your arms and shoulders, and barely the tops of your thighs. You watch a few seagulls fly past you as the breeze comes up around your legs, inhaling the scent of saltwater, you begin approaching the sea-foamed border.
The beach is quiet when he pulls up, just a few early birds walking dogs and setting up fishing rods. He finds parking and walks toward the shoreline, hands in his denim pockets, jaw working. When he spots your figure near the water, already waiting, something in his chest eases.
“Hey there, darlin’,” Emmett calls out, walking closer. “Well, ain’t you a pretty sight? Not everyone's a morning person.” As he approaches, he notices you’re still in swimwear despite the cool breeze, a polka dot bikini that makes him do a few double-takes.
“I’m glad you came.” You already walked up to hug him from the side, your other arm caught up in a tote, heavy with sunscreen and pre-made sandwiches for lunch.
“My friends said they’d go to one of the touristy spots, so it’s just us,” you don’t realize you’re smiling like a dope. His arms come around you automatically, pulling you against him for a quick, solid hug before releasing you, reluctantly.
The fabric of your button-up is cool against his skin, and he could feel your warmth even through it. “Just us, huh?” He steps back, hands sliding into his pockets, that easy grin on his face.
“My favorite kind of date.” You smile back, sliding your hand in his back pocket as if he’d dream of losing your touch. He pats your lower back, rubbing the skin of your hip as he leads you away from the beach. “C’mon, let’s find a spot. Hear the view’s better from the pier nearby, but it’s a real hike. You up for that, or you gonna collapse ‘nd demand a bench?” He tosses the words casually, but the little jab had a spark in it, teasing, daring you to fire back.
“You kidding? I wanna eat, I've been up since six, I hate getting up early,” You whine, still grinning as the sun begins to warm you both, “did you bring anything to swim in?”
Emmett laughs, low and warm, the sound rumbling from his chest. “Swim? Honey, it's freezin’. You're not goin' in that water.” He keeps walking, though, toward the path to the boardwalk, glancing back at you with an eyebrow raised. “That shirt of yours'll get soaked just lookin’ at the shore.”
You tilt your head, giving him a look that could’ve been innocent if it obviously wasn’t. “I’m full of energy. Don’t worry about me, old man.” Oh, he likes when you call him that. He snorts, shaking his head, and you caught the amused glint in his eye made up of something he didn’t want to admit.
“Old man? You’re gonna get me riled up before we even make it to the pier, sugar.”
You laugh, stepping closer. “That’s the plan.”
He walks backward just a bit to keep you in his line of sight, tone light but heated. “And,” he added, like it’s nothing, “you hungry? There’s a spot real close. Best biscuits in the county, swear to God.”
“Sounds yummy,” you quip immediately, eyes glinting. “But only if you’re paying.”
He shakes his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Honey, I’ll pay. But you’ll owe me for that tongue.” You roll your eyes. He keeps walking toward the boardwalk path, but his eyes never leave yours, scanning, measuring, appreciating. The sun climbs in the distance, catching strands of your hair, lighting up the marks across your shoulders.
He swallows, trying to keep his mind from wandering to thoughts he shouldn’t have at all. “Unless,” he said finally, stopping in his tracks and turning fully to face you, tone casual but deliberate, “you wanna go back to my truck and change. Got an extra shirt in the passenger seat. Won’t be… fancy, but it’ll keep you warm.”
Laughing softly, you shook your head. “What’s wrong with my outfit? I thought this would be enough for a date.” You say as you gently lift the hem of your top, showing off the monochrome bottoms on your sunkissed skin.
He catches himself looking a little too late, as he already saw the way your fingers lifted the fabric of the coverup, seen the polka dots, the way it hugs your curves even when you’d tugged it closed.
“What’s wrong? Baby, you’ll get sick,” he chastises, almost.
You cross your arms, not believing him for a second, knowing he just wants to see you in something he owns. “Tell you what,” he says, voice steady. “We eat first, then… we'll see about swimming. I'm hungry, and I ain't waitin' through breakfast for you to freeze your ass off.” He starts walking again, but slower now, waiting for you to follow.
“Well… I hope you’re hungry.” Baby, he is. “I think I could eat half the menu, frozen or not.”
Emmett watches for a minute as you adjust the straps of your top, eyes drawn to your breasts like a kitty to catnip. He doesn’t force his gaze away this time. Just lets the look linger, mouth tugging into a crooked grin before he finally turns and starts leading you up the boardwalk toward the diner.
You were close, close enough that he could smell whatever lotion you used the night before, something fresh and floral, he has to remind himself you’re barely legal and probably shouldn't be doing this with a man like him.
“Careful,” he drawls. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna forget how to walk straight.”
He forces his eyes forward, jaw working silently as he leads you up the boardwalk towards a joint called the Lighthouse, the same squat wooden building it’s always been, sun-faded siding and a hand-painted sign swinging slightly in the breeze. It smells like salt and old coffee and frying bacon even from outside.
The morning air is cool, salt-tinged, and the restaurant’s just ahead. “If you start shiverin’, I’m haulin’ you outta that water,” he adds, glancing sideways at you with a grin that’s all confidence. “Deal?” His heart’s doing that annoying flutter thing again. The kind of flutter that told him he was in trouble.
“Deal.”
Inside, the diner is already awake. A couple of fishermen hunching over mugs and nursing their coffee. An older man reading the paper by the window. The bell above the door jingles when Emmett holds it open for you, and the waitress looks up immediately.
“Mornin’, Carol,” he says easily, already guiding you in. “Table for two.” He sees you look over at the bleach-blonde, before his hand cups your bare waist as he leads you towards a not-too cramped side of the restaurant.
Her eyes flick to you, then back to him, amused. “Well I’ll be. You clean up nice this early.”
He laughs it off, but when she passes, you feel his hand settle possessively at your waist, warm and grounding as he steers you toward a booth by the window.
“Emmett,” she calls over her shoulder, teasing, “you’re turnin’ into a real manther.”
“Very funny,” he scoffs with a grin, but his grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
You slide into the booth, sunlight spilling across the table, the ocean stretching out just beyond the glass. He sits across from you, arm draped along the back of the seat, posture relaxed like this is exactly where he wants to be. You fumble with your hairclip clasped on the strap and he watches, eyes roaming without shame.
“You like staring?" you ask lightly, focused more on adjusting what’s in your bag rather than his eyes drinking your skin.
“Just at you,” he says, quick and easy. You smile before returning your gaze up, beginning to set your wallet on the table before he stops you with a small nudge at your foot.
“Order whatever you want, sugar. It’s on me.” He glances up as he remembers how your fingers brushed his chin without thinking, he scratches his stubble, thumb tracing the faint scar there. He sees your gaze follow his hands up his jawline, you pause long enough for his ego to take control of his mouth.
“Wanna know?” It takes you a bit to realize what he means before he points with a smile. You feel a little flush before shrugging. “What happened?”
He smirks. “Back from my bikin’ days. Bar fight. Don’t recommend it.” He tilts his head slightly, letting you look. Reaching for your hand and letting you feel the rough skin again. Emmett honestly just wanted you to touch him more.
Smiling at the thought of him wearing leather jackets and driving a motorcycle, you bite your lip as you feel the roughened skin. “You like scars?” He asks huskily, all too well of his thick drawl making your legs squeeze together beneath the table.
“Depends who they’re on.” You murmur. His grin turns slow, satisfied.
“Careful, darlin’. You’re flirtin’.” You pull back your hand and keep that faint grin, he rubs his chin as he looks out the window before hearing the click of painfully familiar heels.
The waitress returns, pad in hand. “Coffee for two?” She asks with an eyebrow raised, looking at the two of you with a rumor spreading in the back of her mind.
“Please,” Emmett says. Then, to you, “Cream? Sugar?”
“They don’t do floats here, huh?” you tease. He laughs, deep and warm.
“Not til noon, but I’ll make it worth your while.” He winks, crossing his hair-covered arms.
She bumps in and taps the side of your menu before leaving; “kids eat under five bucks.”
“Yes ma’am,” you nod, almost like a salute. Hearing her give a small “humph,” to you.
Emmett groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Lord...”
You lean in, grinning. “Old girlfriend?”
He leans back, eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t you worry about her, baby.” You slip your foot against his ankle under the table, toe nudging higher just to see what happens. His breath hitches, but his smile doesn’t falter. “You’re dangerous ‘fore nine a.m.,” he says quietly.
“You just need more coffee.”
“Or better company,” he counters. The diner hums around you, plates clinking, voices low. Outside, the ocean glints in the morning light. Inside, his attention never leaves you, like the rest of the world can wait.
Breakfast comes in waves. The kind that forces you to slow down whether you planned to or not. Coffee had been refilled a dozen times. Emmett, since forgetting about his ex-server, focused on the way your teeth gently slid against silverware, and the way your lips wrapped around a spoon for all it’s worth.
Most men tear into food like it’s fuel, something to get through so they can get to whatever’s next. Emmett treats it like a ritual. He breaks his biscuit open carefully, steam curling up between his fingers, smears butter thick enough that it melts into every crack. Then pauses, squints, and adds a little dish of jam he stole from the counter on the way back to the booth.
“Now, don’t look at me like that,” he says when you lift an eyebrow. “I got a sweet tooth. Always have.” He drizzles honey over the biscuit, then, without thinking too hard about it, slides half of it onto your plate. Instinct. Like sharing is something he’s done his whole life.
He orders like someone who’s been here his whole life. Pancakes on the side even though he pretends they’re “for later.” Bacon crisp. Eggs soft. And when the pancakes come, he doesn’t touch them at first, just watches you notice them, watches your eyes flicker. “Go on, baby,” he says. “They’re better hot.” You take a bite, and he waits. Interested. Like the verdict actually matters.
Your face gives you away before you say anything, you let out a little satisfied moan at the taste, nothing strong and all natural. “Thought so,” he says, pleased. “They put too much syrup on ‘em now. Used to be you had to ask.”
He pours some onto his own plate anyway, a little heavy-handed, then adds a pat of butter he absolutely doesn’t need. Sweet tooth, no shame about it. He eats slower than he talks, savoring, like food is one more thing he refuses to rush. Your foot stays where it is against his ankle. His knee stays pressed to your calf. Neither of you comment on it. His hand drifts, thumb brushing your wrist when he reaches for the sugar, then lingering just a second too long like he’s testing the edge of something.
He tells you about sneaking down to this diner as a teenager, about how his dad used to bring him here after long weeks, about how this beach used to be the talk of the state. You talk about home. About wanting things that don’t fit neatly yet. About how everything feels like it’s starting to shift, even if you can’t name what into.
When you laugh, he memorizes your mouth and falls a little bit in love with the way your teeth aren’t perfect. The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. The way you talk with your hands like you’re trying to shape air. Emmett pays before you even see the check. When you protest, he just gives you a look, soft, amused, final. “Next time,” he says easily. Not if. When.
By the time you step back outside, the sun is higher, the air warmer, the salt sharper. The breeze comes in off the water and you shiver without meaning to. He notices immediately. Shrugs out of his jacket without a word and drapes it over your shoulders. You don’t argue. You slip your arms into it and breathe him in, leather and soap, clean and unmistakably him. Nothing trying to sell itself. Just presence. It goes straight to your head.
“Guess no swimming…” You pout, seeing the empty shore as you begin to walk with him.
“Guess not, sugar,” he acknowledges softly. “Pier still sound good?” he asks, arm settling around your shoulders like it belongs there. You nod, staying close by his side.
The walk is slower now. No rush. No pretending. His hand rubs your bare arm every now and then, fingertips brushing the side of your breast as if by habit. Not accidental. Never called out. When the pier creaks under your feet and the water stretches out beneath you, you stop, resting your elbows on the railing. He stands close behind you. Not touching. Yet.
“Y’know,” he says quietly, voice pitched low, “I didn’t expect this when I woke up this mornin’.”
You glance back at him. “Me neither.”
He steps closer, hips meeting yours as he leans in. Nothing overt. Just closeness. His hands slide next to yours on the railing, nudging until he can cover them, warm and solid. You lean back without thinking. That’s when his breath changes. That’s when restraint thins. “You okay,?” he asks, breathing against your ear, soft now.
You nod slowly. “Yeah, I am.”
That’s all it takes. His hands slide up your arms before he turns you toward him, slow, unhurried, giving you every second to change your mind. You don’t. Your hands find his chest, feeling the quiet strength there. He kisses you deep like he’s been planning it since the bar and decided he’d do it right or not at all.
Emmett’s tongue barely slips past your teeth, his mouth sucking pleasure from the depths of your body. The world narrows to salt air and creaking wood and the way he says your name like it matters. Like he’s tasting something he has to remember.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath heavier now. His eyes stay on your face, taking in the way you’re still adjusting to being wanted like that. “My place isn’t a faraway drive,” he says, voice rougher, honest. “Porch’s private. Good view…” He lets his gaze rake you up and down. “All of it.”
You smile slowly with a heady gaze. “I think I owe you a thank you.”
The house sits back from the road, weathered but cared for. All dark wood and a wide porch, you can hear the ocean not too far from here, and you figure that’s why he lives here. You step inside with him, the air is warm and smells faintly of black coffee and cedar, truly lived-in.
Emmett stands in the doorway, watching you move through his house like you belong there. Like you’d always belong there. You memorize the rustic scenery of his place, rugged, just like him; scuffed hardwood floors, a couch that’s seen better days, a heavy oak table with nicks along the edge from years of use.
“Woulda cleaned up some, had I known we’d… actually end up here.” He hooks his keys on an antler ornament and steps towards you from behind. His hand reaches out to guide you by your hip, but you get distracted. “I like it, it’s really-”
You gasp at the sight of a massive German shepherd stretched out on the couch, all legs and fur, chest rising and falling in a slow, content rhythm. One ear flicks when the door closes, but he doesn’t bother lifting his head. Emmett nearly whistles at it to move somewhere else, afraid you’re scared of big dogs.
“Awww,” you coo, walking over and kneeling beside him, scratching its head. He yawns against your palm, sniffing your fingertips, he smells Emmett too. The dog thumps his tail once, lazy acknowledgment, then settles back into sleep. “Atlas,” Emmett murmurs fondly. “Lazy bastard ain’t he?”
You smile without thinking. Photos line the wall by the stairs. You slow your scratching and the dog whines. Getting up, you approach the tangible memories.
There’s Emmett, younger, no facial hair, sunburned, grinning like he hasn’t yet learned hardship, holding up a massive fish by the line. Next to him stands another young man, same eyes, same smile, less dirt-covered, making an exaggerated gagging face at the fish like it personally offended him.
“My brother,” Emmett says from behind you. “Twin. We’re…Uh, pretty much opposites, he’s a real city boy. Lives up in New York, I think.”
“You think?” You smile, looking back at him before walking towards the other photos.
“He moves ‘round a whole lot, ‘cause of work. Couldn’t sit still when we were kids.”
You glance back at him. “You're identical.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Don’t remind me.”
There’s another photo, him and the dog as a puppy, too-big paws and floppy ears, a younger Emmett laughing openly, arm slung around the little furball like he couldn’t imagine life without him.
He notices how you pause, picking up the frame fondly. “He’s mine,” Emmett adds, softer. He walks behind you, his hand cupping your midriff, pointing to the little puppy before murmuring. “Found him on the side of the road, head pokin’ out of a box like a lil’ Marlboro cigarette. Been with me through… a lot.” He smiles, looking down at you as you stare at the picture.
“I can tell,” you say. His throat works. He pulls away first.
“Bedroom’s…” Emmett pauses.
You’re already making your way up the stairs. The floorboards creak under your bare feet, familiar sounds he'd heard a thousand times but somehow new now, charged with this impossible weight. His eyes linger unapologetically on your polka-dotted ass. His jaw works silently, hands sliding into his pockets as you climb the stairs ahead of him. “First time anyone's been upstairs in about... forever,” he says, voice rough.
“Good.” You grin, watching rays of sun peek in from the window..
“Might be dusty, now.” He warns. You walk into his bedroom, and he follows, closing the door quietly behind him. The room smelled like his clean laundry, and some sawdust from the shop, something distinctly masculine.
Posters on the walls from bands he'd loved in high school, creased, sun-faded, still stubbornly there like he never saw a reason to take them down. There’s a CD rack and old cassette player on his dresser, his closet has a bunch of denim and fur-lined jackets, and a few storage boxes labeled messily with sharpie. An acoustic guitar rests against his nightstand, strings worn, well-used.
“You play?” You ask, walking towards the bed as you see his ashtray half-full.
“Sometimes.” He says softly, his voice getting hotter. His bed is unmade but inviting, sheets dark blue plaid and rumpled in a way that makes your stomach flip, he hasn’t made his bed since this morning, that’s what makes him Emmett. A pair of brown, oil-stained, work boots sit by the dresser, caked with dried mud. There’s a flannel tossed over a chair.
“I like your room,” you say softly, hoping this won’t be the last time you’re inside.
He stands by the door, watching you take it in. His heart thundering in his ears, he has to swallow hard before he can speak. “Yeah, so do I,” he starts, then chuckles with a nervous rasp, running a hand through his hair. “You got ‘ny questions, sugar?” His voice is gentle, though his jaw is tight.
You turn slowly, the corner of your mouth lifting as you take him in, really take him in, standing there like he’s braced for impact. Tall, broad, filling the doorway without trying. There’s no careful distance now, no second-guessing written all over his face. Just want. Bare and obvious. His eyes drag over you the same way your hands itch to do something reckless.
“ It’s your call,” he adds quietly, voice throaty and deep. “Always your call, baby.” The room holds its breath with him; Atlas asleep downstairs, the house creaking softly around you, the weight of every careful line he refuses to cross unless you step over it first.
You tilt your head, wondering who else has gotten similar speeches, if anyone. “Am I special?”
A short laugh breaks out of his chest, low and rough, you can tell he laughs when he’s nervous. He pushes off the doorframe and takes a step closer. Then another. Slow, deliberate. Like he wants you to feel every inch of the distance disappearing. “Darlin’,” he says, voice dropping, “if you were any more special, I’d be in real trouble.”
He leans in, slowly undressing his jacket and your button-up from your warm body. When they rumple near your ankle, you wrap your arms around his neck. He hasn’t blinked once. You glance past him for a second, back toward the hallway, the stairs, the photos. The house. Then back to his face. “Your brother,” you add casually, like you’re not testing him, like your pulse isn’t kicking up. “He clean up nice?”
His mouth twitches wryly, hands holding your hips. “You flirtin’ with my twin now?”
“Observing,” you correct. “He looks like you if you shaved.” He moans in his mouth as you lovingly rub his overgrown stubble with your thumb, “his skin looks softer, too.”
He huffs. “That’s ‘cause he moisturizes.”
You laugh, genuine, warm, and it snaps the last thread of restraint clean in half.
Emmett closes the distance fully this time. Not crowding you, not backing you into anything, just close enough that you feel his heat, his presence, the solid line of him. His hand comes up, slow, knuckles brushing your jaw like he’s asking without asking. When you don’t pull away, his thumb slides to your chin, tilting your face up.
“Don’t want softer,” he murmurs. “Don’t think you do either.” The kiss isn’t careful. It’s deep and hungry, all pent-up momentum finally allowed to go somewhere. His hand slides into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to make your knees go weak, like he knows exactly how much pressure will make you come undone.
Your hands find his chest, then his shoulders, then you’re gripping his shirt like you might tear it if you don’t anchor yourself. He tastes like the breakfast you just shared, stronger; coffee and salt and something sweet. The sound he makes, a low growl, goes straight through you. He doesn’t rush. But he doesn’t hesitate either.
His other hand settles at your waist, thumb brushing the curve of your hip like he’s mapping territory. When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to breathe, foreheads touching, both of you a little wrecked already. “I still get a bedroom tour?” you whisper, lips stained with blood rush.
His grin is sharp. “You’re ruthless.” This time he backs you up, slowly, deliberately, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and he covers your body with his own, his hands braced on either side of you, trapping nothing, offering everything. He looks down at you like this is exactly where he wants you. Like the room finally makes sense.
“Got s’more questions?” he asks, voice rougher now.
You reach out, fingers hooking into the hem of his shirt, dragging him closer. “Just one.”
“Shoot, baby.” He’s barely focused on anything except how you’ll feel wrapped around him, how he’ll feel inside you.
“Your brother single?” You grin, tilting your head enough for hair to fall past your cheek.
Emmett laughs, full and unguarded, head tipping back for half a second before he looks at you again, eyes dark with heat. “I’ll give him a call afterwards, missy.” His mouth slides onto yours again, laughter turning into heat, teasing into something heavier. He kisses like he’s been waiting all week for permission. His hands roam now, confident, greedy in a way that makes it clear he’s done pretending he’s careful. He knows what he wants. He knows you want him.
The bed creaks softly as his knee nudges between yours, grounding, solid. His breath ghosts along your neck, your ear. “You’re stayin’ right here,” he murmurs, not a question, not a command. Just certainty. “With me. At least a while longer.”
You smile against his skin. “Am I?”
“Mhm.” He mutters softly.
Downstairs, Atlas shifts, a lazy thump of a tail against the couch. The house settles around you, wood and history and warmth, ocean waves breathing past the coastal pines. The guitar string hums faintly when his hip bumps the nightstand, a low, resonant sound that makes your stomach flip.
He leans in, the kiss deepens, and Emmett's hands find the thin straps of your dotted bikini with practiced ease. His sexy eyes never leave yours, skillful fingers work the knots loose, and he lifts the fabric off without looking just yet.
Emmett knows the terrain of a woman's body, not from textbooks but from years of careful attention, from watching how soft skin responds to hard touch. His piercing blue eyes don't seem heavy with exhaustion so much as focused, singled out on you, on the soft curves he's just revealed. The way your lips part, your eyes swimming with shy ways of how to hide yourself from him. The sight of your breasts, sharply defined against tanned skin, draws a low breath from him.
“Christ,” he murmurs, voice roughened with reverence. His gaze travels slowly, possessively, mapping you like you're uncharted territory. “Look at you.” His mouth follows where his eyes lead, trailing hot kisses down your collarbone and across the delicate curve of your shoulder. He doesn't rush; there's a deliberate patience to his movements now, like he's savoring something rare and precious.
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, gentle despite the size difference, angling your face so he can look at you fully. It's like your fire melted when he touched you, kissed you, the ounce of playfulness you had replaced with the utter need to have him.
“You're beautiful, darlin',” he says softly, thumb stroking your lower lip. “Told you that.” His other hand rests on your waist, not quite possessive yet, but aware of how you fit against him, how you feel in his arms. You feel it slide down and you make a small noise in the back of your throat. “This your first time?” he asks softly, eyes searching yours for permission even as his body hums with desire. He loves the way your brows are filled with worry, but he doesn’t want you to be afraid, not of him.
“Mhm…” you nod. Your gaze averts towards the open window, his hands, thighs, anywhere you didn’t meet with him. Emmett's breath catches, something flickering in his eyes, pride, protectiveness, and want all an erotic concoction. He cups your face more carefully now, like you're something fragile and precious. His thumbs rub your soft cheeks as you look up at him.
“Alright then, honey,” he murmurs, voice thick with purposeful softness. “Gon’ take my time with you.” He pulls you in for another kiss, feeling your breath shudder against his steadiness.
Emmett lowers himself onto you, burrowing his hips between your parted thighs, settling into a more comfortable position. You feel him, hard and rigid, pressing onto you patiently. The hand that cupped your cheek moves to brush hair out of your face, tenderly petting your head as he leans in to kiss your skin.
He hasn't undressed you fully, yet his hands trail down your collar towards your chest, squeezing briefly with a groan before gently raking his fingernails down your hips. You feel calloused thumb trace slow circles against your back through the fabric of your bikini bottoms.
“You trust me?” The question is quiet, serious, his eyes holding yours like your answer matters more than anything else that’s taken place today. When you nod again, a slow smile spreads across his face, not cocky, just warm and real. “Good. 'Cause I ain't gonna rush this. You're gonna feel every damn inch of me before I'm done.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your cheek, then back to your lips, softer this time. Easing you as he feels your breath catch in your throat.
“Just breathe, baby,” he says against your mouth. “Let me in.” His hands begin to wander, one sliding up your spine, fingers tracing the line of your bikini bottoms, and giving a gentle squeeze to the soft flesh of your ass. The other comes around to rest on your hip, pulling you closer until you're straddling his waist.
“That's it…” He murmurs, feeling you whine at his groping. “Been thinkin’ bout this peach the whole day,” he clicks his tongue. Emmett lifts up your hips and smacks the skin, earning a small yelp of surprise from you. “Christ, you're so warm,” he breathes, lips trailing down your neck again but hesitating just above your collarbone, letting you set the pace.
“Emmett… Come on…” You huff, hardly being able to appreciate his sensuality when you’re desperate for him. His breath hitches at the sound of you whimpering his name, his full name, not his little late-night nickname.
The feel of your thighs parting for him is enough to make his control slip dangerously thin. He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes, his gaze tracking every tremor in your body. The hickies dotting your neck and collarbone fade as his full attention zeroes in on the way you're squirming against him, needy and desperate.
“Oh, I know, baby,” he says, voice low and rough with something that feels almost like tenderness. His hand slides down from your hip to tuck between your thighs, fingers finding the damp fabric of your bikini bottoms. He pushes them aside with gentle insistence, not forceful, just firm, and groans at the sight of you, flushed and wet and waiting.
“Damn, honey. You're soaked already,” he hums, stroking a single finger through your most sensitive flesh. His rough fingers ease into the tenderness as he bites his lip, watching the way you glisten as he uses his other hand to part your legs further.
“Ah! Fuck!” You jolt at the contact, whimpering his name again, and he grins, sharp and possessive.
“Love this pussy, baby.” He murmurs, not too shyly. “Sexiest fuckin’ thing I’ll ever see.” Emmett adds a second finger, then a third, slowly working you with a rhythm that drives you higher but doesn't quite push you over the edge. His thumb finds your clit, circling it gently, and your hips buck against his hand. His fingers cossette your sensitive cunt for what feels like ages to an impatient, young woman. Emmett just wants to hear your moans, the way he can strum you like a guitar and make your hinges loosen.
“Tell me what you want,” he commands softly, leaning in to kiss your jaw, your earlobe, the corner of your mouth. “Use your words, darlin'.” His hand squeezes your soft breast as he begins to flick the nipple with his thumb. Earning more sweet noises as he pulses in his jeans.
“Mmm… I want you… So badly…” You huff, panting worriedly as you gaze down at the bulge in his denim. You can tell he’s well hung by the way the shadow peeks against his thigh, clearly not from the folding fabric, but the damp spot of pre-cum dripping.
You moan distantly and wonder how it would feel to swallow him, let his cock sit in the back of your throat while he gripped your hair, your mouth parts at the thought. Emmett notices you wetten and takes it as encouragement. He doesn't stop his ministrations, but he slows them just enough that you're desperate to be understood.
Your mind wanders as his rough skin grazes your clit, making you desperate for a proper pounding. His hand that was groping your chest slides down, rubbing your stomach with a sense of possession, one yet to come. Instincts aligning, you already know what he wants to do.
“You… you have condoms, right?” You whimper beneath him, legs parted and shaky.
Emmett's fingers still, a slow smile spreading across his face as he realizes just how flustered you are. He cups your face gently, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.
“Shit,” he breathes out, almost laughing at the question, but not stopping his touch. If anything, his hand resumes its slow circle, deliberately, maddeningly gentle. “You're worried 'bout protection right now?” He leans in to kiss your neck, his breath hot against your skin. He’s good at this, distracting you from the worry, the possibility he craves.
“No, darlin',” he says, voice thick with something that sounds like amusement. “I'm not gonna put anything in you ‘til you're ready to keep it. Don't you worry 'bout that.” He laughs lowly, resting his forehead against yours. You whine as he pulls out his hand from your dripping cunt, grinning down at you as he shushes you.
His tongue flicks over his fingers as he sucks off every drop of your taste, groaning as he recontemplates eating you out. “I’m glad I got a sweet tooth, your snatch tastes like straight fuckin’ sugar, baby.” His way of saying it made it sound more loving than vulgar, but it still makes your face go red as you begin to close your legs.
“C’mere,” he grunts, sliding you towards him and pulling you up onto your knees like you weigh nothing. Your hands grip his shirt as you steady yourself, shying the moment you feel your sopping wet heat drip subtly onto his bedsheets. “I've got you,” he murmurs, holding you by the waist with one arm, his grip firm but not painful.
Emmett reaches for his own clothes, using one hand to undo his fly in a quick, practiced motion, and shoving them down his thighs along with his boxers. He grits his teeth as his cock springs eagerly against his stomach, the dark patch of hair rubbing against his sensitive veins. He strokes himself, proudly watching you observe his cock and the way he self-adjusts enough to make you shiver.
“Your turn, baby.” He murmurs, seeing you look up at him with a newfound, albeit nervous curiosity. His weathered hand took one of your softer ones off his shoulder. Smiling as he guides it down slowly towards his hot length, letting your fingertips brush against the ridges of his veins.
“There…” He groans as you take initiative to wrap your hand around him. “Just, stroke it like that… Up n’ down.” His voice is low, heady, and so fucking sexy you almost want to dip your head down and swallow him.
“Holy shit.” You murmur softly, your hand beginning to pump his dick of its unspent load. Emmett’s noises are guttural, but he’s aching more for you next. You keep your hand wrapped around him as he deliberately kneels so your knees are tucked beneath his muscular legs.
“Let’s get these off…” He murmurs, undoing the cute bows that hold your bottoms up at the hips, pulling them off from behind as he takes in the sight of your uncovered flesh.
“Am I doing okay?” You ask, worried about squeezing him too hard or not going fast enough.
“Just fine, darlin’.” He huffs, “hard to mess up a handjob.”
Emmett's breath catches as your small hand works his thick shaft, delicate fingers barely able to close around his girth. He feels the tension coiling in his core, building with each pump of your wrist. The sight of his cock, slick with your spit and his own pre-cum, disappearing between your soft fingers sending a fresh surge of blood rushing southward.
“Fuck, darlin'...” he growls lowly, “just like that. You're doing so well.” He tilts his hips into your touch, letting you feel the weight of his heavy balls, the iron-hard length of him. Your hand gently nudges his sac, earning his own low groan. When you pull away, he’s quick to hold your wrist and bring your hand back. “You got it,” he advises, “just try it out, baby.” You look up at him before gently cupping them, giving the lightest squeezes as his dick throbs beneath your palm.
Emmett bucks into your touch, his heavy cock pulsing in your grip. He watches your face, every flicker of emotion that stirs something possessive inside of him. Not sure what to say, you continue your fondling and look up at him every now and then for approval, not that he’s capable of making a more pleasured face; brows curled upwards, head thrown back, and teeth clenched between parted lips.
“That's it, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His voice is a low rasp, gravel-rough and dripping with a hunger that has nothing to do with food. “Bein’ so good. Such a sweet lil’ girl, takin’ care of me like this.” Slowly, he traces the curve of your cheek, the elegant sweep of your long lashes fluttering against your skin as you look down. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that belies the heat building between you.
He feels a similar heat in his groin and knows he’s close. Emmett knows he should slow down so he doesn’t end up giving you a vulgar facial, not yet, not when he’s being sweet. Your hand continues pumping him, the heat between your legs never-ending. “Alright, now, lower your head some’n open your mouth.” You gulp as you lower your head towards his tip, tongue instinctively lathing over it as he curses. “Fuck, honey, do that s’more,” he groans.
He tastes a little salty and sweet, he wasn’t lying about how much sugar he eats. Humming, you gladly suck his tip before feeling his hand tangle in your hair, remembering to be gentle before grunting something quick. “Gonna… fuck. Open wide.” Your lips part and he huffs quickly. “Wider.” You make a small gagging noise as his cock jams into your throat, the scent of his pubic hairs headily stunning you, your eyes rolling slightly as he rolls his hips against your mouth.
He hisses as your teeth graze his veins, but he keeps his hand steady on your scalp. Creamy heat spurts down deep in your throat and nearly distends your stomach as you whine. “Fuck! Aw- Fuck!” He pants, his thick, syrupy cum pumping into you.
For a full minute, he’s slowly pouring his seed down your gullet in a steady white stream. When you hit his thigh, he slowly retreats his semi-hard cock, seeing the way his seed leaks from your flushed lips, the way your tongue tries to lick up the residue on your skin. Just seeing you this way makes him want to fuck you until you’re ruined.
Emmett smiles as he hears you gulp the rest of his cum stained in your mouth. You pant softly, dazed from how potent his scent lingers in the air. He sighs softly, his hand cupping your cheek, hearing you hiccup. “Not too bad, right?” He chuckles. Emmett smirks, thumb still stroking your cheek, eyes darkening as he takes in your needy expression. He leans in closer, breath hot against your ear as he murmurs. “Careful there, now, if you keep lookin' at me like that, I might just have to fill you up again.”
You manage a weak smile, saying “ahh,” as he chuckles. Slowly trailing his hand down towards your glistening slit and prepping you with his fingers once more.
“Somethin' tells me your tender lil' pussy wants my cock tonight, don’t it?” He nuzzles into your neck, lips brushing your pulse point as he chuckles lowly. You’re hardly able to vocalize your desire as he’s stirring you up again, thumb pushing onto your clit as his teeth grazing your neck deliciously.
“Don't you worry. I ain't goin' nowhere. We got all night to play, baby. All. Night.” He punctuates the last two words with slow, deliberate kisses along your throat, other hand cupping your swollen mound possessively. You lean back slightly to open your legs, head lolling as you weakly whine.
“Look at me,” he commands softly, tilting your chin up. His eyes meet yours, dark with hunger, but there's something else there too, a protective glint that shouldn't be there given the circumstances. “You okay?” he asks again, hand moving from your chin to thread through your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands.
“I’m okay…” you whisper, looking up at him as he readies your position.
Emmett scoops your knees one at a time to let his hips rest between them. He guides you down, feeling the heat of you against him, and his breath catches. His hands rest on your hips, gently steadying you as he positions himself at your entrance. “You're tight, ain't ya?” he breathes out, not quite a question. “Darlin', you're gonna feel me open you up real good.” He groans, pulling you closer to him by the hips, sliding you on your back as you leave ruffled sheets in your wake.
“Is it gonna hurt?” You weakly murmur, still in a daze from how it felt having his calloused knuckles wriggle in your pussy.
“Not if I do it right,” he teases as he fumbles with his shaft. He catches the look in your eye, the one that screams: I’m a virgin, help me out.
“Alright, alright,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that rough, low tone that makes your skin prickle. “I'm gonna go slow, baby. You’ll be fine.” He shifts his position, reaching back to grip your ass, surprisingly gentle as they squeeze your soft flesh. “Gonna tell me if it hurts, yeah?” He pulls you closer, angling you so that he's sliding into you bit by bit.
Your head falls back as you feel his tip enter, your chest rising and falling as you remember how much left there is to fill you up. Emmett manages to get three inches before he grunts, having to angle himself differently to follow the curve of his sharp cock. He leans down, kissing the side of your mouth and sliding his tongue over your lips to kiss you again, sinking into your heat slowly.
“You're… so… so tight,” he groans against your mouth, lips brushing yours as he gently rocks his hips up into you. “Fuck, baby, you feel amazin’.” Emmett’s other hand comes around to rest on your back, anchoring you in place as he slowly, painfully slowly, fills you. You can feel every inch of him, stretching you in a way that's both too much and deliciously full. He bottoms out, groaning loud enough for Atlas’s ears to poke up from downstairs.
“Oh… Oh my god…”You pant in pleasure as his thick tip singes your cervix and makes him hiss.
“Breathe, honey,” he reminds you, kissing your shoulder. “Just breathe.” When he's finally seated all the way in, he pauses, letting you adjust to his size. His cock throbs inside you, a hot, hard presence that makes your legs tremble.
“There we go,” he says softly, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your back. “Now let's figure out how you like it.” He leans back, seeing the outline of his cock press up inside you as the tip deeply rubs your warmth, and he has to hold himself back from pounding you to sin.
Your arms reach out towards him to pull him down, and he gladly obliges. His arms wrap around you in a big embrace, like he’s proud of you just for fitting him inside. Emmett feels you whine against him, that needy, desperate sound makes his control slip just a bit, and he grins, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Yeah, baby,” he rumbles, his hips lifting with yours, setting a slow, deep rhythm. “That's it. Show me what you need.” He shifts his angle slightly, grinding against that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back and your breath catches. His fingers tighten on your ass, pulling you harder against him as he rocks into you.
You moan weakly as he slowly pounds you, listening to the clap of your skin with every passing grunt from Emmett. His dick is hot inside of you, searing your lining as he ruts into your soft cunt. His hands slide up your back, one tangling in your hair again, the other gripping your hip. He's not rushing, but his movements are getting more insistent now, harder. You can feel the tension coiling in his muscles as he works, his breath coming in short, hot puffs against your neck.
The buzz of your flip phone nearby causes your mind to stutter, your brows furrow with guilt and Emmett notices the cease of your needy hums.
“Hey... focus on me right now, sweetheart. Nobody's gonna bother you, not while I'm here.” He assures you, hand squeezing your cheek as he turns you to face him a bit too quickly, possessive in the moment of desire. “Just you and me, yeah? No distractions.” His hands grip your hips, pulling you harder against him as he starts to thrust faster.
“Okay… Okay…” You whimper, nodding as his tip presses hard kisses against your fluttering cervix.
“Good girl… So obedient…” Emmett kisses you hotly, swallowing your desperate whimpers as he grinds into your pussy, making sure you feel every thick inch of him stretching you open. You clench tightly around his throbbing shaft as it pulses inside. You're so close to... something. You’re teetering on the edge, your body trembling uncontrollably.
“Fuck, you feel amazing... like you were made for this.” He leans down to graciously bury his face between your breasts, biting and sucking at the soft flesh as he pounds into you. The softness pulls with every vicious bite and suckle. When he lifts back up, your nipples are bruised and red. “Made to take my meat.” You tilt your head into the crook of his neck, tears welling in your eyes from how well he’s fucking you, how good you feel, how big his cock is.
“Tell me when you're close,” he commands softly, his hips snapping against yours. “I wanna feel your sweet cream on my cock.” His second hand slides down to your clit, stroking it in slow circles that match the rhythm of his hips. You're writhing in his lap, desperate and needy, and he groans in response, the sound rumbling through his chest.
“Say it,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw. “Come on.” Emmett feels your nails dig into his freckled back and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through you.
“Just- Just keep going…” You beg, feeling him apply intermittent pressure, precisely deep enough for your cheeks to flush while you soak him.
“Come on, baby. Let go for me,” he growls, voice ragged with urgency as he feels your tender walls fluttering around his cock. His deep, gravelly voice sends shivers down your spine as he starts pounding into you relentlessly.
“I’m close…” You breathe softly, moaning sounds you didn’t know had such fervent pitch. “Christ,” he breathes, biting down on your shoulder to stifle the sound of his own impending release.
Emmett’s thrusts become more aggressive, his balls slapping against your ass with a wet sound that fills the air. One hand removes itself from his now-sweaty back, shivering as you slide it towards your stinging clit, whining his name softly as he stifles back his own deep groans to encourage you.
“Yeah, yeah, touch yourself,” he rasps, one hand sliding down to guide you to yourself. “Show me how much you want this.” He feels your body trembling, your walls clenching around him in desperate waves of pleasure. His second hand clamps down on your hip, holding you steady against the increasing intensity. “Shit, you're close,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Gonna make you come so hard, baby.”
His grip on your hip tightens as he pounds into you, each thrust harder than the last. The way you're writhing on his lap, whimpering and gasping, has him fighting back his own climax, he wants to feel you shatter first. You frantically rub your clit, careful to not graze your nail over his throbbing dick you’ve refused to look at the entire time he’s had it inside. It’s big. Intimidating. Enough for you to fear the possibility of shying away despite the amount of pleasure it’s given.
“Come on,” he growls, biting down on your earlobe hard enough to leave marks. “Give it to me.” His cock throbs inside you, swollen and hot, and he can feel himself getting close. But he keeps his rhythm steady, focused entirely on you and the way your body responds to his touch.
“Em… fuck…” You whimper, feeling him scatter hard kisses on your entire face, making you hotter than you thought possible.
“I’m gonna make you mine,” he promises, voice raw with need. Your eyes focus on him, the way how he’s close, you know he is. Hips faltering, you realize how little movement he needed from you, how the strength of his legs act as a catalyst for both of your pleasure.
“Want me to fill you up?” He asks in heavy pants, seeing your lips part in protest before swallowing your mouth. “Fill up this pussy, fuck… Make it all creamy…” His cock twitches at the idea.
“Mmm… Don’t cum yet.” You whine as you separate your wet mouths briefly, feeling his sack draw up against your ass.
“Not gonna. Not… yet.” He grunts as he shifts his hips again, hitting that spot just right, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge of oblivion. Your head leans back as he roughly bites your bruised neck.
“You said you weren’t gonna…” Emmett feels you sniffle against his chest and he smiles, the corners of his mouth curving up in a slow, wicked grin.
He knows you're trying to hold back, to keep him from finishing inside you, and it does something to him, something primal and possessive. “Don’t go on complainin’, darlin',” he says with a low chuckle, thumb stroking your lower lip. “You make it hard for me to… think straight.”
Emmett’s hips never stop their steady grind, his cock still buried deep inside you. He shifts his angle again, hitting that spot just right, teasing, deliberate, and you gasp at the renewed jolt of pleasure. He grins wider, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your head to take a kiss that's all teeth and tongue.
“You're so fuckin’ wet for me,” he groans against your mouth, his thumb circling your clit. “Bet you'd let me fill you up if I asked nice ‘nough.” He rocks his hips in a slow, deliberate pattern that has you writhing under him. You retreat your hand as you attempt to stop yourself from cumming, as if he’d let you do that.
“Yeah,” he grunts, voice dropping to that rough, low tone again. “Atta girl.” His other hand grips your ass possessively, squeezing the soft flesh as he pulls you down onto his cock. You moan his name weakly as he deepens his thrusts to clap against your ass loudly.
“Please…” You whimper, not aware of what you’re begging for anymore.
“Gonna pull out right before, let you feel me twitch, and then I'm gonna watch you beg for me to put it back in.” He lies, removing his hand from your ass and keeping steady, gyrating pressure on your clit, his fingers working you with practiced precision.
“I’m…” you huff. “Fuck…” Your sweet whines echo in his ears like a song he’ll play again and again. You're so close, trembling on the edge, he can feel your walls clenching around him in desperate waves.
“C’mon, baby… that’s it.” He encourages deeply, sliding in and out of you deeply before feeling you hold onto him tightly, climaxing for the first time tonight. You cry out in ecstasy, practically screaming his name as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your pussy spasms almost violently around his thick length, squeezing him rhythmically as you gush, hot and heavy, all over his pistoning cock.
“Fuck! Yeah… just like that,” Emmett snarls, a string of obscenities falling from his lips as he feels your silken walls rippling deliciously around him. “Dunno if I’ll be able to… pull it out, honey,” he hilts inside you one last time as you feel his cock swell and throb.
“Not… inside, Em!” You beg weakly. Your hands gently push against his chest, but he lowers himself onto you until your forearms flatten against your bare breasts.
“Fuck, honey…” he growls through clenched teeth. “Promise… I’m tryin’.” But even as he speaks, his body disobeys, the primal pull towards completion is too strong. “You’re… eighteen, ain’t you?” The question is laced with tease. If anything, he’ll buy you some morning-after pills, but he knows damn well he’s not gonna buy any condoms when you’re this good to him.
Nevertheless, he grits his teeth, a sheen of sweat on his brow, holding back the inevitable tide a few seconds longer. The moment he sees your eyes tear up at the brutality of his joking, he dives in and kisses you. Swallowing every cry you might emit from your twitching throat as he deepens his thrusts. Emmett's hips stutter, his rhythm faltering as he feels the vice-like grip of your core around him.
“Baby… Baby just take it…” He moans in your mouth, making you clench tight at the dirty contact. “Take all of it… Keep bein’ my good girl” You feel this beginning of his orgasm erupting, his hips twitching with each deep thrust. Thick ropes of gooey, hot cum spurt in your insides, his release intensifying with a feral groan.
“Emmett…” You huff against his lips as his aim to fill you to the brim with potency. You can feel seed soaking into your womb, and the thought of being bred by him sends another heatwave wrapping around his spent dick.
He hilts inside you, spilling his essence deep. His fingers digging into your hips, pull you tight against him as he rides out the waves of release, each pulse triggering a fresh spasm in your fluttering sex. His cock spurts, time after time, feeding your pussy something it’s needed the whole day.
“Fuck, baby.” Emmett curses at himself for cumming inside, but the way your hips nuzzle into him for more gives him all the gratification he needs. Finally, with a shuddering breath, he collapses against you, his weight a welcome burden, heart pounding against yours. Slowly, he rolls to the side, pulling you onto his chest, his hands stroking over the curve of your back, the riot of your hair spreading across his skin.
He collapses against you, his sweaty, hair-covered chest heaving as you feel utterly owned. You know you'll be sticky and dripping with his release, and the idea makes you clench around his softening shaft. “Damn, girl…” he teases ruefully. “Tightest little fuckin' thing you are…” He pants before feeling you nuzzle against his neck, tears falling as you become overwhelmed with all events taken place.
Emmett holds you close, strong arms wrapped around your weak form as you both catch your breath. His hand moves to your hair, petting you as he presses soft kisses all over, lips trailing over your temple and down your cheek before returning to your mouth. He kisses you deeply, tenderly, pouring what's left of his pent-up desires into it. “How’s my girl, huh?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice the lowest rumble. “Proud of you, one hell of a first time.”
“Good…” you huff weakly, his seed dripping out of you as his hands stroke your curves. His gaze roams over your tired face, cheeks flushed as his thumb brushes over your soft skin, streaking down the side of your neck.
“You look like a fuckin’ angel, y’know that?” He chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You smile, grinning with your teeth for the first time in too long. If thirty minutes is too long, and it is for Emmett.
“Thank you,” you murmur tiredly, kissing his nose as he grins. Emmett lowers himself onto the bed, pulling you over him so your head rests against his chest. Your leg drapes over his hip as you make a small noise at the gentle movement. He stills briefly before chuckling, kissing the top of your head with his arm around your shoulder.
“Get some rest, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ll make you somethin’ to eat before I take you back to your friends.” He assures, his softened cock plugging up all the seed spent inside of you. It doesn’t take you long to fall asleep in his arms as he comfortingly tucks you into him, you inhale the remnants of cologne spritzed earlier this morning.
He lies back against the pillows and, one arm tucked around you, your head heavy and warm against his chest. He watches over you, gently rubbing your bare back. Your breathing has settled into that slow, even rhythm he knows means you’re really asleep, not just getting there. Then the door creaks.
Emmett lifts his head just enough to see Atlas padding in, nails clicking once on the floor before the dog freezes like he’s been caught sneaking cookies. A slobbery chew toy hangs from his mouth with the rope frayed to hell. The rubber thumps softly against the wood when he releases it, the sound equating a pin drop in a moment like this between you and Emmett.
Atlas hops up, careful as a bomb tech. The mattress dips with his substantial weight. Emmett holds you a little tighter, his breath, a little longer. But you don’t stir. “No biting,” he mouths, barely moving his lips.
The dog circles a few times. Then, he folds himself down with a long, satisfied sigh. His furry body presses into your side, warm through the thin cotton of the sheet. His head drops beside Emmett's ribcage, one ear flattened against the soft quilt. His tail gives a single, contented thump against the mattress before stilling.
Emmett exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that’s secretly a laugh trapped in his chest. His gaze drifts downward. Your hair is spilled everywhere as a result of lovemaking, strands of it spewing across his stomach and shoulder, clinging to the damp warmth of his skin. Your mouth has gone a bit slack, leaving you looking young and soft.
Your back rises and falls slowly with each gentle exchange of air. He watches longer than he probably should. Your fingers twitch against the bedsheets, hovering before closing around the fabric near his side. The cotton bunches in your hand as your grip tightens faintly before releasing it.
The corner of Emmett’s mouth twitches upward. Carefully, he slides down his free hand to pick up your own, seeking one. You stir, but just barely. Your cheek presses more against his chest, and he stills until the movement passes. Then his hand finds yours.
It slowly intertwines itself into your fingers, weaving gently. When you don’t pull away or hum, his thumb begins to move in order to drag your light palm to his chest. The motion is slow, but all the better when your grip finally relaxes against his breastplate.
Atlas, for his part, is snoring already. The dog’s chest rises and falls in thick breaths, one back leg twitching once before going limp again. Emmett huffs a breath through his nose. “Lazy ass,” he murmurs under his breath, but the words hold no bite.
The room holds a tentative quiet that only exists when two people forget the world outside exists. The bedside lamp is dim as the dimming sunlight casts rays into his abode, dust particles swirling silently throughout them. Beyond the glass, he listens to the ocean move in sync with your breaths.
He can’t see it from the bed, not directly, but it carries. Waves roll against the shore each time his hand traces your spine, a soft rhythm he’s going to fight to keep safe. The house answers it with its own quiet noises; the creak of wooden walls, the faint rustles of fabric each time someone shifts, and his dog’s snore, rising and falling like a faulty engine.
Emmett lets his head sink deeper into the pillow, though his thoughts are less heavy than before. For a long moment, he keeps his eyes open, watching the fan above uselessly spin in slow motions.
Your hand is still curled against his chest as he rests his much larger palm over it. Your knee has drifted closer to his hip without his noticing, and he wishes he had a third hand to take hold of the soft flesh. His thumb continues a slow path across your shoulder. Back and forth.
The motion steadies something inside his chest he didn’t realize had been held tight for years. He lets out a long exhale as he finally closes his eyes. The mattress dips beneath the weight of you both, your breath is warm against the hairs of Emmett’s chest.
There’s nothing beyond the bed that matters. Emmett’s hand stays where it is. He just holds you.
