Joe Keery. Thats It. Thats The Post.

Your lips move like they’ve been rehearsed. You gesture gently, like every kid in front of you is made of glass. Your skirt hits just above the knee and your legs are crossed and it’s not even sexual, not really, but his brain is already off somewhere it shouldn’t be.

He shifts his stance. Regrets it immediately.

You probably live in some little pastel-colored house with a welcome mat that says wipe your paws and a bookshelf full of weird novels with fairies on the cover. Probably bake muffins on Sundays and drink tea with actual fucking honey. You probably think he’s a dirtbag just for existing in your vicinity.

He’s not offended.

You’re right.

But still. It’s the voice.

The book ends and the twins go running to pick out stickers from the treasure box, but Gator doesn’t move. You stand and straighten your skirt, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and then your eyes catch his.

He grins.

You don’t.

He saunters over anyway.

“Hell of a story,” he says. “That dog ever find the damn dessert?”

You glance at him sideways. “It’s a classic.”

“Sure. Just think he should’ve mauled one of the other puppies, maybe. Add some stakes.”

Your expression is polite. Dismissive. You reach for the stack of books beside your chair.

“You workin’ the front desk too? Or you just hang out back here with the rugrats?”

“I’m on shift until two. Deputy Tillman, right?”

He tips his Stark County Sheriff cap, probably thinking it's funny.

You don’t smile. You barely acknowledge him. Just start shelving books without giving him the time of day.

But he watches the way your fingers move over the spines.

“Y’know,” he starts, leaning a little too close to the cart you’re pushing, “my dad and Karen- well, a couple folks downtown too- they been sayin’ you’re sneakin’ in some woke shit during storytime.”

You don’t look up.

“Stuff about identity and… communism. Sharing and shit.” He makes a face like those are dirty words. “Guess that’s got 'em real nervous.”

Your hand freezes halfway through shelving a board book. You glance over your shoulder at him.

“So… empathy?”

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can even try.

“Inclusive language isn’t a threat, Deputy. Telling a group of five-year-olds that it’s okay to be different doesn’t mean I’m handing out Molotov cocktails with the alphabet blocks.”

He blinks.

You turn back to your cart. “But if you’d like to take it up with the Board of Trustees, I’m sure they’d love to hear your thoughts on basic human decency.”

Gator frowns. Rubs the back of his neck. His mouth works like he wants to fire back but knows he shouldn’t.

Truth is, he probably doesn’t even believe half the shit Roy spouts in closed-door meetings. He just grew up marinating in it. And lately it’s started to feel like wearing a uniform that doesn’t quite fit.

Still, he’s got a job to do. And, in this case, the job is making a fool of himself in front of a hot librarian.

“I like the bat pin,” he tries. “Very seasonal. You into all that spooky shit?”

“Kids like Halloween.”

“You ever do costumes?” he asks, casual as hell, leaning one arm on the book cart like he owns the place.

You don’t answer, too busy shelving a stack of paperback Berenstain Bears. He keeps going.

“Bet you’d make a real cute witch,” he says, smirking. “All black and mysterious. Pointy hat. Stockins’, if you’re into that.”

You pause.

He grins wider. “Or like… a sexy librarian. That one’s kinda on the nose, though.”

Still no reaction.

“Or a cat. With the tail. Tight little bodysuit, ears up here—” He gestures vaguely near his head, eyes sliding down your figure. “You know, slutty Halloween classic. Me-ow and all that.”

Now you straighten. Slowly. Turn to face him with the full force of your unimpressed stare. Your voice doesn’t raise, doesn’t change tone. Just slices clean.

“Deputy Tillman, I’m working.”

It goes straight down his goddamn spine.

He blinks. Smiles, wide and wolfish.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Loud and clear.”

You go back to shelving. He makes himself walk away.

He’s still grinning when Jessica runs up to grab his hand, still grinning when Maude tries to show him the glitter sticker she picked out, still grinning when the door shuts behind you and he thinks about your mouth forming his name.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

Like, legally, he really shouldn’t be doing this.

But that doesn’t stop him. Never has.

Gator’s halfway down Maple Street in the cruiser, windows cracked, radio turned low, trying to come up with some halfway believable excuse for what he’s about to pull. Something about a neighbor complaint. Suspicious music. Kids tagging garages again. He’ll come up with the details on the porch.

Truth is, he’s been thinking about you all goddamn week.

Your mouth. That little sunflower cardigan. The way your voice went all quiet and scolding when you told him you were working. Like he was some idiot teen chewing gum too loud.

He’s jerked off three times since picking up the girls on Tuesday. Not that he’s counting. Once in the shower. Once in the car on lunch break, parked behind the old grain mill. Once in his room with the lights off and your voice playing on a loop in his head saying Deputy Tillman, I’m working.

He slows when he sees the pastel yellow bungalow with the porch swing. There’s a metal watering can on the steps. A string of paper leaves taped up in the window. He checks the address like he hasn’t already done that three times today.

Heart beating like a fucking idiot, he gets out and walks up to the door.

You open it after two knocks.

You look different in jeans and a sweatshirt. Still soft. Still pretty. Hair pulled back in a way that shows your neck. He tries not to look too long.

“Deputy Tillman,” you say, eyebrows raising slightly. “Is everything okay?”

“Got a call about a noise complaint,” he lies, hands resting easy on his belt like this is official business. “Figured I’d check it out.”

Your expression doesn’t change. You tilt your head. “I was listening to a podcast. About frogs.”

“Yeah? Must’ve been real rowdy frogs.”

Silence.

Then, impossibly, you smile. Just barely.

“Well, come on in then,” you say, stepping aside.

He swallows.

Inside, it smells like cinnamon and apples. There’s a bookshelf lined with worn paperbacks. A little crocheted blanket over the back of the couch. You don’t have the heat blasting, but it’s warm anyway. Cozy in a way that makes his chest feel weird, a way his home never felt.

He follows you toward the kitchen.

“So,” you say, casual, opening a cabinet. “Who made the complaint?”

“Uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Anonymous. Neighbor didn’t leave a name.”

You hum like you don’t believe him, but you’re still pulling down a mug. He watches as you open a tin of looseleaf tea.

“You want honey or lemon?”

He blinks. “What?”

You glance over your shoulder.

“For your tea.”

“You’re—” He clears his throat. “You’re makin’ me tea?”

“Well, you came all the way out here for a noise complaint,” you say lightly, spooning out fragrant leaves like this is the most normal thing in the world. “It’s the least I can do.”

He leans against the counter and tries to play it cool, but something about the way you move is killing him. You’re not even trying. That’s the thing. You’re not trying, and it’s working.

He watches your hands again. The way your fingers cradle the handle of the kettle. The curve of your waist when you reach for the lemon. The pink of your lip when you bite it, just briefly, focused on the steam rising from the mug.

Christ.

You got mugs that match.

You got tea that doesn’t come in a bag.

You smell like books and soap and I’m gonna blow a fuse right here in your kitchen.

You set the mug down in front of him and he doesn’t even know what to say. Just stares at the little swirl of steam and wonders what the hell he thought was gonna happen here.

You sit down across from him at the little kitchen table, resting your chin in your hand.

“So, Deputy,” you say, soft voice like honey dripping off a spoon, “are you gonna need to investigate the rest of the house?”

He looks up.

You blink at him. Sweet. Innocent. Like it’s a real question.

He swallows hard. Tries not to smile like a goddamn cartoon wolf.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back. “Might be protocol.”

You nod. Push your chair back and stand.

“Well,” you say, voice light as air, “the bedroom’s this way.”

And then you walk down the hall.

And he follows, thinking he’s finally about to be in charge of something.

You lead him down the hall like it’s no big deal, like you’re not already two steps ahead of whatever clumsy plan he’s cooked up in that badge-polished brain of his. His boots thud behind you like he’s chasing something he thinks he’s already caught.

You step inside and he follows, dumb and hopeful, eyes skating over the room like he’s casing it for more than just fantasy. He’s already got his hands halfway into his vest when the door clicks shut behind him.

He turns.

You’re standing right in front of it, arms relaxed, head tilted. Watching him.

He opens his mouth. Probably to say something cocky, something crude and stupid like he always does. But before he can get it out, you’re already moving toward him and backing him up until his spine hits the wood of the door.

It’s not even hard, just firm. Unavoidable.

Your hands skim his vest like you’re checking the fit. His breath catches.

He reaches for your waist, lips curving in that smug little grin of his, already talking.

“Yeah,” he mutters against your cheek, voice low and rough. “Knew you’d feel good. Knew you’d come around eventually. Can’t fake it forever.”

His mouth is at your jaw now, sloppy and too eager. His hands go to the hem of your sweater, like he thinks he’s already got you spread across the bed in his head. He noses at your neck like it’s something to claim, muttering half-sentences against your skin.

Then your hand slides down.

You palm him over the front of his camo cargos, slow and certain.

He stutters out a breath like it surprises him, like he wasn’t expecting you to touch him with that kind of control. His hips stutter, trying to chase your grip, but you stay exactly where you are.

You lean in close. So close your lips almost brush the shell of his ear.

And then you speak in a tone that’s like you’re reading him a bedtime story.

“Take off your vest and go lie down for me.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just blinks.

Then his mouth parts a little, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out except a breathy, choked little “yeah.”

You smile. Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just patient.

Like you already knew this was how it was gonna go.

Gator swallows, but his eyes are already a little wide, his pupils already blown.

He doesn't take his vest off yet, but his hands find the hem of your sweater and push up under it. You stop him immediately.

"That wasn't what I asked. Do you need help?"

You sound so calm.

He's looking at you like he wants to eat you, like he's thinking about tearing through all the layers between you. Like he doesn't understand why he's not.

So you guide him by his hand to the bed, undoing his vest as you stand in front of him. It slides off his shoulders and onto the comforter and he looks down at you like he wants to say something. 

"Now, will you sit for me?"

You ask it like a question, but it isn't. He knows it. You know it.

So he sits and looks up at you expectantly.

You smile. Gently, you run your hand along his face.

"There we go," you murmur, thumb rubbing along his stubbled cheek.

He makes a little noise, not quite a whimper. Not quite. He clears his throat immediately, like he was covering up what just escaped him.

"You're awfully quiet, Deputy." You say, the same hand trailing down his chest over his black t-shirt. "Cat got your tongue?"

You can see the way he fights himself not to lean into the touch, and the fact that he doesn't is endearing.

When he speaks, it's clear he's trying to take control again.

"Just thinkin' about what's gonna happen when I get my hands on you," he says, leaning back, arms braced against the mattress.

You smile, and your fingers trace over his chest more. "But you're still following directions, aren't you, Deputy Tillman? That's very good."

The words make him swallow hard, and you can see him tense, unsure of what to say or do, clearly thrown by your response.

"I don't know what you think you're doing but-"

"You don't need to talk, Deputy. Unless you need help. Do you need help?"

He's quiet again, watching you, and it's clear he doesn't know how to respond.

"Answer me. Or I'll stop." You say it firmly, and it makes his mouth open and close like he's trying to think of a snarky response.

Your hand trails down lower to his belt, just sort of tracing the shape but not doing anything more.

"Fuck, okay, I don't, I don't need help," he grumbles, and you can feel the way he's trying not to press against your touch.

"Good boy. Thank you."

It's clear that the phrase startles him, and the way his mouth opens just slightly, eyes going a little wider, makes the whole thing even better. You start to undo his belt, and his mouth opens like he's about to say something, but then he snaps it shut again.

"Now, let's see what you've been hiding," you murmur, lowering to your knees in front of him and you move to unzip his cargos next.

"Uh, what?"

"This is what you wanted, right?" You look up at him, after you unzipped his pants, your hands on his thighs.

God he could finish just from that, just from the sight of you between his legs, just from the fact that it's actually happening, after a week of jerking off to the sound of your voice in his head.

"Use your words."

His breath catches. "Yeah. Yeah, it's what I want."

"I know."

His cheeks flush, and he has the urge to hide his face like a fucking idiot, but also, the sight of you there is almost too much to take.

"Do you want me to use my mouth on you, Deputy?"

"Fuck, yeah, yeah, I want you to, I want- "

You smile up at him.

"Then ask for it."

He's looking at you like a deer in the headlights, like his brain can't even compute what's happening. You wait patiently, not breaking eye contact.

"I don't beg," he finally blurts out, desperate, and it sounds almost painful, but his eyes are on your mouth, on the way you're just sort of waiting for him to comply. He's not sure why but the fact that he's sitting there, his dick twitching under the weight of your gaze, is making him even more turned on.

"Well, then I guess you're not getting it, Deputy."

You move to stand, and the panic sets in almost immediately.

"Wait, fuck, please. I- I'll beg, please," he says quickly, his voice strained, and god it shouldn't be hot, shouldn't be, but he's not really thinking about it.

"Oh?"

"Please, please I want- I want your mouth on me," he mumbles, eyes downcast, and there's something in his voice, something soft and desperate that wasn't there before.

"That's a start," you say softly, and now you're looking at him with a fondness, and your hands are working his cargos off. "Lift your hips for me."

"Yes, ma'am."

It's automatic, the words and the action, and it's clear that he wasn't planning on saying that, based on the way his eyes flick away from you. But he complies anyway, lifting his hips off the bed.

His cargos are down, and his black boxer briefs are tight, and his erection is clear and straining against the fabric. You move to palm him through the briefs, and his breath catches.

"Fuck, please," he whimpers.

"What do you want?" You look up at him.

"Please, can you- fuck, I'm so fucking hard."

You smile. "You'll have to be more specific, Deputy."

"Can you- fuck, just suck me off already," he blurts, and he's flushed, the color rising in his cheeks and ears.

"That sounds an awful lot like a command, Deputy."

He groans. "No, fuck, it wasn't, please. Please suck me off. Please."

"I think I like the sound of you begging. Maybe you should keep going."

He huffs. "I want- I want your mouth," his voice is strained, and his cock is twitching, and his breathing is a little more labored. "Please, please can you- can you just put me in your mouth? I've been thinkin' about your lips all goddamn week. Please, please just do somethin' already."

His words are rushed, and the fact that he's actually begging makes heat rush straight between your legs.

"Well, color me surprised, I didn't think you'd actually fold that easily." You say it lightly, like his pleading isn't having any effect on you, and when you speak, his eyes meet yours, and there's a vulnerability there that wasn't there before.

You palm him gently again, and the way he groans makes you bite your lip.

"Please." His voice is soft.

"Look at you," you say, and there's something in your tone, something warm and approving, and you can see the way it hits him.

"Please."

You lean forward, and your nose grazes the outline of his cock. "Well, since you asked so nicely."

He lets out a breath through his nose and you smile, mouthing along his length through his briefs, and the way his hips jump is almost enough to make you laugh.

"Fuck," he mutters, and the word comes out choked.

You hum, and the vibration makes him let out a small moan, one that he immediately covers up.

"What was that, Deputy?"

"Nothin', nothing, I'm-"

You lick along the outline of his cock, and his breath catches, a soft, choked sound escaping him.

"Fuck, oh my god," he murmurs.

You smile, and it's a little wicked, and it's enough to make his cock twitch again.

"Do you like that, Deputy?" You're teasing him, and it's clear, and he can't help but groan, his face flushed and eyes downcast.

"Yeah, I do, fuck, please don't stop," and he's practically rambling, like his mind can't process the fact that his cock is leaking and you haven't even taken his briefs off yet.

"Hmm," you say, and then you pull his briefs down, and his erection bobs out, flushed and red and dripping precum. He's so hard and he's so desperate. God, if anyone could see him like this, he's not sure he'd survive.

"Oh, wow," you breathe, and the way you're looking at him is almost too much, and he swallows hard.

"Please," he croaks, and the desperation in his voice is obvious.

"You're so pretty, Deputy," you murmur, and then your lips are ghosting the tip, and his hips buck, and the sound he makes is high and strangled.

"Men...  men aren't supposed to be pretty," he manages, and his voice is unsteady, like he's repeating something he's only heard and doesn't actually believe.

"But you are. Look at you."

You're just mouthing little kisses along his length now, and it's making him crazy.

"M'not pretty," he manages.

You hum against his shaft and it makes him jerk.

"S'true, I'm not. Men aren't, fuck, they aren't-"

"Shh, Deputy, you're okay," and your voice is soothing and gentle.

"I'm okay," he echoes.

"Mm-hm."

You take his tip in your mouth, just sucking softly, and the groan he lets out is long and needy.

"Please," he chokes, his voice cracking.

"Shh," you say, and then the hand not resting on his thigh comes up to stroke the base of his cock, and the noise he makes is desperate.

"Holy fuck, oh my god, please," his words are tumbling out, like his brain has completely shut off.

Your lips slide down lower, and your tongue moves along the underside of his shaft, and the choked moan he lets out is obscene.

He's trembling a little, and the hand not in his hair is clenching the comforter, and the sight is beautiful.

"Shh," you say, pulling away with a pop. The sound he makes is involuntary.

"Please, please, oh my god, oh my fucking god," his eyes are closed, and his brow is furrowed, and his breath is coming in shallow little pants.

"Gator."

The word comes out softly, gently, but his eyes snap open. There's a vulnerability there, something a little wide and shocked.

"I'm gonna go nice and slow, and I want you to count. Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay," and his voice is low and breathy.

You lean in again, taking him slowly, his breath catching.

"One," he manages, and his hips are trembling.

"Good boy," you murmur, pulling off, and the praise makes his breath catch.

"Two."

You move back in, sucking along his shaft, the noise he lets out is long and low.

"Thr-three."

You work him deeper, a desperate, needy groan escapes him.

"Four."

His voice is soft, like the numbers are something to hold on to.

"Five," he gasps.

Your hand reaches up to rest on his chest and the contact makes him groan again. The way his hips jerk makes you smile.

"Six."

His breaths are ragged and labored, the sight is a beautiful thing as you look up at him, your mouth full of his cock. His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is open, just slightly, like his mind can't even process what's happening. His usually slicked back hair is slightly messy from him running his hands over it.

"Please, please, oh my god, fuck, seven, fuck," voice is a little higher, a little more unsteady, and the fact that his control is slipping is delicious.

You start to work his cock faster, and the choked moan he lets out is loud.

"Fuck, please, please, please. Eight. Nine, oh my god, nine." 

He's stuttering, his eyes closing.

Your mouth is moving, and the sounds are lewd, and the fact that you're doing this to him, the fact that you're the one who is in charge, the fact that you're the one bringing him apart is making him crazy.

You're bobbing, the hand that was stroking his base is moving lower to massage his balls, eliciting a strangled and desperate noise.

"Fuck, ten, oh my god, eleven, fuck, twelve, oh my fucking god, thirteen, fourteen," his brain is melting, and it's the prettiest thing.

Your other hand reaches up to gently run down his torso, underneath his shirt, and the contact makes his body shiver.

"Fuck, oh my god, fifteen. God, god, sixteen, seventeen, fuck, eighteen, nineteen..."

His cock twitches in your mouth and you moan a little around him. The sound is enough to make his eyes snap open, the noise that escapes his throat a strangled, choking sort of sob.

"Shit, fuck, fuck, oh my god, I'm, shit, twenty, oh my fucking god," and the words are a jumble, and his hips are jerking, and his thighs are trembling, and it's obvious how close he is.

When your nails scratch down his torso just a little, his back arches.

"Oh, god, oh god, oh god, oh my fucking god, please…"

It's the hottest thing you've ever seen.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, fuck, oh my god, please." His words are rushing out as his hands clench.

You're moving faster and the wet sounds are filthy, the way his breath is catching is perfect. You look up and catch his eyes with your own, making him spill a litany of curses and prayers, his voice breaking deliciously.

You can tell he's close. You pull off just enough to say "ask me nicely," and the whine he lets out is pathetic, like the act of speaking is impossible.

His voice is broken, like he's never asked for anything before. “Please.”

"Please what, Deputy?" Your words are a purr.

"Can I- fuck, can I cum? Wanna cum so bad, wanna cum for you…”

"Eyes on me." You say softly, before sticking your tongue out and stroking him slowly.

"Yes, fuck, please, thank you, yes.” The gratitude is a little surprising, a little sweet.

He cums in hot spurts, his eyes a little wet. You have a hard time catching all of it in your mouth, so some leaks out.

"Thank you, thank you, holy shit." He looks completely wrecked.

You swallow and the way his cock twitches makes him let out a desperate whine.

"That was so good, Deputy," you murmur, wiping the corner of your mouth. "You did such a good job."

The phrase is enough to make his eyes widen a little, his chest heaving, and it's clear to you then that praise is a shock for him.

"Did a good job," he echoes, and the words are soft, like he's testing the sound of them.

"You did. You did a great job." You place a soft kiss to his now limp cock. "So good for me."

"Yeah," he manages, and it's obvious he's trying to process what's happened.

You start to get up, watching him as you do. His gaze is on you, and it's clear that the fact that you're still clothed, while he's half bare and panting, is starting to sink in.

"I think I might take a shower," you say casually, walking towards the bathroom.

"Wait, wait, are you—you're leaving?"

The way he says it is vulnerable, a little uncertain. 

You turn around then.

"I think the only noise complaint was coming from your mouth, Deputy."

His eyes widen a little.

"Get yourself cleaned up. You know the way out."

"But-"

You're already stepping into the bathroom, closing the door.

There's a pause, and the silence feels heavy.

He swallows, clears his throat, runs a hand down his face. Sits there, half-naked and dumb, his mouth hanging open, his brain still fuzzy.

He doesn’t have to be here.

In fact, there’s probably some minor infraction happening across town. Like someone jaywalking, or the high school kids smoking behind the Taco Bell again. And yet, Gator’s cruiser is parked right outside the public library like he’s got a goddamn overdue research paper.

He told Roy he was “checking on a community concern.” Left it vague on purpose. It’s not even a lie, technically. The concern is that his brain hasn’t stopped replaying the sound of your voice saying “good boy” on a loop for seventy-two hours, and if he doesn’t see you again soon he might actually melt into the vinyl seat of his patrol car.

When he walks in, you're behind the main desk typing something into the computer. Sweater again, this one pale blue with little cloud buttons. Your hair’s pulled back. Glasses on.

You don’t look up when the door chimes.

You don’t flinch when he walks past the kid’s section.

You don’t even blink when he leans one elbow on the counter and says, “Afternoon.”

You glance up, totally placid. “Deputy Tillman. Everything alright?”

He swallows. Your voice is light. Polite. Absolutely fucking criminal.

“Uh, yeah. Just followin’ up on that… noise complaint.”

You blink. Tilt your head a little, a quirk he won’t admit he finds cute. “The frogs?”

“Right. Rowdy bunch.”

You nod once, like this is a perfectly normal conversation. “Well, I haven’t played any amphibian-themed podcasts at top volume lately, if that’s what you’re here about.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Community check-in, then. Public safety and such.”

“Mmm. Of course.”

You go back to typing.

He stands there like a dumbass, just watching your fingers move across the keyboard like they didn’t make him beg a few nights ago. Like you didn’t lick the tip of his cock and praise him like he was something worth praising.

The contrast is making him crazy.

You glance up again. “Did you need help with something?”

He clears his throat. “Thought maybe I’d, uh, do a walkthrough. Safety inspection.”

“Of the library?”

He nods, almost too fast. “Uh-huh. Could be… fire hazard, exposed wiring, structural…” His eyes flick to a clearly labeled “EMPLOYEES ONLY” door behind the desk. “Mold.”

You blink once, slow. “Right. The hidden black mold epidemic in rural North Dakota.”

“Can’t be too careful.”

A beat. Then you close the lid of your laptop and gesture toward the hallway behind you.

“Well, you’re welcome to take a look around, Deputy. Just don’t get lost in the archives.”

He nods, stepping around the desk like he belongs there, like he’s not just following the smell of your perfume and the ghost of your mouth on his cock. The hall is narrow, lined with staff posters and a flickering light overhead. You’re already walking ahead of him, casual as anything, hands in the pockets of your skirt.

And then you stop in front of a half-closed door marked “STAFF WORKROOM.”

You glance over your shoulder. “This one’s usually the messiest. Just FYI.”

He swallows, heart knocking around in his chest like it wants out.

“Appreciate the warning,” he mutters, trying to sound casual, but his voice is already lower, rougher. Hungry.

You open the door.

You step inside.

He follows.

And just like that, you’re alone again.

Same silence. Same still air.

Only now there’s a copy machine humming in the corner and the scent of dust and paper and whatever lotion you’re wearing.

He turns toward you. You’re already shutting the door behind you.

The door clicks shut and the lock slides into place like a punctuation mark. Gator stands there, hands on his hips, trying not to stare but already failing. He doesn’t know what he expected. A dusty filing cabinet. Maybe an unplugged laminator.

You don’t say anything at first. Just turn around slow, eyes dragging over him like you’re measuring something. He feels like a piece of furniture.

A big, twitchy, half-hard piece of furniture. 

“Deputy,” you say, voice syrupy sweet. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

 He licks his lips. “Think so.”

You move slowly across the room, like you’ve got all the time in the world. Pale blue sweater, neat little collar poking out, sleeves pushed to the crook of your elbows. You’re not even trying to be sexy. Which makes it worse.

Gator’s eyes drag down you. The way your skirt shifts when you move. The soft curve beneath the waistband. He swallows, shifts his stance. Tries not to imagine what your tits look like without the sweater in the way. Fails immediately.

Bet they’re soft. Bet they’d fill both hands just right. Jesus. Stop. Focus.

But he doesn’t look away.

You pause, fingers absently straightening a stack of construction paper. Not a single glance in his direction. You’re letting the quiet stretch, just to see what he does with it.

And Gator? Gator’s dumb enough to fill the silence.

“You always keep the door locked on inspection tours?” he asks, voice a little rough.

You hum like you’re thinking about it. Still not looking at him. “Only when I know you’re gonna stare at my tits again.”

Gator chokes.

You finally turn.

Eyes calm. Voice sweet.

“Been catching you,” you continue, stepping toward him, “Every time you think I’m not looking.”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

You stop in front of him, just a little too close. Close enough he can smell whatever lotion you’re wearing. Close enough he can see the edge of lace peeking from under your sweater collar. His brain drops the rest of its vocabulary.

“I don’t mind,” you say. “Just figured you should know I notice.”

Your hand lifts—gentle, light—and smooths the edge of his collar. He’s standing still now, statue-stiff, cock already heavy in his pants. It's fucking humiliating.

“But if you’re gonna gawk,” you murmur, “you might as well be useful about it.”

You’re already backing him toward the chair.

He doesn't resist, just lets himself be guided. Just like in your bedroom.

You nudge him into the seat and lean over his shoulder, voice soft against his ear.

"Don't move, Deputy."

Then you straighten, step back, and slowly unbutton your sweater, placing it neatly on a stack of books like you have all the time in the world.

The white camisole underneath is thin and sleeveless, and the fabric clings to the shape of your body, tracing the line of your bra and the dip of your waist. Gator can see the curve of your breasts and the outline of your nipples through the thin cotton.

He doesn't move, just watches, transfixed.

You step forward, one hand on the back of the chair and the other sliding across his chest, up his shoulder. You lean down, the soft fabric brushing his cheek.

"Doing okay, deputy?"

He's not.

He can't remember what words mean, or how his hands are supposed to work.

"Uh-huh," he mutters.

"You want to touch? Just a little?"

He nods, dumb as a stump, eyes locked on the way the fabric clings to your curves. You reach for the hemp of your camisole, lifting it up slowly, inch by inch. Your navel, the line of your waist, the bottom swell of your breast, the underside of your collarbone. All the way to the neckline, pulling it over your head.

You go to take your glasses off next but he touches your free hand. "No..."

"No?"

He licks his lips. "Please... leave them."

You pause. "Alright."

Gator swallows, hands hovering uselessly, palms sweaty. You lean forward and his breath catches, eyes roaming over the soft lace of your bra that barely contains the curves of your tits.

You set the camisole with your sweater, careful and precise. You straighten. Turn.

"Hands."

He obeys, setting his big palms on your waist, callused thumbs brushing the soft skin just above the skirt band.

"Good boy."

He shivers, cock jerking against his zipper.

Your fingers are gentle on his, guiding them to your breasts, pressing his hands over the lace.

His breath catches, eyes wide and mouth open, thumbs already tracing the edge of the fabric. You hum, low, approving.

"That's it," you murmur, letting him squeeze, feeling the warmth of your skin.

Your hands move, guiding his upward, slipping the straps off your shoulders, sliding the cups down until his palms brush bare skin.

Your eyes lock on his face, watch him react.

It's everything he wanted and nothing like he expected.

The weight of your tits in his hands, the way they fill his palms, the softness, the heat. He strokes the pads of his thumbs across your nipples, watching them pebble beneath his touch. You inhale, slow and deliberate, moving to straddle him in the chair. Your skirt bunches up at your hips as you hover there, not fully letting your weight settle against him yet.

His hips buck up almost involuntarily, like he's chasing the feel of you. You tut, soft and gentle. "Keep your hands here."

He nods, and you reward him by grinding down just enough for him to feel the heat of your pussy.

"That's it," you whisper, rolling against him again, slow and steady. "You're doing so well."

His fingers tighten, and he has to bite back a groan. You lean forward and press a gentle kiss against the side of his neck. "Want more? Ask nicely."

"P... please."

Your nails rake up his arms, just hard enough to leave marks. "Please what? Be specific. You can do that, can't you?"

"Let me..." he mutters, breathless, voice trailing off.

"Let you what?"

"Please... I wanna... want your nipples."

"To do what, exactly?"

"Suck 'em."

"Mmmm, good boy."

His hands shake as you guide them behind your back. He fumbles with the clasp, and when he finally manages it, his breath catches in his throat as you slip your bra off your arms.

He leans forward and his mouth is on your nipple, tongue tracing the sensitive skin, his breath hot and fast. You sigh, fingers threading into his hair, tugging gently.

"Just like that."

His teeth graze your skin and you arch against him, grinding down as he sucks, hands tight on your waist. He groans around your tit, muffled and hungry.

Your breath catches as his grip tightens.

"Fuck..." He releases your nipple with a pop, breathing hard, mouth open. "I... fuck, sorry, I-"

"You really like those, don't you?"

His face is red. He can't bring himself to meet your eyes.

"Yeah."

"Good. They're nice, aren't they? Soft and warm."

"Mhm."

"Why don't you kiss the other one and show me how much you like it?"

He licks his lips, glances up, and then leans forward again.

You can feel him trembling, breath ragged and desperate. His lips are soft, almost hesitant, but when he wraps his mouth around your nipple, you can't help but gasp, arching into him.

He moans, the sound muffled around the flesh in his mouth, and sucks. Hard.

One of his hands is on your waist and the other is kneading your opposite breast, pinching and rolling.

You start to grind on him again, and this time he arches up, meeting the movement. You can feel his cock through his pants, hard and hot, rubbing against panties.

He releases your nipple, and you shiver when he exhales.

"F... fuck..."

You smile, tugging his hair and guiding his head back to your breast. "Good boy. You're being so good. But I didn't say you could stop."

He doesn't, immediately returning to sucking and nipping at the flesh, making you gasp and writhe against him. He groans around you, and his hips buck up again.

The chair squeaks, and his hands are on your hips now, gripping so hard you can feel his fingers twitch and you wonder if he'd be holding onto you the same way if his belt was undone.

He's still thrusting against you, the rhythm growing unsteady, and you stroke your hand through his hair while you praise him. "Such a good boy for me, aren't you? Getting so excited you can't sit still."

He makes a desperate noise and tries to grind against you harder. You tug his hair, just enough to get his attention. "Eyes on me, Gator."

He looks up, switching to the other nipple and licking eagerly, his gaze focused on yours, the picture of obedience.

"There you go," you breathe, your own hips moving faster, seeking more friction. "So eager, so good."

He knows he's going to cum in his pants and he can't find it in him to care.

Your fingers dig into his scalp and the muscles of your legs are starting to shake, but Gator's still latched onto your tit, sucking and nipping, lost in the feel of you.

You grind down harder and he arches up, meeting the rhythm. His breath hitches, and his whole body is trembling.

"You can cum," you murmur. "It's okay. I know you want to. Cum for me, baby. Cum in your pants. I know you'll be a good boy and clean up afterward. You want to, don't you?"

His moan is muffled by your tit, but the vibration makes your pussy clench.

"That's it," you encourage, voice breathy and shaking. "That's a good boy. Let go. Cum for me. Cum all over yourself."

You can feel him shaking, feel his hips jerk and his grip tighten.

He lets go, cums so hard he can't see straight, whines like a dog when his hips stop moving.

"There you go," you whisper, still rolling against him, chasing your own orgasm. "You're so good, Gator. So good."

He moans, face buried in your tits, still shaking. Your voice is shaky, but he can tell you're trying to stay calm, stay in control. It only makes him hotter.

He's dizzy. Breathless. He feels like he's been wrung out and tossed in a heap.

You kiss his forehead before you untangle yourself from him, and the gentleness of the gesture makes his chest hurt.

You pull your bra up, putting your cami and sweater on with the same care you took taking them off. You don't speak until you're fully dressed, hair neat, and glasses straight.

"Well," you say, voice light, casual. "I'd say that was a successful inspection. Thank you, Deputy. I'll leave you to clean up after yourself. Don't forget to lock the door on the way out."

Then you walk out.

And just like that, Gator's alone in a library staff room, sticky and spent and trying to catch his breath.

His first thought is, holy shit, that just happened.

His second thought is, what the fuck does he do next?

He shifts, hissing a little at the mess in his boxers, and takes a moment to just breathe, replaying the last few minutes. Your hands, guiding his across your tits, your hips rolling against his cock, the feeling of your hands in his hair.

Fuck.

He needs to move.

Now.

He pushes himself up and grimaces at the state of his pants, sticky and uncomfortable, and he's suddenly struck with the urge to laugh. Here he is, a grown man, getting off in his work pants because some girl told him to.

The girl who is currently out there, behind the main desk, probably acting like nothing happened.

Gator shakes his head, straightens his shirt, and tugs the hem of his jacket down, trying to disguise the wet spot.

It's a lost cause, but maybe no one will notice. He's just gonna have to hope for the best. And also, probably, that none of the town gossips are lurking near the reference section today.

Because if he gets seen like this?

The rumor mill will grind him into paste.

He can hear them now, all of the old biddies at the coffee shop, sitting around the tables and sipping decaf with extra foam, talking about the state of his fly and the state of his dignity.

All he can smell is spilled vodka and cucumber melon body spray.

It assaults his nose as one of the girls is on his lap, straddling him like it’s a job (which, to be fair, it is) but she’s doing that fake moan thing in his ear like she actually gives a shit. Gator exhales through his nose, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, past the glitter and the strobe lights. His buddies are hooting and hollering in the next booth over, trying to shove bills between a brunette’s ass cheeks. Sheriff’s department morale night.

Fuckin’ great.

She’s pretty, he guesses. Long lashes. Little shorts. Tits pressed up under his chin like a goddamn buffet. She keeps asking what he wants her to do and it’s supposed to be hot, supposed to make him feel powerful, wanted.

She’s pliant. Willing. Waiting for direction.

And he’s bored out of his goddamn mind.

His cock hasn’t moved an inch. Hasn’t even twitched. It’s like his whole body knows something his brain doesn’t want to admit.

He shifts under her, lets her grind against him a little more. Tries to focus. Tries to pretend it’s working. She leans in and whispers something about the champagne room and he almost laughs.

He could fuck her. Right now. Right outside in his truck if he wanted.

Bet she’d let him pull her panties to the side and bend her over the hood. Probably wouldn’t even blink. Would make some fake little gasping sounds and call him daddy and let him talk dirty right into her throat.

He should want that.

Jesus, he used to want that.

He pulls on his vape instead, a bitter strawberry cloud filling his throat. She’s still moving on him and he just stares past her at the neon Bud Light sign behind the bar, wondering why the hell his skin feels too tight.

You flash through his head before he can stop it.

Your voice. Your hands. That soft cardigan with the sunflowers. The way you looked at him like you were peeling him apart one piece at a time. The way you told him to lie down like he wasn’t even in the goddamn room unless you said so.

He exhales slow, lets the vape hang between his fingers.

"You're not hard," she pouts, tilting her head like maybe that’ll change something.

"No shit," he mutters.

She blinks. Smiles again. Still trying. “We could—”

He doesn’t let her finish.

Gator plants both hands on her hips and lifts her off like she weighs nothing, setting her to the side like she’s a gym bag. Her eyebrows shoot up but he doesn’t even look at her. Just stands, adjusts his belt, and heads for the door.

One of the guys yells his name, but he waves them off. Another hits the table, laughs loud. “Tillman’s too fucked up to function!”

He doesn’t correct them.

Out in the parking lot, the wind hits him like a bucket of water. Cold. Sober-ish.

He lights a cigarette, something he hasn’t done in a while since he got this stupid strawberry thing, and smokes it down like it was nothing. Then climbs into his truck with a slam of the door. The upholstery still smells like grease and fast food. He doesn’t even turn the heat on.

His leg’s bouncing before he’s halfway out of the lot.

God, what the fuck is wrong with him?

You. That’s what.

You, standing in your kitchen acting like tea is some kind of sex drug. You, pulling your glasses down just a little to look at him. You, locking that goddamn workroom door like it was nothing.

He’s gripping the steering wheel tighter than he needs to and now he’s hard. Not when some perfect piece of ass was grinding all over him, but when he thinks about some fucking sunflower buttons on a sweater.

Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the strip club. Maybe it’s the fact that the last time he came from a woman was with your voice in his ear and his pants still on.

He sucks on the vape again. Harder.

You’re in his head like a fucking landmine.

By the time he pulls up outside your house, his palms are sweating. Lights are off except for the warm little glow from the porch. Same paper leaf garland. Same ceramic pumpkins from Target or wherever the hell people like you shop. You’re probably asleep. Probably curled up under a quilt with some weird fantasy book and a mug of herbal shit that smells like orange peel.

Gator kills the engine. Sits in the dark. Lets the silence press in tight.

His dick’s still hard and aching just from thinking about you in pajamas.

He hits the vape again.

Then again.

Then, finally, he gets out of the truck.

You can’t sleep.

It’s almost one in the morning and the chamomile isn’t doing shit, but you make the tea anyway.

Old habits.

The house is still except for the kettle and the wind tapping against the windows. You’re in an oversized t-shirt and socks, hair tied up and glasses slipping down your nose. You figure maybe a book will help, or a walk around the living room. Maybe if you just sit with it, your mind will settle.

Then comes the knock.

Three sharp raps, straight to the center of the door. Not loud. Just confident.

You don’t jump. You just sigh.

You already know who it is.

You open the door with the mug still in your hand, steam curling into the night air.

And there he is.

Not in uniform. Not in anything even close to it.

Same camo cargos he probably rarely washes, black leather jacket, and a backwards mesh hat that makes him look about five years younger and ten times more pathetic. The porch light casts a yellow haze over his face. His eyes are bloodshot. His cheeks pink from the cold. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to fidget, like if he shifts too much you’ll see the hard-on pressing against his fly.

You raise an eyebrow. Keep your voice even.

“Deputy Tillman. What brings you by at this hour?”

He exhales hard through his nose, jaw clenched tight. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t even try to be smooth or come up with an excuse

“I’m pissed,” he blurts.

You blink. “Okay…”

“I’m fuckin’ pissed at you,” he repeats, louder now, shifting from one foot to the other like he’s trying to work something out of his system. “Can’t even jerk off without thinkin’ about your voice. Got this chick grindin’ on me for half an hour at the strip club and nothin’. Not even a twitch. She’s hot, too. Like, normal hot. Tits out, moaning in my fuckin’ ear, beggin’ me to take her in the private rooms or whatever. And I got nothin’. Zilch. Fuckin’ dead inside my own pants.”

You stare at him over the rim of your mug.

He keeps going.

“You wanna know the worst part? You didn’t even do anything last time. Just told me what to do. Like I was one of those little kids in your storytime circle. And I came so hard in my pants I thought I was gonna pass out.”

He’s breathing harder now, shoulders rising with every word. You don’t say anything. You just wait.

“And now I’m fucked,” he says. “Now I’m hard all the time. Or not hard at all. I don’t even know anymore. I just know you ruined it. You got in my head with your little teacher voice and your fuckin’ soft hands and now I can’t think straight.”

You tilt your head slightly. “I think you might be having a crisis.”

He looks miserable. And furious. And still hard.

“I am havin’ a crisis,” he snaps. “And I need you to do somethin’ about it.”

You sip your tea. Hold his gaze.

Then, without a word, you open the door a little wider.

He doesn’t ask questions. Just steps past you like he belongs here, like this is where he was always meant to end up.

You shut the door behind him and start walking toward the hall. He follows without hesitation, boots heavy on the hardwood.

No words. No teasing.

You don’t need to say anything.

You just lead him to the bedroom.

Inside your bedroom, you set your mug down on the nightstand like this isn’t the end of the fucking world. Like you’re not about to peel him apart in the dark with a whisper and a fingertip.

The room smells like you- a hint of whatever perfume clings to your sweaters.

You don’t say anything at first. Just look at him like you’re trying to figure something out.

He’s standing there like a goddamn idiot. Hands shoved in his pockets. Shoulders squared too tight. Whole body is twitchy like he’s waiting for a command, like he doesn’t know what to do unless someone tells him. His dick is still hard and his throat is dry and there’s something itchy trying to crawl out of his chest.

You come to him slow.

Touch his face like he’s made of glass.

And ask, real soft, real serious, “Why do you hate this so much?”

He swallows. Tries to laugh. It doesn’t land.

“I don’t hate it,” he says, eyes flicking away from you. “That’s the problem.”

You keep looking at him.

He shifts.

“It’s just—” he starts, then stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Men are supposed to be strong. That’s what my dad always said. Like, if you give someone the reins, you’re fucked. That’s weakness. That’s—”

He doesn’t finish.

Because your mouth is at his jaw.

Just a ghost of a kiss. Barely there.

He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He should stop this. He should say something mean or horny or stupid just to make the feeling go away, but all he can do is stand there while you unzip his jacket. Carefully. Like it’s not even a piece of clothing, just another layer to peel back.

You drape it over the chair. Take his dumb hat off next and toss it somewhere out of sight. Your fingers graze his scalp.

He wants to say something but his voice won’t work right. There’s a burn building behind his eyes and he swallows it down like hot bile.

“Take your boots off,” you murmur.

So he does. Awkwardly. One at a time. Leaves them by the bed like a kid coming in from the cold.

You don’t ask him to sit. He just does it. Drops onto the edge of the mattress like his knees gave out.

And then you climb into his lap.

It’s slow. Sure. Like it’s just a thing you were always gonna do.

You kiss him again, this time at the curve of his neck. Up along his jaw. His hands hover at your thighs but he doesn’t grab, doesn’t grope, just holds still like he’s afraid he’ll mess it up.

And then he notices.

You haven’t kissed him.

Not on the mouth.

Not once.

And he’s not even the kind of guy who gives a shit about kissing. That’s for girls in rom-coms and teenagers with prom corsages and people who read those shitty sex advice columns in Cosmo. He’s not that guy.

But suddenly he wants it.

God, he wants it.

He shifts up toward you, just a little, like maybe you’ll meet him halfway.

You don’t.

You pull back, just enough to keep the distance.

“Kissing’s too intimate for what this is,” you say, matter-of-fact.

It hits him like a brick.

His mouth opens, shuts. He lets out a noise, part groan, part whine, something that feels embarrassing the second it leaves his chest.

“I don’t care,” he mutters.

You blink, caught off guard because he means it.

He doesn’t care if it’s too intimate or too soft or too fucking vulnerable. He wants to kiss you. He wants to be kissed. He wants to come home to you and have you make him tea and rub the knots out of his shoulders and tell him he’s good. He wants to sit on this stupid bed and let you undo him like a fucking bedtime routine.

You study him for a long moment, and something in your face makes him start talking again. Words tumble out, low and rough, like he’s afraid they’ll rot if he keeps them inside.

“I don’t wanna be like him,” he says. “My old man. With the young wives and the bruises nobody talked about. He calls it love, but it’s just noise. I can’t—” He stops, jaw tight, searching for the right piece of language that never seems to fit. “I don’t wanna grab at people just ‘cause I can.”

Your hand is still at his cheek, thumb just below his eye. He looks younger than you’ve ever seen him. Almost fragile. The words keep coming, halting but honest.

“I’m not good at this shit. I don’t know how to do the… gentle part. I don’t even know what I’m asking for, I just—” He laughs once, humorless. “I just need to feel like I ain’t wreckin’ everything I touch.”

The air in the room feels different now, quieter. He’s still talking, softer.

“I could try,” he murmurs. “If you’d let me. I could learn. I swear I could.”

He looks up at you then, eyes glassy, mouth parted like he’s still trying to apologize for existing. It isn’t lust anymore. It’s just raw need to be seen as something more than the badge he didn’t earn, more than his last name. More than a fuck up or a loser.

You hesitate. Long enough for his breathing to start to shake. Then you lean forward, so close that your forehead touches his. He stops talking. The silence stretches until it almost breaks.

And then, finally, you kiss him.

It's soft, and his lips are so eager for it that you want to laugh. He doesn't try to take over, he just melts under the weight of it, like he's been waiting for permission. You let your hands cup his face, and you can feel him shaking, almost imperceptibly.

"Good boy," you whisper. "You're being such a good boy for me. You're so good."

He's so responsive to praise, it makes your head swim.

You can feel his breath catch, his lips part. You keep kissing him, deep and slow.

His arms wrap around your waist, but he's not trying to move you, not trying to take. Just holding, like he's trying to convince himself he's allowed.

It's intoxicating.

The way he just leans into it, letting you lead, the way his chest rises and falls with his ragged breathing. You speak to him in between kisses.

"You just want to be good don't you? That's all you want. To please me, make me happy, make me proud. Don't you?"

His hands grip you tighter, a little desperate. He's nodding before you even finish, breath catching as you kiss the corner of his mouth. "Please."

It's barely audible.

"Please, yes, I wanna..."

"Shhh."

Your hands slip from his face, moving down his shoulders, tracing the planes of his chest, your fingers splayed. You press closer, feeling his erection through his pants.

He whimpers, and it's still the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. You palm him through the fabric, as his eyes flutter shut. You don't know how long he's been hard for, but you know he's sensitive.

"You know..." You start, truths spilling out of you. "I'm very aware of your reputation."

He chokes out a breath, but doesn't respond, and you continue.

"Everyone in this town knows how you are. But none of them matter." You move your hand lower, tracing the outline of his cock. "I don't care how many people you've fucked or how hard you've fucked them."

You press the heel of your palm against him and he groans.

"I bet it feels so empty..." You continue. "Doesn't it? Those girls don't matter. They're nothing but a body and a warm hole to fill. They'll spread their legs for anyone with a badge and a nice truck. That's not what you want. That's not what you need."

He moans, grinding into your hand, trying to seek out friction.

"I... please... I need-"

You lean forward, pressing another kiss to his lips, and when you pull back, your eyes are locked on his.

"It's okay to want to be taken care of, Gator. Let me take care of you."

He nods, breathing harder, and you pull back, moving to unbuckle his belt.

He watches, eyes wide, as you unzip his fly, and tug his pants down. He lifts his hips, eager to comply, and the fabric slips over his ass, his thighs. You slide his boxers off next, and his cock springs free.

"Such a pretty cock. So hard for me." You wrap your fingers around him, stroking slowly, watching his face. He moans, low, hips arching toward your hand. "Take your shirt off."

He doesn't hesitate. The tee joins the pile on the floor. His arms are toned, corded with muscle, and you take a moment to run your fingers over his chest, the dark dusting of hair, the freckles on his shoulders.

He's beautiful.

You stroke him a little faster, and he lets out a noise that's half moan, half whimper. He's fully naked under you and you haven't even taken off a piece of clothing.

You move up his body, straddling him, and grind against his bare cock. You're wearing cotton panties, the soft fabric rubbing against him.

"Look at me."

His eyes lock on yours.

"Are you gonna cum? From a little friction? A few strokes?"

He swallows hard. "Yes."

"Well...we can't have that." You say, easing off of him, standing in front of him as he sits there, naked and pathetic in the most gorgeous way. His big eyes stare up at you, full of need. "You showed up really late, Gator. And I can tell you've had a few drinks. And your breath tastes like cigarettes..."

He winces a little.

"So, you're gonna have to make it up to me."

You lift off your large shirt and drop it on the floor, standing there in your panties and nothing else, before letting you hair down and setting your glasses on the nightstand. You take his hand and gently pull him to stand up, putting his calloused hands on your breasts as you speak.

"Everyone knows Gator Tillman fucks fast and hard," you begin. "But they also know he isn't a giver."

You reach down and cup his cock, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"You're going to learn how to fuck someone properly. And you're not gonna cum until I tell you."

He nods as you turn the both of you around, taking a seat on the bed, legs spread.

"On your knees."

He wants to protest, wants to say he's not gonna lick you out like some dog or something equally as crude, but the words die before they leave his tongue. It was true, he never even thought to do it, he was too busy thinking about how to get his cock wet. 

You sit, legs spread, the fabric of your panties damp. He licks his lips, looking at the wet patch, and then up at you. You smile.

"Knees."

His throat goes dry, and his body moves without his mind telling it to, sinking onto the hardwood. You guide him between your legs, his hands on your thighs.

"Take my panties off."

He doesn't speak as he hooks his thumbs under the waistband and tugs them down, slow, like he's unwrapping a gift. You raise your hips, helping him slide them off. Then you lean back on your elbows, hair falling around your shoulders.

"Gonna be bad at this," he mutters, staring at your bare pussy.

"It's okay. You'll figure it out."

He takes a breath and moves forward, his hands sliding up your thighs. His thumb finds the apex of your folds and he swipes up, slow. His voice is rough when he speaks. "You're already wet."

"Mhm. How does that make you feel?" God, your voice is so gentle, that slight condescending tone.

"I... I dunno." He lies.

"Yes you do. Tell me."

"Like you want me," he mutters. "Want me bad."

"Do I?"

"Mhm. Can't wait for me to eat your pussy."

"You sound pretty sure about that. Have you ever eaten a girl out, deputy?"

His mouth opens, but he can't think of an answer. Not a truthful one, anyway.

"That's what I thought."

Your hand is gentle on the back of his head, and you guide him forward, toward your pussy. He can feel you, wet and hot and waiting. His pulse is pounding in his ears.

He's never done this. Not really. Not even with his high school girlfriend who liked to boss him around. She didn't want his mouth anywhere near her pussy. He remembers that much.

You're not asking.

Your thighs are warm beneath his hands. He can smell the soft lotion you wear. Your fingers tighten in his hair.

"Prove that pretty mouth can do so much more than talk shit."

And his mouth is on you.

It's warm and wet and his nose is pressed against your skin, and it's not what he expected, not at all.

You're guiding his head, just a little, just enough that his stubble is scratching the inside of your thighs and the tip of his nose brushes your clit and his mouth is making these soft little noises like he's drinking straight from the tap.

He's never felt a pussy this close before. It's different. Slicker. Hotter. You're already wet, and the smell is intoxicating, sweet and musky and raw. He tries to keep his eyes open, tries to look at you while his tongue darts out, but he can't keep it up for more than a few seconds before he has to close his eyes and inhale the scent of you.

"There you go," you breathe, the pressure at the back of his head relaxing, letting him explore. "Such a good boy. Don't overthink it. Just use that smart mouth."

He moans, and his cock twitches, heavy and aching between his legs.

He keeps licking, his tongue flat against the apex of your folds, the taste coating his tongue and filling his head. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, doesn't know if he should try to spread you or grip your thighs, doesn't even know if he should be looking up or focusing on what he's doing, but you haven't told him to stop yet.

"You're holding back." You groan. "Don't think that's fair to me, after how good I've treated you. Don't be shy, Gator. Put your whole mouth on me. Suck and lick. I know you've wanted to taste me."

He doesn't respond. He just follows the direction, his lips wrapped around your clit. He sucks, and your breath hitches, the first sign of anything other than control. It's intoxicating, and his own dick is painfully hard, bobbing in the air, neglected.

He pulls off your clit and drags his tongue lower, feeling the wetness coat his chin. He dips his tongue into your entrance, and you moan.

"That's it," you whisper. "Just like that. So good, Gator. You're being so good for me."

Your hands are gentle, guiding his head back up to your clit, and he groans as you roll your hips, grinding against his mouth.

His hands move, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, and he can feel your body start to shake.

He sucks, hard, and his own cock aches at the way you whine. Your thighs squeeze around his head and he keeps licking, the slick wet heat making him dizzy.

You're close, he can tell. You're trembling, rolling against his mouth, and the soft noises coming from you are the hottest fucking thing he's ever heard.

He closes his eyes and sucks, trying to keep his rhythm, and then you're there.

You're gasping, body going tight, and your hand is pulling his hair so hard it hurts. But he doesn't care, he keeps sucking, licking, groaning against you, because you're grinding on his mouth and your cunt is wet and hot and perfect and you taste so fucking good he could do this forever.

You ride his face, and he's lost in the sound of you.

Your nails rake across his scalp and it makes him moan again, the sound muffled, but it's the only noise in the room, aside from the slick sounds of him eating you out.

When you're spent, you relax, legs slipping down onto the bed, and Gator pulls back, breathing hard, eyes dark, chin glistening. Once your breathing steadies, you brace yourself on your elbows, looking down at the man between your legs.

He looks a mess, panting and hard and desperate. His hair is disheveled and his cheeks are flushed and his cock is leaking.

"Look at you," you coo, reaching down to run a finger along his bottom lip, collecting some of your wetness.

He shudders, eyes falling shut, and he leans in toward the touch.

"You're so pretty on your knees," you say. "I think you might be prettiest this way."

He groans, his own cock twitching between his legs, and you let your eyes trace down the lines of his chest, down to the swollen red tip, shining with pre-cum.

"You want to cum don't you? I bet you've been hard since before I took your pants off."

He doesn't answer, just nods, and you tilt his head back, forcing his eyes to meet yours. "Get on the bed baby. Lay down."

His hands grip your hips as he rises to his feet, and you can see his muscles working under his skin. He's a beautiful man, all lean muscle and strength. He's bigger than you, taller, but you don't feel intimidated. He could pick you up and toss you around, but you know he won't.

Not unless you asked.

He turns and sits, and then lays on his back. He looks so big on the mattress, all those broad shoulders and corded muscle, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the thick length of his cock jutting up, curved slightly. You can't help but admire the view.

"I could cum just from lookin' at you," he mutters.

You don't respond. Instead, you climb onto the bed and straddle his hips. You can feel him, hot and hard, and his hips buck, just a little.

"Please." He says, the word barely audible.

"Patience."

You grind against him, his cock slick from his own precum, and his jaw clenches.

"You want me to ride you?"

"Fuck."

You raise an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."

"Yes. God, yes."

You rise up, just a little, and then sink down on him. The slide is slow. You're still wet from his mouth, and your breath catches when his cock pushes into you.

He groans, and his hands clench the sheets before you move them to your hips.

You take him slowly, sinking down until your ass is pressed against his thighs. You can feel him twitching inside of you, his whole body shaking.

"Look at me." You command.

His eyes lock on yours.

"I can't-"

"You're not allowed to cum. Do you understand?"

He nods, his grip on your hips tightening. You start to move, rising up and sliding back down, and his jaw is clenched.

"You look so good beneath me," you murmur.

His throat works as he swallows, and his eyes are fixed on yours.

You reach out, running a finger along his lip. He sucks in a breath and opens his mouth, letting you slip two fingers inside.

He doesn't hesitate, taking the digits in, closing his lips around the intrusion.

"I'm on the pill." You say softly, working your fingers in and out, watching his lips. "But you should ask before you cum inside me. Is that clear?"

He can't answer, not with your fingers in his mouth, and his hips buck involuntarily, making him groan.

"Is that clear?"

He nods, eyes wide, and you pull your fingers from his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva.

"Good boy."

You keep moving, rolling your hips, the slide easy, the stretch delicious. You work him harder, riding his cock, and the sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy.

He's shaking, gripping your hips, eyes still locked on yours. He's not moving, not thrusting, just following your lead. His lips part and his chest is rising and falling rapidly, his cock throbbing inside of you.

You're so wet, the slide so smooth, the angle hitting your clit just right. You're already close, and the way he's watching you, like he's trying not to get burned, makes the pressure build.

You keep working yourself, rolling and rising and falling, and his whole body is tense, muscles straining, the tendons in his neck standing out. You're so close and you want him to cum with you, to fill you up.

"Cum," you murmur. "Cum now. Right now. Don't think about it. Just cum."

His eyes flutter closed, his hips arch up, and then he's spilling into you, his hands gripping you so tight it almost hurts.

"Yes," you breathe through your own release. "Just like that. That's it. So good."

He moans, low, his whole body shaking. He doesn't even have to think about it. Your voice is a command.

And his body responds deliciously.

"Oh, fuck," he groans, as the last of his release leaves him. "Jesus. Jesus."

You ease off him slowly, the mess of his cum spilling down your thigh. You lay on your side, placing gentle kisses down the column of this throat as his head is still thrown back, panting, his eyes squeezed shut.

"I..."

"Shhhh. Relax. Take a deep breath."

"Fuck."

"Shhhh."

He lets out a low groan and takes a deep breath, chest rising, then falling, then rising again, until his pulse steadies and his body relaxes, sinking into the bed. You lean on your elbow and run a finger across his jaw, the slight stubble scraping at your skin. His eyes open, half lidded, and his gaze fixes on yours.

"Fuck," he mutters again.

"Did you enjoy that?"

He huffs, almost a laugh, and the corner of his mouth curls up. "Mhm."

"How much?"

His eyebrows lift, but his gaze stays on the ceiling. "More than I thought possible."

"You can look at me, you know."

"Don't know if I can. Kinda afraid I'm dreamin'."

"Well, if you are, then you might as well enjoy it."

He sighs, and turns his head toward you, meeting your eyes. He doesn't speak, and neither do you, just studying his face.

His expression is almost blank, eyes dark, mouth still parted, cheeks still flushed.

"What happens now?"

The words come out quieter than he means them to, and you blink.

"That's up to you."

His face shifts, brows pulling together, lips twisting in something close to a pout. It's almost comical, given who he is.

"Don't play dumb," he says. "You know what I mean."

Your hand traces up the curve of his bicep, across his collarbone, then along his cheek, fingers grazing his stubble. He sighs, and looks up at the ceiling. You study his profile, the line of his nose, the shape of his jaw, the soft, dark hair falling loose around his ears.

"Look, I'm not askin' to date you," he mutters, like that makes it less serious. "I just—"

"You need someone," you murmur.

His throat tightens, his cheeks warm. He's not used to feeling this raw. This open. It's terrifying.

"Yeah," he admits, and the word cracks a little. "I need someone."

Your hand is soft on his chest, right above his heart.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the ceiling. The sheets are tangled, the air thick, and you’re right there, breathing slowly beside him. Your hand found his chest like you were checking to see if his heart still worked.

It does. Too much, maybe.

He turns his head a little, just enough to look at you. You’re watching him like you’re waiting to see if he’ll bolt or break.

He feels like doing both.

He wants to say something, but the words line up wrong in his throat. He thinks about what he said earlier, about not wanting to be like his dad. About needing someone. It sounds stupid now. Childish. Like something you’d hear on a late‑night call‑in radio show between country songs.

You just keep your hand where it is, fingers resting right above the spot where his pulse won’t settle.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’,” he says quietly. “But when I’m with you, it feels like maybe I could get it right. For once.”

Your thumb brushes his skin, barely there. He exhales, slow and shaky, like the air’s been trapped in him for years.

He thinks about the noise of the strip club, the lights, the girl with too much perfume, the emptiness that followed. Then he looks at you, in this soft, dark room, and something inside him goes still.

Maybe it’s not about being in charge. Maybe it never was.

He shifts closer. Not for sex. Not for anything he can name. Just to feel the warmth of your body and the weight of his own breath starting to even out.

“Don’t know what happens now,” he murmurs, voice thick.

“Then don’t think about it,” you answer. “Just rest.”

He wants to say thank you. He wants to say don’t stop touching him. He wants to ask if this counts as love, if it could be, if maybe he didn’t fuck it all up already just by showing up at your door like some broken animal in heat.

Instead, he says the only thing he can get out.

“I don’t wanna go back to bein’ the guy I was before this.”