Lady Faith🛡️

Wouldn't work. You and the other firefighters were a cohesive unit. You had each other's backs in every manner, every way you possibly could, and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it—you were going to win, again.

The lead up to the game was tense. Things were taken seriously and then taken too far. Like, spying on each other's practices, standing vigil outside the police stations to intimidate the cops, trying to infiltrate the firehouse to plant stink bombs using some turncoat EMTs—no one said you guys were mature adults, because everything was fair game and this was gravely important.

One of the newbies on the PD squad was a deputy you knew by name only, simply because his father was the sheriff in Stark County. The circulating rumor was that he was a nepo baby who couldn't find his dick in the dark, but when you and one of your fellows, a middle-aged volunteer firefighter named Pete, did some recon on the guy, you had to admit you could see why they'd asked him to play in the game.

He was young, probably around your age, and spry, and while he didn't look like a bodybuilder or overly athletic in general, a quick Google search turned up plenty of articles about him from several years ago, touting his athletic ability in high school, though his sport of choice at the time had been football.

So, nothing to worry about from him.

No, what you had to worry about was how attractive you found him, and whether helping the FD team absolutely decimate the PD team would ruin your chances of getting him to rail you.

&&

Someone above your pay grade had made the brilliant decision to do some PR for the game, even though the entire county and even some neighboring ones knew about it. But publicity helps bring in more donations, and when you show up to the field where you'll be playing the game in just a few weeks’ time, the law enforcement officers are all there showing off, laughing, rowdy, some even shirtless and showing off their physiques. Even the handful of women over there are in sports bras and bike shorts, which—have fun trying to slide into a base in those.

You suck your teeth and sidle up to Pete, who's standing with the rest of the firefighters, watching.

“They're too cocky,” you say. “Look at them.”

“They think they're showing off,” Pete says.

“They are showing off,” you say. “But that's all it is. Show.”

Pete smirks and leads you over to the rest of your group, who are pulling their jerseys out of the garment bag where they're kept over the winter and spring. You only really need them for the charity game and home run derby in the fall, after all. Yet another indication that the FD squad is taking this way more seriously than the police.

They're organized by number, and yours is 14—the letters of your last name neatly stitched over the number, the patch with the emblem of the fire department on your chest and on your right arm. You leave on your jeans, even though it's unseasonably warm for spring and you have a pair of shorts in the gym bag in the back of your car, because you're a slider and you won't make the same mistake as the cops in the other dugout. Not that you're going to be doing much more than posing for photos today.

“You guys got a girl on yer team?” one of them calls, and though he's a little too far away to make out his face, you can see he's laughing.

“You have three!” the captain of your team, and the captain of your unit, who goes exclusively by his last name, Lopez, shouts back.

The cop who called that out to you shuts up, and you laugh, shaking your head. You're used to the sexism, the slights, and the chiding comments, but your boys always have your back, and as you fit a Minnesota Twins cap onto your head, you grab a bat just as the photographer that the charity provided ambles over.

“Good morning,” he calls, waving at you all as he ducks into the little covered bench that serves as your dugout. “Are we ready for some photos?”

Yeahs and Yeses resound from you and your fellows, and the photographer nods, walking through and introducing himself as Ashton every time he shakes a hand. You pause in buttoning your jersey to take his hand and nod, introducing yourself to him as well, and then leave the fenced-in bench to feel the sun on your face again.

The PD team's players are still laughing, throwing balls to each other and catching pop flies; the one who called out to your team is practicing pitching with their catcher, winding up and landing throw after throw right into the mitt. You quirk an eyebrow—this guy seems better than last year's pitcher. He must be one of the new deputies.

“All right,” Ashton calls as he emerges from the fire department dugout. “Let's get some team shots, and then individual shots.”

“Do we really need individual shots?” one of the officers calls, and Ashton just shrugs.

“That's what I was asked to do,” he says, and then motions for the teams to line up in front of each bench.

You all do, but the police finish their lineup first, not worrying about height order or blocking anyone who might be standing behind them—so Ashton heads over there, making placement adjustments as needed and then snapping several photos. He allows them to disperse and says he'll be walking around for individual and action shots once he finishes with the other group shot. The police scatter across the field, bringing gloves and balls and bats along with them, splitting into pairs or trios to play catch or bat.

Pete and Lopez flank you, and you all stand together, smiling for the camera as Ashton takes a few shots, then asks you to move to the middle of the group.

“For what?” you ask, looking at Lopez, who just shrugs.

“You're the star,” he replies.

“I play right field,” you say, laughing. “Tommy's the pitcher.” You point. “Threw a perfect game three years ago and almost again last year.”

“You also won the home run derby for the last three years,” Ashton says to you. “Stand in the middle, please.”

You bite your lip, then move over to stand in between Tommy and Lenny. You can't help but smile a little, because he's right—you might not be the best at fielding but you're a great fucking hitter, and you help the team just as much when you're at bat even if you're weak in your actual position.

By the time he takes a few more shots, the PD team is fully on the diamond, playing a little mini game where each batter is only bunting, just to keep things in the infield. Ashton walks right up to you as the FD team disperses.

“I'd like to get some solo shots of you first,” he says, and you laugh.

“Are you like—serious?” you ask, laughing. “I'm not the best player on the team.”

“You're a triple-time winner of the home run derby, and by my count, you're best known in these charity games for runs batted in, even if your own scoring isn't notable. Isn't that right?”

You shrug. Yes, he's right, but you also aren't really the type to brag about it, even if several of the charity game wins were the result of you driving in the game-winning runs. “I mean, I guess.”

“Grab a bat, please,” Ashton says, and you do, posing for some photos and feeling spectacularly stupid as you do. Last year's photographer had taken team shots and left as quickly as possible. This guy is super into it.

After your shots are done, he releases you to join the rest of your team and makes his rounds, grabbing solo pictures of each player on the field in turn. You make your way over to the three policewomen in the outfield and join them for a round of catch. They introduce themselves as Miri, Portia, and Ebony. They're so nice, actually, that you forget about the rivalry that fuels the feud that makes the PD vs. FD game so exciting and ask if they've ever played baseball or softball before. They all shake their heads no, saying they were asked to play and joined just for fun and a little exercise . You advise them not to even think about sliding unless they want a real fucking painful scrape on their thighs in those shorts.

The four of you head back to the group, both teams now congregating near the pitcher's mound. As you approach, you realize very quickly that you, and your new friends, are the center of attention, and that the guy who yelled about you being the only girl on the FD team is none other than the deputy you'd been staking out with Pete: Gator Tillman.

All fifteen of the men present are looking at the four of you, but you feel Gator's eyes locked on you, feel his gaze the heaviest. You pointedly ignore him.

“I'd like to get some duo shots,” Ashton says, gesturing toward both teams as they mill together. “Everyone, please find your counterpart. So, pitcher and pitcher, shortstop and shortstop, et cetera.”

Gator makes a beeline for you. He jerks his chin at you and sizes you up as he approaches.

“I'm not the pitcher,” you say, pointing at Tommy, who's watching all of this—you all saw Gator pitching to his team before.

“Don't care about this guy's fuckin' pictures,” Gator says, and you almost smirk before remembering he's technically the enemy. “Just wanted ta let you know I ain't gonna take it easy on ya 'cause yer a girl.”

You hold his gaze. “Um, did someone tell you to?” you asked, laughing a little.

“Nah, I just know how you ladies tend ta get,” he says. He jerks his thumb back toward Portia and Ebony, who have found their left field and first base buddies. “Them three ain't got no grit.”

“Well, I've been on this team for years,” you say, moving to step around him and to find the other right fielder. “Excuse me.”

“Wait,” Gator says after you, but you ignore him and approach Tommy, who's standing with one of the police officers, a young man—younger than you, he looks fresh out of the academy—who's bright eyed and bushy tailed and looks thrilled to be paired with a woman, toned arms and strong legs and a face that clearly impresses upon him that you take no shit—only supported by the way you dismissed yourself from Gator's presence when probably no one else ever has or ever would do such a thing.

Ashton makes his rounds, yet again, each team thinking up a funny pose—Tommy suggests putting Gator in a headlock, but the deputy absolutely refuses and so they just end up standing side by side, Tommy smiling widely and Gator just scowling at the camera—he truly did not care about Ashton's fucking pictures, he wasn’t lying. You and the other right fielder, a rookie cop by the name of Leon, mug for the camera, your elbow leaning on Leon's shoulder with your head tipped toward his, while he has his arm wrapped around your waist, his hand (inside his glove, of course) resting around your hip. It's cute and cheesy—the way something like that should be, you thought—but as you break apart from him and see the way Gator is still glaring, you just give him a small smile and turn to Leon.

“Hey,” you say, reaching out to tug at the drawstring of his sleeveless hoodie. “Do you wanna practice catching some pop flies? On the off chance one comes to us on game day?” Your eyes flick to Gator as you ask. He absolutely seems like the type to fall for this kind of thing, you blatantly flirtng with someone else in front of him. If you're right about Gator Tillman—and you think you are—it's a good way to get under his skin and keep him thinking about you, but also to throw him off his game even weeks before the first inning.

“Oh, um,” Leon says. “Yeah, ok!” He smiles at you and you head into the outfield, which Ashton loves because it offers him more opportunity for action shots. At this point, you're wondering whether he actually needs all these photos for whatever PR the charity is doing, or if he just likes baseball that much.

Other duos join you out there, and before long it turns into an impromptu scrimmage game. You all collectively decide to just play until someone hits a home run, and the PD and FD teams flip a coin to decide who bats first. When Leon from the PD team makes the correct call, they align themselves into their batting order while Tommy steps up to the mound.

It takes three innings for a home run to happen. Tommy is a great pitcher, but Gator honestly might be better. He strikes out three of the FD players in 12 throws total, sending Lopez, who hadn't even swung at any of his three pitches, back to the bench looking.

The sides switch, and you're third up. You stand outside the dugout, leaning against the chainlink, watching Gator as he takes the mound, turning his hat around backward and nodding to the catcher once he's ready. The FD's first batter, Pete, steps up to the plate. Two pitches in, he gets a hit, but it's actually a pop fly to right field and Leon catches it.

You catch his eye when he looks for you, and you give him a small “Whoo!” and a wink, then turn back to Gator as you step up to take a few practice swings in the area your team has collectively chosen as the “on deck” spot. Gator walks the batter before you, and you're almost surprised—he seemed better than that. Five pitches, four balls—not a great look. But maybe it was just a fluke.

You step up to the plate, eyeing the PD team as they all look back at you, Portia and Ebony waving at you while Miri blows you a kiss, and you just ready your bat, staring down Gator as he looks past you to the catcher. You wait, gripping the bat, ready to swing—or not—at whatever pitch he sends your way. Gator shakes his head once, then twice. He hesitates, then shakes his head again. You're glad he doesn't have sunglasses on, because it makes his expression a little easier to read. He's nervous, or at the very least, unhappy that he walked someone, but then he nods and readies the pitch.

Bracing yourself, you swing—feel the jump of your heart in your chest when the bat connects with the ball, and then grin, so wide your face hurts a little, because it's fucking flying out of the field. You start running toward first base, but you don't really even need to hurry—by your estimation, it's already over the fence. You and Jeff, the guy Gator had walked, both step on home plate and the game is deemed over, even though it was only a few innings.

You gratefully accept the pats on the back from the other firefighters, and then let Miri, Portia, and Ebony pull you in for a group hug, just as Ashton appears again in your periphery.

He looks smug, a smirk plastered on his face, and gestures to you and the other girls.

“Can we take a picture, ladies?” he asks, and the four of you accept, arms draped over each other's hips as you stand in a line, all of you glistening with a little sweat from running and standing in the heavy afternoon sun. Leon catches your eye, but before you can step away toward him, you see Ashton gesturing, beckoning over another player.

“What,” Gator snaps as he approaches the two of you, the three other women on the diamond making themselves scarce. For the first time since you've joined this softball team, you're regretting it.

“I just think a fun little rivalry like yours should be a focus of the game,” Ashton says, and you look at Gator as he looks at you.

“What rivalry?” you ask.

Ashton looks pleased that you questioned it. “Well—how Deputy Tillman was doing perfectly fine pitching until you stepped out of your dugout. And how you were the player who managed to get the home run.”

Looking from Ashton to Gator, you can't help the way the corner of your lips quirk upward.

“I guess that's true,” you say, as Gator spoke over you.

“This was a fuckin' practice game,” he says. “And what the fuck're you tryna say, anyway?” Gator asks, stepping closer to Ashton, even as you try to move in between to block them from each other.

“What do you want, more photos?” you ask, and Ashton looks from Gator to you, then nods.

“If you don't mind,” he says.

“I fuckin' mind,” Gator protests, but you just huff a sigh.

“It's for charity,” you remind him.

“The game is for charity,” Gator corrects you. “This is all just... fluff bullshit.”

“Just a couple pictures?” you ask to Ashton, who nods. “Let's just do it. We're both already here.”

Gator rolls his eyes, grumbling to himself and then turning away, spitting onto the field before he takes a step closer to you. He makes no move to touch you or even really enter your personal space.

“However you like,” Ashton says.

You're the one to close the distance between yourself and Gator, reaching out to put your arm around his waist. You feel him stiffen up, and then he relaxes—which for Gator still feels and looks like he's constipated—and drapes his arm over your shoulders.

Ashton steps back and readies his camera.

“So what makes you so special?” Gator asks you out of the corner of his mouth. His hand moves from your shoulder to your lower back.

You keep the smile on your face. “Excuse me?” you ask, tipping your head a little to the side as Ashton takes another photo.

“First one ta get solo pictures,” Gator says. “Stuck ya right in the middle of yer team.” He lowers his hand from your back to your ass. “Sleep with him?”

You laugh, just as Ashton snaps a photo of the two of you. “Guess I'm just that good.”

Gator also chuckles. “Guess we'll see about that,” he says, giving your ass a little slap before he pulls away from you completely, even as Ashton protests that he wasn't finished yet. “After the game. We'll see.”

You give him a small smile, then turn away, spotting who you're looking for after a moment, and jogging away from Gator, leaving him there unanswered and unhappy.

“Leon!” you shout, making your way over to the rookie. You glance back at Gator as you do, seeing him chatting up Miri now, but he's looking back at you too.

He can talk to whoever he wants—you're both looking at each other, and you both understand what that means.

&&

You blow off Leon, because he served his purpose and, honestly, you don't like cops just by default.

The game is about a week and a half away now, and you spend a lot of your free time when not at work with your girlfriends at the gym and your downtime while you are at work with your team in the grassy yard out behind the firehouse, practicing hitting and fielding. It's what makes you guys the best—the way you refuse to compromise and work your hardest to be the best players that you can be.

The call comes in late one evening, long after your practice is over: A brush fire next to a house out near the outskirts of the city, not sure if it was accidental, campers, kids playing with firecrackers, or what.

There are already police there, no reports of any people nearby other than the house, so you hop into the fire engine and speed off to the address provided. By the time you arrive, it's already getting way too close to the structure, and you get to action.

Hoses, water from the tank, shouting and coordinating while the family steps out of the house to look on, the police officers there making sure that they stay a safe distance away. The trees and bushes from the field are blackened and dead, dripping with water, steam pouring off of the damaged limbs and branches as Lopez steps through the area, making sure there's no embers that will catch and reignite or sparks that might blaze up again.

Thankfully, you don't need to head inside to the house—you got there in time to prevent the fire from spreading, and despite the chill of the spring evening, you're still sweating in your gear, heavy clothing and helmet, though you do take that off once the fire is out.

One of the police officers is talking to the family with Pete, while you stand beside the engine and take a few deep breaths, humming softly at the scent of smoke and dirt permeating the air.

The flashing lights from the fire engine and the police cars nearby are turning everything red-then-blue then back again, but even in the dimness of the moonlight, you're still able to make out his face when he approaches you.

“So ya ain't just a diversity hire,” Gator says, and you sigh in response, but you're amused anyway.

“I'm good at what I do,” you reply.

“Yeah,” Gator says. “Real good at workin' a hose.”

You meet his eyes, and then laugh right in his face. “That's your line?” you ask, positively basking in his scowl. “Jesus, the girls in town always talk you up but fuck, you leave a lot to be desired, Tillman.”

He opens his mouth, looks like he's torn between telling you to fuck off or to let him show you exactly what you should be desiring, but in the end he just clamps his jaw closed.

“Aw, come on,” you say, reaching out to push at his shoulder with your gloved hand, and then you just remove them both, tossing them into the cab seat in the truck behind you. “Don't be like that.”

“Like what?” he says.

“All pissy,” you say. “If you can call me a diversity hire but can't take a little negging, I think maybe you need to grow a pair.”

He scoffs. “I said you ain't a diversity hire.”

“I'm not parsing words with you,” you say, laughing. “You said what you said.” You lean back against the engine and he steps closer, to your side, leaning up on the truck, in a posture you recognize from every guy who's ever hit on you at the bar, or grocery store, or laundromat, or... literally anywhere you go.

“Said what I said but y'ain't hearin' me.”

“No, I think I can read between the lines of your hose comment just fine, Deputy,” you say, but you're still smirking, still laughing, still entertaining this.

“So what d'ya say?” he asks, leaning closer. You're still overwhelmed with the odor of burning wood, but as he leans in you smell leather and metal.

“About what?” You bite your lip to keep from smirking even wider.

“What, that ya need me ta spell out for ya?”

You shake your head once just for good measure. “No,” you say. “I just want to hear you say it.”

Gator, finally, smirks back at you, closing the distance, his hand landing on your waist, sliding into your open uniform coat, and moving straight to your lower back just like the photoshoot last week. He leans in close, and now you catch the hair gel, the cologne, the chewing tobacco he has tucked into his lip. You tip your face up to his as he speaks.

“Yeah?” he asks, and you nod, barely perceptibly. You know that there's not much time—the fire is out, the inspection of the area will be over soon, the family will go back inside and your fellow firefighters will return to the engine to go back to the station, but you don't pull away even when Gator says the most hideously filthy things right to your face.

“Ya wanna hear me say how I'm gonna have ya soakin' my cock wetter'n anything? How I'll finger that tight little gash'a yers until yer cryin' my name?” You inhale sharply, eyes wide, but he doesn't stop, his hand pressing tighter to your back, pulling you closer. You're almost flush against him, but not yet. “Gonna nut straight down yer throat, how's that? Let ya have a taste 'fore ya ride me.”

“Maybe,” you utter, trying to save face, and he laughs, loudly, definitely drawing attention from probably everyone else who's still at the scene.

“Maybe?” he repeats. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe I'll give yer pretty little kitty”—you almost laugh; you should, and you would, if you didn't feel every press of his fingertips like a brand, if you didn't feel your thighs pressing together because you were so stupidly attracted to him you wanted to die of embarrassment—“a second t'breathe 'fore I fit this fat fuckin' dick inside ya 'nd have ya bouncin' on it real nice.”

“Gator,” you manage to scoff, gasping a little as his hand slides down, his fingertips slipping inside the waistband of your pants since he can't very well fondle you through the heavy uniform you've got on.

“You asked, sweets,” Gator says. “Wanted ta hear me say it.” He moves even closer to you, his face right beside you, his cheek practically brushing yours as he whispers, right into your ear, “Wanna hear you too, so how's about it?”

“Deputy,” you hear Lopez' voice say, and just like that he's off you, stepping away, holding up both hands like he's trying to showcase his innocence.

“Captain,” Gator says, nodding to Lopez before turning around to you. “Have a good evening, miss,” he says to you, and the duality of him in that moment makes you turn away and briefly cover your face with your hands

“You good?” Lopez asks. “He giving you a hard time?”

“No,” you squeak out.

“About the game?” Lopez pushes, and you shake your head.

“Don't worry,” you say. “I'm not fraternizing with the enemy.” Not before the game, at least.

Lopez laughs and claps a hand on your shoulder. “Good girl,” he says, squeezing you a little. “Let's head back to the station.”

You climb into the engine and watch as the police cars start to drive away as well, the deputy's leaving last.

Pete leans over. “If he was fucking with you, we'll get him back at the game.”

“I'm fine,” you say, half touched that they care so much to want to protect you, and half annoyed that they think you'd let a guy make unwelcome advances (or otherwise) without standing up for yourself.

“Just another ten days,” Lopez says from the driver's seat. “It'll pass before you know it.”

&&

And they do—well, mostly. The days pass without you seeing hide nor hair of Gator—in person, anyway. You can't speak it aloud, even to your friends, but you replay the conversation, if you can even call it that, to yourself sometimes, at night if you're bored or lonely or, you know. Horny.

You still think he talked a big game that you'd love for him to prove. But you're not about to seek him out three days before the game during which you're hoping to destroy him and his copper friends. Like you'd been hoping since you staked him out—you just hope he won't be too sore a loser to put his money where his mouth is.

The night before the game is scheduled, you head to the gym with your friend Melissa, and, surprisingly, Miri from the PD team. Both of you promised that you weren't going to let the rivalry get between you, and since she doesn't really care about the game other than that it's for charity, it seems like that will actually be the case.

Miri heads straight for the treadmill while you and Melissa head over to the weights—you go for a run on your own time, usually, and get your cardio in that way, so lifting is what you primarily use the gym for.

You're spotting her while she does a set of bench presses, when suddenly you hear a loud wolf whistle and look up, because you hate when men act like dogs at the gym. You're ready to start a fight, honestly, until you realize that Miri is the one who whistled and she was, in fact, whistling at Gator Tillman, who apparently, coincidentally, also decided to work out the night before the game.

And once your eyes fall on him, you see exactly why she whistled at him: He's wearing a muscle tank and a pair of shorts, but not the kind you'd expect to see a guy like him wearing at the gym. They leave most of his legs exposed, and with the slits down the sides of his tank top, you can also see straight into his shirt to his abdomen, his chest.

Gripping the bar Melissa's holding, you help her set it back onto the rack and she sits up, whistling herself, but lower so only you can hear.

“Fancy seeing him here,” she says, and you look down at her. She isn't even looking at Gator—she's looking at you looking at him, and smirking. “He's playing in the game tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” you say absently, and she just sucks her lower lip into her mouth.

“How's his form?” she asks. You give her a look. “What? I see you sizing him up! Either you want him or you already had him.”

“Neither,” you protest, but it's futile—Mel knows you better than anyone. “Ok, well—”

“Already? When?!” she nearly shouts, and you reach your hands out to cover her face, smothering her a little as she laughs and bats your wrists with her palms.

“No, not—Jesus, no. We were just flirting a little,” you say, because that's the only way you can put it without sounding like a harlot.

“Ok, and?”

“And nothing,” you say. “I can't get involved with him, the game is tomorrow. I need to focus—FD needs to win.”

Mel pushes herself up off the bench, gesturing for you to lie down so she can spot you; you do so. “What if you got involved with him to... get in his head before tomorrow?” she suggests, and you look at her upside down, quirking your eyebrow.

“You mean cheat?”

“Nooo,” she says, singsong. “I mean use the assets you have to give yourself an advantage over a disgusting man-pig.”

You both laugh, and before you finish your set, you hear footsteps approaching.

“Oh, hello, Deputy,” Mel says, and you don't let yourself get distracted from your set. You extend your arms, then retract them, three more times before Mel helps you replace the bar.

“Evenin', ladies,” Gator says, and as you sit up, you can see he's not looking at Melissa. He's not really even looking at you—his eyes are fixed on your crotch, the leggings you're wearing clinging to your thighs—and everything between them, surely—and you know it.

“Gator,” you say, figuring that since he's already got you both fantasizing about fucking each other, you're officially on a first name basis for good.

“Mind spottin' me?” he asks you, and Mel only snickers under her breath and just steps away over to the leg press machine, which is far enough away to give you some semblance of privacy but close enough to absolutely eavesdrop, which you fully expect from her and would do too if you were in her position.

“Sure,” you say, sitting up to straddle the bench. “Let me just wipe this down for you.” You stand and step over the bench, and before you can even make a move to grab something to clean the bench, Gator steps astride it and sits down.

“Don't worry ‘bout it, sweets,” he says. “Little sweat never hurt nobody.”

You glance at Melissa, who scoffed at that statement to get your attention and is now making eyes at you, but you just ignore her and round the bench.

“How much more weight d’you want?” you ask, ready to go get some plates for him, assuming he'll want more.

“How much ya got on there?” he asks, turning to look.

“Seventy-five,” you say, and he looks at the weights, then looks at you.

“Double it,” he says, watching as your muscles flex as you lift the weights to secure them on the bar. You spot him, but he lifts it easily, obviously not really needing you, and when you look down at him, you can see he's just watching you as he lifts the weights. “Ready for the game tomorrow?” he asks when you make eye contact.

“Of course,” you say, shifting your weight a little. “Are you ready to lose?”

He chuckles and you help him place the bar back in its resting place. “You talk a big talk, y'know.”

“Yeah, 'cause I can back it up. FD team always wins the charity game.”

“Not this year,” Gator says, and he lifts up to face you, still seated, the bar thankfully between you, because even though he hasn't broken a sweat the way you did, he still looks like he's glowing a little, lit up, his hair loose and half down over his forehead, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief and the freckles on his face so goddamn lickable that you have to look away.

Your eyes land on Mel, and she just shakes her head, mouthing FUCK HIM ALREADY at you. You just barely feel Gator's fingertips graze your thigh and you turn back to him. By the time you look at him again, his hand is already gone.

“Guess we'll see,” you say, echoing his words back to him.

“Guess we will,” he says, stepping away, over the bench, and you stare at his ass and thighs once his back is turned as he walks to the free weights, hands in his pockets.

Thankfully, considering you're in public, that exchange wasn't nearly as heated and blatant as the last one you'd had. You continue with your workout, catching up with Miri as she grabs a smoothie, and it's when you're heading outside to your respective cars you realize—you don't have your phone. You usually stick it in your leggings pocket when you're at the gym, but maybe it fell out. You let Mel and Miri know and wave away their offers to wait for you—you'll just be a second.

They both look like they want to insist, but you insist first: “I'll be fine, I swear. Besides, Nate won't let anything happen to me, right, Nate?” you ask, gesturing to the attendant at the front desk who also doubles as security and the smoothie-maker.

“Right,” Nate says, giving you a thumbs up. “I'll walk you to your car if you want.”

“Fine,” Mel says. “But you text me the second you find it.”

“I swear on Nate's life,” you say, all three of you laughing as Nate pretends to grasp at his heart through his chest.

Miri and Mel head out into the parking lot, and you return to the weights area, where—oh.

Gator is there, seated on the weight bench, leaning back against the bar you’d used earlier. He's got his arms draped over it nonchalantly, and in his right hand you see—your phone.

“I'd thank you but I don't think you deserve it,” you say.

“I don't,” Gator agrees. “Lifted it right outta yer pocket, ya didn't even notice.”

“Why?” you ask.

“Wanted to talk ta ya alone,” he says. “Without yer girl and Miri around.”

You look over your shoulder; it's late. Late enough that the gym has mostly emptied out, just one solitary figure with its back to you on a stationary bike with their headphones on.

“Then talk,” you reply, and he stands up, holding out your phone. You take it and stow it away in your pocket again.

“Honestly... ain't got much t'say after all,” he admits, keeping his face angled down a little but looking straight at you.

And you feel it, again, the little spark, the electricity between you. It's purely physical, you know that, you understand that, and you remember Mel's comment about getting into his head.

Seems like you're already there though.

“So all that just to let me walk away?” you say, holding his gaze even as you smirk.

Where you're standing, you're out of sight of Nate. You know it and he knows it.

“No fuckin' way,” Gator says, and his hands are on your waist before you can register it. You almost pull away, just by virtue of having unknown hands on you, but you give in because your brain wants it and also, more importantly, almost fundamentally more importantly, your body wants it. He tugs you closer by your hips and this time, you do end up right against him, standing as close as you possibly can in the middle of the gym, his hazel eyes fixed on yours, thick lashes half-shrouding his eyes, and you're wrapped up again in him, the smell of sweat and tobacco this time, his rough fingers moving over your skin as they dip into the waistband of your leggings.

“Here?” you ask, and he just snickers.

“I'll take ya anywhere ya wanna go,” he answers, and then his lips are on yours and you give in all over again.

Gator leaves one hand on your lower back, and the other comes up to cup your face. The way he kisses you is a stark contrast to the dirty words he was saying to you the last time you were in this position, his lips soft and slow on yours, tongue barely dipping into your mouth before he pulls back.

“So?” he asks, and shoves his hand a little further down into your leggings, groping your ass before he pulls it out, the waistband riding way too low, and gives you a playful little slap on your ass cheek. The act of it—of everything he just did—leaves you way, way more exposed than you'd ever want, though his hand on you is still thrilling as he rubs the tender flesh he just spanked. The ebb and flow of it make you want to let him take you home, but the way he's playing with your body in public like this pisses you off, and so you step back, fix your leggings with one hand and slap him in the face with the other.

“What the fuck?” he half-shouts, loud enough that you know Nate will come to see what that was about.

“Tomorrow,” you say, stepping backwards, away from him, fighting to keep your expression coy and probably failing—you do want it, after all, just on your own terms. “If your team wins...” You gesture to yourself, your body. “Wherever you want.”

You hear Nate's sneakers squeaking as he rushes around the corner. He's still far enough away not to hear.

“And if your team wins?” Gator asks.

“Guess you'll find out,” you reply, turning on your heel and waving at Nate as you make your way out of the gym, Nate skidding to a stop and following you, walking you out to your car like he promised while Gator just watches, rubbing at his cheek with his palm, grimacing a little.

&&

The sky is a beautiful baby blue, cloudless and clear, sunshine beaming down on the baseball field as the stands fill with fans, donors, police officers, and your fellow firefighters. The crowd's already raucous before the game even starts, as the FD and PD teams practice before the official start time of 11:00AM.

Last you checked, it was just about a quarter to, so you head back to the little clubhouse by the parking lot for a bathroom break beforehand and to refill your water bottle from the fountain.

You pause only to take a selfie in the mirror, waiting to post it in case the unthinkable happens and you don't win the game, and as you head out of the bathroom, you almost walk right into someone.

“Oh, sor—” you start to say, before realizing it's Gator. You back up a step. Look up at him. Suppress the smirk. “Did you follow me in here?”

He looks you up and down instead of answering, and you straighten your jersey even though it isn't askew, flattening it down over the baseball pants you have on. You stand your ground, not shrinking back under his surveying look, or letting him get under your skin the way you presume you've gotten under his.

“Just wanted t'wish ya luck before the game,” Gator says, and you laugh.

“Oh, yeah?” you say, not smirking now but smiling, in a way that says you definitely don't believe him.

“Yeah,” he says, moving closer to you even though you were already pretty damn close. “How 'bout a kiss fer good luck?”

You don't move, and he takes your inaction as permission, leaning down to try and steal a kiss. Just as he's about to let his lips touch yours, you speak.

“You think you deserve one after the shit you pulled last night?”

He stops, pulls away.

“You think it wouldn't getcha another slap in the mouth?”

Gator smirks this time. “Worth the risk.”

“Oh yeah?” you counter.

Instead of saying anything, he just steps right up to you, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body from its proximity to yours, and he kisses you. Like at the gym, it's soft and slow, but it builds quickly, and before you really think about stopping, he's licking into your mouth to deepen the kiss right in the middle of the clubhouse lobby, where anyone could see you. And anyone might, because it's got to be almost 11 by now, the game will be starting any minute, and someone’s bound to come looking for the pair of you.

You just let Gator practically fuck your mouth with his tongue as you suck at it, your tongue moving over his as he kisses you almost savagely, and you manage to get a grip on yourself, your hands on his arms, pushing him back as you step away.

“Yeah,” he answers you, finally, and you look up at him before you just lift your hand and slap him again.

This time, he seems to be ready for it, but he doesn't dodge it, he just takes it like a champ. Though even you'll admit you didn't really put too much force behind it.

Gator just chuckles quietly. “Gonna make me start assumin' that's just foreplay t'you, sweets.”

You laugh and step around him, and he lets you go. At the door, you stop and turn to look at him; he's still standing there, watching you. “You coming?” you ask, holding the door open.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, walking over to you. “Just got used t'you walkin' away from me mid-conversation.”

You roll your eyes, but together you leave the clubhouse and approach the field to thunderous applause. You made a point to avoid any of the publicity stuff that Ashton had provided the photos for, but you heard from Miri and Pete that they were very heavily pitting you and Gator against each other for some reason. Stupid, you thought, but hopefully making you two seem like you were going to antagonize each other made more people take notice of the game and donate for the winner's charity.

When you walk around the side of the stands with Gator—not that you were even that close together, and he was a couple steps behind you—the crowd notices. The cheering increases in volume, and you almost have to laugh, because these people are acting like you're a legitimate softball star with an actual rival. You'd gotten decent attention from the crowd in years past, but not like this.

You chance a look back at Gator, who looks thoroughly miserable at being the center of attention. He'd hated having his photo taken, so it stands to reason that he would hate being watched by so many people too. Part of you hopes he'll choke on the mound; the other part hopes he doesn't, because you want to win fair and square, not by using your tits (thanks Mel!) or his nerves to your advantage.

The PD team is up at bat first, and you watch as they line up back into their dugout as your team takes to the field and the first couple of batters emerge, one to home plate, and one to the on deck circle.

All of the police officers are wearing brown t-shirts which you figure are supposed to be their “uniforms”—they all say Stark County Police on the back in lieu of a name or number, like the FD jerseys you're all wearing. It seems either the deputies missed the memo or weren't given any shirts, because they're all wearing mismatched clothing. Gator in a white t-shirt, the sleeves short enough to show off the tattoo on his left forearm and the barbed-wire lettering on his right; the other two deputies have on a New York Yankees jersey (Jeter; you roll your eyes), and a camouflage shirt. They couldn't even bother to look professional, cohesive; if that's how the day is going to start, you hope it's a sign of how it will end too.

Gator and Tommy are both on one in the first few innings alone. Gator is striking out batters left and right, and Tommy only lets up one hit which ends in an out as Jeff dives to catch it.

By the 9th inning, though, both teams have scored some runs, and it's 3-2 in favor of the police department. There are three batters ahead of you: Lopez, Donnie, and Jeff. If any one of them can just get himself onto a fucking base, you know for sure you can drive in two runs. And after that, it's game over. The FD team gets last licks, and you're known for making sure the game ends in a win.

You slink out of the dugout to watch the game without a chainlink fence in your way, leaning back against it from the outside, eyeing Gator, watching as Lopez heads to the plate, taking in the scene as Gator spins the ball in his hand. He happens to glance to his left and his eyes fall on you for just a second; he turns quickly back to the catcher. He shakes his head, shakes his head, shakes his head, then nods.

Lopez catches the first pitch square on his bat and takes off like a rocket. It bounces somewhere in the outfield and then it's sailing on its way to second base, thrown there by the left fielder. Lopez stays put on first.

Donnie takes his place in the batter's box while Jeff takes a few practice swings off to the side. Gator throws two strikes, and Donnie hits two foul balls before the fifth pitch is thrown, and then he manages to hit another single.

Jeff is up now, and then you. You take Jeff's place on deck, while he squares up with Gator. In a move that you should have expected but are amused by anyway, Jeff bunts and it's clear that Gator and the other infielders are not expecting it. Jeff laughs as he sprints to first base, moving Lopez to third and Donnie to second.

Bases loaded.

You're up.

As you step up to the plate, you can already feel the adrenaline coursing through you, excitement making you half-giddy. No outs, three men on. Facing the guy who you're pretty sure is fucking up consistently because of you. You just have to hope you don't fuck up because of him, too.

You settle into your stance and wait for Gator to ready himself for the first pitch. It goes wide, you think, but they call it a strike. You straighten, look to Lopez for assistance or a second opinion, but he just waves it off. So he agrees—strike.

Fine.

You raise the bat again, and this time, at the second pitch, you swing—and miss. You hear the umpire call it a strike, and you even see Gator clench his hand into a fist and thump it against his chest like he's hyping himself up for what could very well be his final pitch to you.

This is not good, but you can't focus on that, can't do anything other than hit that goddamn fucking ball.

You watch Gator, staring straight at him, as he shakes his head at the catcher, then nods. The third pitch—the potential third strike—is coming.

Gator throws.

You swing.

It connects.

Right away, from the resounding crack and the hush that falls over the crowd, you can tell. You know. It's a home run. A grand slam. Four runs batted in in the bottom of the 9th. Game over. You won. You won.

Lopez, Donnie, Jeff, and the rest of the FD squad are waiting for you at home plate when you hop onto it with both feet, and then you're surrounded by men, all hooting and hollering and smothering you with hugs and slaps on the back. You lose your Twins hat as they hoist you up on top of them, eight firefighters holding you up to crowdsurf you along the first base line.

You're still buzzing, still thrilling from the grand slam and the win and the sheer contagious excited energy of your teammates—and then you see Gator.

He's not on the pitcher's mound anymore; he's over near the dugout with Miri, sucking on a vape and blowing the smoke up and away from her. He's watching the spectacle of you being venerated by your team, by the crowd—hell, even by his team a little—and when he catches you looking, he offers Miri the vape and she takes it, grinning up at him. But he's not paying her any attention; he's watching for your reaction.

Like you'll be jealous.

Please.

You ignore the slight pull in your stomach and just throw your arms up into the air, losing yourself to the victory and the roar from the stands.

&&

The entire crew plus countless others—both teams, along with a bunch of volunteer firefighters, off-duty cops, and family members—are supposed to meet up at the local bar later that evening after the game for food and drinks.

You're definitely going; you want to, plus you promised Miri, Ebony, and Portia you'd show face, and Mel wanted to meet you there to celebrate too. Or to watch what happens with Gator, though she denies that one up and down.

When you arrive, freshly showered and dolled up in a sleeveless dress that shows off your arms and your legs, you can see right away that it's all-around good fun, revelry of the highest order. You're not the only one who went home and got cleaned up—you can see Portia's hair is freshly straightened, Ebony is wearing an adorable technicolor romper, and Miri has on a full face of makeup. You arrive the bar, linking arms with Mel in the parking lot, who drove separately from you because, as she put it, “Either of you could meet someone” and then gave you an exaggerated wink.

You know better than to rise to the comment, and so you just ignore her, walking in to the wall of sound emanating from the sheer number of people—even if they were all speaking at normal volume, it would have still been staggeringly loud. As it is, people are yelling, laughing, singing along to the jukebox, and all of it's spurred on by alcohol, so it's at least twice as loud as it should be. The trio of your new police officer friends rush over to you right away, drinks already in hand, and you make your way over to the bar to procure your own libations. You do a round of shots, and as you swallow the mouthful of liquor, letting the glass thunk hollowly on the bar as you put it down, you turn and spot Gator leaning against the opposite wall, pint glass in his hand, eyes directly on you, ignoring whatever Leon is yapping away about at his side.

It's a little too early in the evening to entertain leaving with him just yet, but you tuck him away into the corner of your mind for later. There's no music to dance to—not that kind of bar, really—but the jukebox is stocked with classic rock hits and when you crowd around it with Miri and Mel, you flip through the records until you find a track by Heart and immediately select it, then queue up another by the Stones (Mel) and then Blondie (Miri) for good measure. Ebony and Portia are waiting for you when you return to the bar, and the five of you chat about the game and the charity and work. Portia is pulled away barely ten minutes later by Jeff (you give her a nod, because he's a good guy), and Ebony decides she's hungry and wanders away to the opposite end of the bar to order food.

Miri orders a second round of shots for the three of you, and just as you're about to knock yours back, you feel a presence at your elbow. You ignore him and just drink the liquor, smacking your lips before you turn to Gator—

Except it's not Gator, it's Leon.

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, and you can tell he's trying to keep it cool. Mel snickers behind you, while Miri looks on, biting her lips together from the inside. “You killed it in the game today.”

“Ah, thanks.” You smile at him and over his shoulder, you notice someone sidle up to the jukebox, flipping through the song selections, but he's looking back at you too often to really be subtle. That, of course, is where Gator got to. He's smirking at you, like this is all his doing.

“—a drink?”

“What?” you ask, looking up at Leon, whose smile falters a little. Behind you, you hear Mel laugh quietly even with all of the other ambient noise.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Leon asks, and you open your mouth to decline.

“She's sober,” Mel says, interrupting, like he didn't just see you doing a shot. “But I'd love one.”

Leon looks from you to her and back again, questioning. You nod, then shake your head. “No—I'm not sober, but, um, Mel's a lot more fun than me.”

“You... sure?” Leon asks, but he's taking in Mel's smile, her toned arms, the way she's stepping around you to get to him.

“I'm gonna go find Ebony,” Miri says, clapping her hand onto your shoulder, and then she's gone. Leon orders two drinks.

“You really did, um,” Leon says, turning back around with a glass of some amber liquid, neat, while Mel pulls the little umbrella out of her cocktail and tucks it behind her ear, “do well in the game today.”

“Thank you,” you say, smiling, and then giving Mel a look.

“I just saved your ass,” she mutters into your ear, pulling you in for a hug, giving you a kiss on the cheek, and then a pinch on the ass. “Have fun with the deputy!”

“Shut up!” you call after her, but she's already gone, her arm curled around Leon's, and you turn back to look for Gator at the jukebox at the same moment he steps right into your personal space, startling you. You jump a little and steady yourself against the bar, muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

“Lovin' all the attention?” he drawls, and you look up at him, taking him in from close up now. He's got a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, and you don't detect the scent of chewing tobacco or leather clinging to him—no, now you smell a musky, deep cologne and mint mingling with beer. His hair is loose, falling just a little over his forehead, and as your eyes move over his face, he smirks, flicking the toothpick to the other side of his mouth with his tongue.

“Oh, yeah,” you say, pulling your gaze away from him and turning to the bar, signaling to the guy tending it that you want to order something. “It's what I live for.”

“Well, when ya hit a grand slam in the bottom'a the ninth... wha'd'ya expect?” Gator asks, leaning on the bar beside you, both elbows on the wood.

You scoff. “I don't know. It feels a lot different this year,” you admit.

“Why's that?”

You look at him, opening your mouth just as the bartender approaches, and you order a vodka cranberry. You look at Gator who asks for whatever's cheapest on tap, then looks at you expectantly.

“No one made such a big deal out of it before,” you say. “Last year, or... before that. I think it's 'cause they really played up... me and you.”

Gator smirks. “Oh yeah?”

You roll your eyes. “Not 'me and you' like that,” you say. “I just mean... the photos of us, and the story of what happened at the practice game. And... what happened today.”

“Yeah...” Gator says, his voice trailing off as he takes the glass of beer from the bartender, eyeing your glass as it's plunked down in front of you. “Choked.”

Sipping your drink, you look at him out of the corner of your eyes, waiting for him to elaborate. He doesn't. “Yeah, what happened?” you ask.

Gator scoffs. “Nothin',” he says. “Just choked.”

The drink is sweet and tart on your tongue as you lean over to him. “Thinking too much about me to focus?”

“You fuckin' wish,” Gator snaps, but there's no real bite in it.

“Shouldn't've kissed me before the game, Tillman,” you say. “Probably had a boner for all nine innings.”

“Jesus Christ, are we 12? A boner?” He huffs, disgusted, at you, then lifts his hand to pluck the toothpick from his mouth, and takes a long swig of his beer.

“What would you call it?” you ask.

“I wouldn't call it nothin', 'cause I didn't have one.”

“Have what?” You snicker a little. “Wanna hear you say it. Have what?”

“I didn't have a fuckin' boner, Christ. Lay off, woman.”

“From sweets to woman,” you say, raising your eyebrows as you sip your drink. “I see how it is. That why you sent Leon over? Tired of me?”

Gator laughs. “Nah. Just thought it'd be funny.”

“Funny to ruin your own chances?”

He looks at you then, sidelong and impudent. “Please. Y'know that kid wouldn't shut the fuck up aboutcha. What the hell happened?”

You bite your lip, because you both know why he's here. You both know why you're talking to him. You just have to decide how much you want to divulge.

“My friend Mel scooped him up.”

“Why's that?” Gator asks.

You shrug, but his eyes fix on you, looking like amber in the dim lights of the bar, and you're entirely unable to keep your mouth shut. “She wants me to hook up with you.”

Gator laughs at that, a genuine belly laugh that has him grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners, greatly amused. “I think you want you to hook up with me,” he says. “Speakin' of, your team won, 'nd I'm itchin' t'find out what that means.”

“Me too,” you admit, and he pushes off the bar to face you. He takes you in, a smirk playing at his lips as he takes another drink of beer—you mimic him, sip your cocktail—and then he puts the mostly-empty glass down on the bar.

“Well,” Gator says. “We got all night, sweets. How 'bout a little fun?”

You tip your head to the side, shrugging in a way you hope reads as coy, and follow him, still clinging to your glass.

A little fun, apparently, means heading over to the heavily populated area of the bar that contains the pool table and dartboard. You notice a handful of men circled around the pool table so Gator veers toward the dartboard, mostly because it's less crowded and not currently in use.

“Know how ta play?” he asks, and you shrug. He suppresses a smirk; you absolutely catch it. “All right. I'll take it easy on ya—let's just see who can score highest after a couple rounds.” He steps over to the board, grabbing six total darts, and hands you three.

“Ladies first,” Gator says, and you shake your head again.

“Show me how it's done,” you suggest, and he takes the bait, sticking the toothpick back into his mouth—you force yourself to avoid looking at his lips—and lining up a throw. He measures it out, taking his time, and his first shot lands and he gains 20 points. The other two net him a total of 43 points which brings him to 63 total.

“Nice,” you say, taking his spot as he grabs his darts from the board and stands off to the side. His gaze weighs heavy on you as he steps to the side, watching as you attempt to copy his posture and stance, and your first dart lands in one of the triple rings. “How many is that?”

Gator sucks the inside of his cheek. “Fifty-seven,” he says.

You grin at him and make your next two throws. Carefully, carefully... you gain another 13 points.

“First shot a fluke?” he asks, an edge to his voice.

“Beginner's luck,” you chirp.

“Mm,” he hums, flicking the toothpick with his tongue.

His second round ups his score to 137, one of his darts landing in the triple ring as well, and the other two in the double ring.

This time, when you trade places with him, you feel him scrutinizing you; there are other eyes on you now, too, police and firefighters alike watching. Some of them know what's going on and it's not the police.

You toss the first dart at the board and cock your head to the side when it lands in a spot that only gets you 6 points. “Darn.”

“Uh huh,” Gator says, because now he sees your fellow firefighters behind you snickering and nudging each other—you wish that they had even a pinch of subtlety—and you use your next two throws to just give it up, because there's no way you could keep pretending after this.

Your second throw lands in the triple ring directly above the bullseye: 60 points.

And for good measure, you make sure your last throw lands in the dead center of the board. Bullseye. Only 50 points, but enough to take you to 180 total.

You feel the hands of your colleagues on your arms, razzing you, laughing and hyping you up, as you make eye contact with Gator. You open your mouth to speak as the group of firemen leave you, but he cuts you off.

“You hustlin' me?” Gator asks.

“No...” you say, not quite able to suppress the giggle. “We didn't bet anything.”

He steps closer to the board, stabbing the three darts he's holding into it, and then approaches you.

“You were hustlin' me,” he says, and this time it's not a question.

“So I know how to play darts,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Gonna arrest me, Deputy?”

“Fuckin' should,” Gator says, once again crowding you, stepping right up into your space, and maybe it was the shots and the drink, lowering your inhibitions just enough to allow it even in public, just enough to not care that there could be any number of eyes on you, your colleagues and Mel and Leon and strangers—you let Gator put his hands on your waist and pull your front against his, his lips trailing over yours as you gasp a little, because he's got you up against the now-unused pool table, your ass on the edge of it as he boxes you in.

“You wouldn't,” you say against his lips, resisting the urge to hop up onto the pool table and let him step in between your thighs, even though the heat coiling in your belly really, really wants you to.

“Don't test me, sweets,” he says, and you laugh against his lips; your amusement lingers as he does kiss you, and his hands squeeze your ass through your skirt before someone behind you wolf whistles. Gator is unfazed by it, but you turn away, starting with your face and then your body, twisting yourself out of his hold. You blearily look around to maybe see who whistled at you—your eyes fall on Lopez who's laughing, but he turns back to the bar, giving you as much privacy as you can get in a crowded room, and you rest your palm on the pool table, fingertips skimming over the felt as you round its corner, now standing on the side perpendicular to Gator.

“You play pool?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Gator says, moving a few steps forward, like he wants to follow you but knows nothing can really come of it when you're still in the bar.

“Better than you play darts?” Your hand curls around the 8-ball.

Gator scowls at you, but then snickers—he'll give you that jibe, because it's kind of funny in a catty way. “Yeah, actually.” He follows you around to your side of the table, reaching for the rack to set the balls out on the table. “You?”

“Not a clue,” you reply. “For real, I swear.”

He racks the balls, gesturing for you to roll the 8 over to him, and you do. He settles it into the center of the triangle then grabs a cue and hands it to you, placing the cue ball.

“Break 'em,” Gator says, and you study the set up on the table, then lean over it and line up the cue with the ball at the point of the triangle. You hit the cue ball and watch as they scatter over the table—and then as the cue ball rolls right into one of the side pockets, scratching right out of the gate.

You laugh, and Gator groans behind you.

“That was so bad I almost think yer fuckin' with me again,” he says.

“There's no way I could have done that on purpose,” you retort, and he just gives you a look, reaching into the pocket for the cue ball.

“Get over here,” he says, putting the ball back on the table. “C'mon, let's try to sink the 5,” he says, pointing to the solid orange ball, precariously close to one of the corner pockets. “C'mere.”

Moving over to him, Gator steps back to let you lean over the table, and as you do, his hands end up back on your hips. You turn back to look at him, but his only response is to wink at you, toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, curved up into a smirk, and then he leans over you, your back tucked against his front, his hands sliding down your arms to guide you.

“Everyone can see us,” you mutter, as he jerks his hips against your ass just enough for you to know he's doing it on purpose.

“And?” Gator asks. “I'm teachin’ ya how t'play pool. Perfectly normal behavior fer a bar.”

You fall silent, letting him adjust your arms, your posture. One of his hands slides off of your arm and moves beneath your front, pressing against your stomach just beneath your breasts. Your breath catches, but he doesn't move it further. He just holds it there, holding you against him.

“Take the shot,” he says, and you move your arm with his—he keeps your elbow steady as you draw back, and when you hit the cue ball, it shoots into the 5 and you sink it right into the corner like he'd called for. The cue ball spins safely away from the pocket.

“Ok,” you say, grinning, expecting him to move off of you. And he does—but not before moving his hand from your stomach to your chest, surreptitiously squeezing one of your tits before he pulls back.

Without missing a beat, you straighten up, spin around, and slap him right on the cheek.

You hear several bar patrons whoop and whistle—a few even applaud, because you know they witnessed the way he was slathering himself all over you, even if they didn't see him cop a feel—but Gator just chuckles.

Leaning in, his breath warm on your cheek, you hear the laugh lingering in his words. “Must be doin' somethin' right if that's the treatment yer givin' me.”

He takes the cue stick right out of your hand.

“Gonna sink 10 in 'at side pocket, there,” he says, using the end of the cue to indicate which one he means, and then he artfully does exactly what he said as you watch, desire clouding your mind. He's such a cocky asshole, but that doesn't change how strongly you feel about getting him on top of you. Or under you. Or next to you. Whatever works.

“Gonna trounce me?” you ask, and he meets your eye, smirking.

“At pool, or...?” he counters.

“No,” you say, stepping away from the pool table, watching as he looks you up and down. “Don't think I'm much of a billiards girl.”

“Well, I ain't much of a darts girl,” Gator says, making you snicker. “So I think we exhausted our options.”

“Well, there's food. And alcohol,” you say, gesturing to the bar. You can see Miri and Ebony seated at the far end, while Mel and Leon are off in a corner, actually still chatting. Maybe in addition to helping you out, she's actually doing something for herself too.

“You hungry?” Gator asks.

You bite your lip. “Kinda.”

“Well,” Gator says. “When yer the softball MVP and a covert darts pro, I guess ya work up an appetite.”

“Oh my god,” you say, hitting his arm. “Shut up.”

“Nah, you like it,” Gator says dismissively, tossing the cue back onto the pool table, still littered with billiard balls. It knocks some of them out of place, the sound of wood clunking against the resin as you walk away. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, leading you back to the bar. You end up right next to Miri and Ebony, who give you knowing looks.

“Well, hi,” Miri says, raising her eyebrows at you.

“Hey guys,” you greet them, as Gator tries to catch the bartender's attention.

“Is this an impromptu date?” Ebony asks.

“No,” you say, hoping he's not listening.

“No?” Miri repeats. “Looks like a date.”

“It's not a date,” you say. “We're just...messing around.”

“You slapped him,” Miri says.

Before you can respond, Gator leans into you, his front against your back again. “That was foreplay.”

Miri gasps and Ebony shrieks out a laugh, and you elbow him in the ribs as he just laughs too.

“It was not,” you try to say, but Gator is nodding at the others, and Miri is coughing, trying to compose herself, and then the bartender's there with a small, cardstock menu for you to look at and you just absently order a burger and fries without even looking at it. Wanting to fuck Gator has been a net positive (your team won the game) but it's also proving itself to be a lot more trouble than its worth (you are, indeed, on an impromptu date with him at a bar, and pretty much everyone you see on a daily basis is bearing witness to it happening).

“I'll have the same,” Gator says to the bartender, handing him back the menu, and you realize that now you have to stand here even longer with the guy you're totally on a date-not-date with and two relatively new friends who you theoretically could ghost after this. Which would be totally fine, until Mel pops up beside you with Leon in tow.

“You guys getting food?” she asks, and you nod only because you can't lie to Mel. She always knows.

Gator is the one who speaks. “Yeah,” he says. “She's been working up an appetite fuckin' with me all goddamn day.”

“Hey!” you say, hitting him on the arm again, and he just laughs, stepping out of the small throng of people and over to a clear area of the bar to order a drink. It's less crowded than it was when you first arrived—many of the firefighters and police officers have left, along with their friends and family, so now most of the people in the bar are just regular patrons or townies. He leans over the bar, and you turn to Mel.

“Bathroom,” she says to you, hooking her arm in yours and leading you away from the little bubble of people surrounding you. Once you step through the door, it's immediately cooler and brighter, the air less stuffy even though it smells like disinfectant and dirty mop water.

“What?” you ask, and she steps closer to you in case any of the stalls are occupied.

“So things seem to be going well,” she says, voice low, smirk on her lips.

“I guess so,” you say, and she grins a little, wiggling her eyebrow at you.

“You're so in.” She squeezes your arm. “First the gym, and then the game, and now whatever the hell you guys have going on right now.” She sighs wistfully. “I'm such a good matchmaker.”

“You? You did nothing!” you insist, but she speaks over you, her voice staying quiet in the stillness of the bathroom. Behind you, a toilet flushes and you hear the rattle of the paper roll.

“Excuse me,” she says, “I put the whole idea into your head at the gym.”

“No you didn't, and it's not like that,” you say, and she pauses. “I didn't—use my 'assets' or whatever you said.”

The stall door opens and you push Mel back, away from the sinks, as the woman washes her hands. Mel waits to reply until she leaves.

“Ok...” she says, nodding. “Ok. Well, you know what to text me if you need me to come get you.”

“I have my own car,” you say.

“Then I expect a full rundown tomorrow morning,” she says, reaching out to fix your hair, then wiping a stray eyelash off your cheek. “Over coffee?”

“We'll see what time I wake up,” you quip, and she squeals, squeezing your arms as the door opens behind her and Ebony walks in with Miri.

“Oh, did we miss some girl talk?” Miri asks.

“Sorry,” you say, while Ebony just winks at you as you pass the two of them on the way out.

When you return to the bar, Gator and Leon are sitting on stools, far apart—there are two empty spots between them, and you take the one beside Gator while Mel hops up beside Leon. You watch as she places her hand on his thigh as soon as she settles down.

You turn to Gator just as he sips his beer, and once you're seated, he slides you a second vodka cranberry, which he taps with his beer glass as soon as you pick it up.

“Cheers,” he mutters, and you smirk before you sip the cocktail.

“To what?” you ask.

Gator leans in closer to you, his elbow against yours on the bar, his lips brushing your ear.

“To wherever the night takes us, sweets.”

He tilts his head a little to the side, and you feel the rush in your belly as you realize that he's going to kiss you, without any antagonizing or even any playfulness, any banter—but before he can, two plates are set down before each of you with a clatter. You spring apart, and without waiting for you to even survey your meal, Mel is already picking at your fries.

“Melissa, I swear to god,” you say, grabbing her wrist, even as she artfully plucks the fry out of her left hand with her right and bites it in half.

Beside you, Gator is laughing, picking up his burger, and Leon is watching, amused.

“You know, um, Mel, I can—get you some fries,” Leon says, and she just looks at him the way someone would look at a lost puppy.

“I don't actually want fries,” she says, and you move your plate a little away from her since she's distracted. “I just like ruining my best friend's night.”

“She's really good at it,” you say, leaning forward to look at Leon around Mel, then turn your bar stool toward Gator a little more. He's eating quietly, not watching you intently but keeping an eye on you. You both work at clearing your plates in silence, and once half of your burger is gone and you've stopped barring Mel from taking your fries, you shift on your stool to face Gator. Once you do, he sips his beer and clears his throat after he swallows.

“So,” he begins, “thought any more 'bout yer prize fer winnin' the game?”

You pick up one of his fries and pop it into your mouth, shrugging a little. “Maybe.”

“Feel like' enlightenin' me?” he asks.

“No,” you reply, and he just chuckles to himself, taking another bite of food and smirking as he chews. “Yer real fuckin' funny, y'know that?”

“Why?” you ask, taking a bite of your burger and looking at him with your eyebrows raised, waiting for him to explain.

Gator lifts his hand to rub at his mouth, his chin, before his cheek, and your eyes trail over the freckles on that side of his face. “Think yer bein' real slick actin' like this ain't gonna end the way we both know it's gonna end.” He picks a fry off his plate and holds it out to you, intending to feed it to you. You hesitate, hoping that Mel isn't seeing this happen, but you open your mouth and let him feed you the French fry. You close your lips, but his hand lingers there, his index finger tracing over your lower lip. It isn't particularly sexy, but you also know that he didn't really mean for it to be. He just moves his fingertip over your lip, then his hand over your cheek to thread his hand through the hair at the side of your head, the nape of your neck, and as he leans in, you move closer to him too. He doesn't kiss you, but his breath is warm on your cheek as he speaks, just low enough that you can still hear him in the din of the bar interior.

“Wanna head outside fer a smoke?”

“I'm a firefighter,” you joke, turning toward him and letting your lips just barely move over the two prominent freckles you'd focused on earlier. “Kind of anti-smoke by default.”

Gator laughs, pulling back from you, dropping his hand from the nape of your neck down to your thigh, letting it slip between your legs and disappear under your skirt. He's letting it rest on your inner thigh, but not trying to move too high up over your bare skin. You squeeze your legs together, feeling yourself react to his touch, feeling yourself clench up but you manage to save face.

“I ain't a real smoker,” he says, using his free hand to reach into his pocket and pull out the lime green vape you'd seen him sharing with Miri at the photo shoot. “So this ain't real smoke.”

“Guess you got me,” you say.

“Guess I do,” Gator retorts, sliding his hand back down to your knee as he steps off of the bar stool, pocketing the vape again and pulling out his wallet instead, tossing a few folded bills onto the bar to cover your food and drinks. “Need ta tell yer girly we're headin' out?”

“We're—leaving?” you ask.

Gator sniffs, then huffs a laugh through his nose. “Hey, this is yer show, I guess—yer callin' the shots. I'm headin' outside real quick, though.”

“Ok, wait, I'll—I'll come.”

“Sure fuckin' will,” you think you hear Gator say, but you ignore the warmth rushing to your cheeks as you also hop off your stool, then press yourself up against Mel's back and hook your chin over her shoulder.

“Babe, I'm going outside real quick,” you say, and she just nods, reaching behind herself to squeeze your hip.

“Text me,” she says, a reminder, and when you pull back from her, when you turn back around, you see Gator's still standing there, waiting for you, a faint smile curving his lips up at the corners and despite yourself, you feel a little tightness in your chest because you wouldn't have expected that kind of thing from him. Waiting for you, watching for you, reaching out toward you when you step closer—not to take your hand, but to lay his palm on your lower back as you walk together toward the door, the gesture possessive but still charming.

When you reach the door, he pushes it open but lets you step out first, not guiding you with his hand as much as just keeping contact with you in some way, and then you're out in the cool spring evening, a complete breath of fresh air after the hot, stuffy interior of the bar.

There are a few other people smoking outside beneath the darkening blue sky, the streetlights not on just yet so the whole parking lot feels a little bit dangerous, a little bit like somewhere you shouldn't be, but you still follow as Gator leads you around the side of the building, his boots scuffing over the blacktop. He leans his back against the side of the building, removing the vape from his pocket again and lifts it to his mouth. The blue light on the end blinks on as he inhales, and you watch as he lowers it, holding his breath for a long moment before he offers the vape to you.

You take it as he exhales, the cloud obscuring his face. You suck at the vape, not drawing off of it nearly as long as he did or holding it as long. It's cherry menthol, you think, which explains where the scent of mint clinging to Gator earlier came from.

“Tastes like shit,” you say, exhaling the vapor as a little puff with each word, pursing your lips and blowing the rest out in one final stream.

“Well, I'm real sorry 'bout that, princess,” Gator says, reaching out for the vape. “When you start buyin' my shit fer me, you can pick the flavor, how's'at sound?”

You hand him the vape, knowing he's joking, but you can't help playing along. You step closer, leaning your shoulder against the wall to face him even as he's facing out into the lot, taking another pull.

“Maybe I just need another taste,” you say, reaching up as he lowers his hand from his mouth.

He attempts to pass it over, but you cup his face instead, turning it toward you. He follows with his body, shifting so he's no longer perpendicular to you and instead facing you properly, and you lean up to press your lips to his before he can exhale.

As his lips part against yours, you breathe in the cool vapor he breathes out, letting your tongue move against his as you kiss him. It's slow and lazy, one hand still clinging to his vape, the other moving to your lower back. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as you press yourself flush against him, and he deepens the kiss, licking further into your mouth, as you feel his hand creep down over your skirt, and then—you should have expected this—pull the hem up and grope your ass through the flimsy panties you have on. He's got your ass fully out, just like at the gym, but this time, you're in a parking lot and you don't think you care.

He's positively pawing at it, and you feel him shove the vape back in his pocket so he can get his other hand on your waist, though it doesn't stay there long. You pull away from him just enough to bite at his lower lip, drawing it into your mouth to suck at it as he trails his tongue over the cupid's bow of your upper lip, kissing you there while his hand moves from your waist to your lower back, holding you tight against him.

You sigh softly into his mouth and then he's muttering your name, and that, for some reason, affects you more than you thought it might. You lean further into him, hands moving to his shoulders; one stays there, the other moves to his neck, cupping the underside of his jaw as you lick into his mouth again, tongues sliding together.

Gator's hand moves over your ass, giving it a sharp little slap—you startle, pressing your front even harder against his, and you feel him smirk against your mouth even as you're kissing him—and then he's yanking your skirt up even further, his hand sliding into your underwear to touch you skin-to-skin. You whine his name and lower your hand from his shoulder to his front, feeling his chest through his t-shirt, before lowering it further to try and untuck it from his jeans.

“Ah,” he breaks the kiss, pulling away and grabbing your wrist to stop you, though he doesn't pull his hand out of your panties. “Nuh-uh. Little overeager, y'think?”

“You should talk,” you counter, trying for one more kiss, licking over the seam of his lips, but he holds your wrist tightly with his hand, then retracts the other away from your ass and takes hold of your other wrist, pulling both of your hands away from him.

“Enough'a that,” he says, and he kisses you one more time, the bastard. He keeps a hold of your arms.

“Thought I was callin' the shots?” you question him.

Gator snickers. “Might be able ta get away with plenty'a shit in this town,” he says, “but I don't think even I could get away with fuckin' ya in public, sweets, sorry ta disappoint.”

You struggle a little against his hold, and he smirks down at you.

“Relax,” he says, releasing your wrists. He steps back from you and plucks his vape from his pocket again, offering it to you—you decline—and takes one last draw before putting it back. “So, tell me,” he continues, “where ya takin' me?” As he speaks, his words are clouded with cherry menthol and he tilts his head back to blow it fully out of his lungs as he waits for your answer.

“Your place?” you ask, and he just clears his throat, shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says. “Too much fuckin' goin' on over there. My old man, the twins...fuckin' horses...”

Your mouth twitches into a half-smirk, but you dial it back. “Guess your car's off limits?” you suggest.

Gator laughs. “My car ain't conducive t'all the shit I wanna do t'you,” he says, reaching out to put his hand on your waist, sliding it down to your hip. “Ain't just foldin' y'up in my backseat 'nd callin' it a day.” He lifts his hand to card his fingers through your hair then, not pulling you in for a kiss or trying to get you to press yourself against him again; it seems like he's doing it just to keep touching you. “Y'got a roommate?”

“No,” you reply, and he drops his hand to your shoulder, fidgeting with the collar of your dress.

“Solves that, then,” he says. “My truck's right over there.” He nods his chin toward a pickup; you turn to look.

“I drove myself here,” you say. “Follow me?”

Gator smirks, and you get the impression that he's trying to contain how thrilled he actually is that he's going home with you, even if it's just to get his dick wet. He nods, then asks, “Lemme guess, you drive a cute lil' two-door somethin'-’r-other? Maybe a hatchback?”

You laugh. “Not quite.”

“Volkswagen Beetle. With a lil' flower in the dash,” Gator guesses, following as you begin to wend your way through the parked cars, stopping beside a white and red classic Ford pickup.

“Close,” you say, pulling your keys out of your shoulder bag, unlocking the pickup, and hopping up into it as Gator watches you, jaw dropped.

“This is yer car?” he asks, and you close the door, roll the window down, and lean your elbow onto it to tip your head as you rest your cheek on your hand.

“Just like yours,” you say—his Ford F-150 was just a little more modern. “Got a good, what...forty years on it, though, I'd guess.”

He just watches as you start the engine, slapping your hand on the dashboard to get the radio to start playing.

“Damn thing always gives me trouble,” you mutter, as it finally starts transmitting a warbling classic rock song. “Anyway.” You look over at Gator. “You're gonna follow me?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, nodding, staring at you in the classic truck.

“Hey, Tillman,” you say, snapping your fingers in front of his face to make him look up at you. “Don't be jealous that my truck's nicer than yours, ok? I got a whole squad of guys who think they know more than me about cars who love to beg me to see under the hood. Not really a fair competition on your end.”

“I ain't jealous,” Gator says.

“Your drool says otherwise,” you quip, then reach out of your truck to tug him closer to you by his collar. “If you play nice tonight, I'll let you look under the hood tomorrow too, how's that sound?” You have no idea why you're making promises to him that sound long term, when this is clearly going to be a one time thing based solely on physical attraction; you're not going to get your hopes up that he'll even be there when you wake up tomorrow morning, much less that he'll stick around long enough to even look twice at your truck.

But Gator only snickers. “Oh, I'm gonna play real nice, sweets. Promise.”

You lean out of the truck, just enough to let your lips brush his; that's all you really wanted to do, all you intended to do, but you linger and then turn it into a real kiss, and he kisses you back, not pulling away as soon as you'd expect, really, but he does after a few moments.

“All right, c'mon. Enough screwin' around,” he says, and you just move back into your truck, settling into your seat as Gator softly hits both palms against the window sill of the door then backs up a step. You roll up the window as he watches, and once it's closed, he turns to walk over to his truck.

While he's climbing in and starting his engine—you keep watch on him out of the corner of your eye—you pull out your phone to text Mel, sending her a quick message to let her know that you're heading home and you're bringing Gator with you.

Then, you put your phone on DND because you don't want to hear her thoughts or comments, even though you know she would be happy for you and undoubtedly sex positive—you just don't want her to get in your head and make you self-conscious. You weren't joking when you told Gator that the girls in town talked him up—he has a reputation, and after hearing it from more than just a few women, you know he lives up to it.

His truck's engine rumbles as he pulls out of the spot and idles just short of where you're parked. You start your truck and shift into gear, leading Gator out of the bar's lot and into town where your apartment is situated, above a laundromat which is closed currently—thankfully, because you get to have quiet nights rather than hearing people bustling around downstairs or shouting over the sound of the machines into their phones while they're switching from washer to dryer.

You park in your reserved spot—the laundry's owner Irv allowed you, as his tenant, to keep a spot to yourself, and Gator takes the one next to you. Might cause a problem in the morning if he's still there when the laundromat opens, but you also have a feeling that once Irv finds out the truck belongs to Deputy Gator Tillman, he won't have much to say about having the damn thing towed.

Hopping out of your truck, you slam the door and lock it, heading up to round the hood as Gator steps out of his too, the gravel of the parking lot crunching beneath his feet. He joins you, and without a word you lead him around the front of the building, keys jingling as you pass the plate glass window and door to the store itself, and step over to the solid wood door to the vestibule of your apartment instead, unlocking it. Gator reaches over your head to hold the door open, allowing you to step inside first; he follows you into the dark little landing, letting the door swing closed as you flick the light switch to illuminate the stairs leading up to your actual front door.

Gator locks the door behind you as you begin to ascend the stairs, stopping after a few steps up because he's still standing at the bottom.

“You good?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head to the side. “Just tryin'a get a bird's eye view.” He winks at you and you don't understand what he means at first, until you remember you're wearing a dress—short enough that it stops above your knees—and by heading upstairs before him, you’re indirectly allowing him to look right up your skirt.

“Pervert,” you say, flipping him off—and then just turning right around and continuing to climb the stairs, now directly giving him the view he wanted.

“Takes one t'know one,” Gator says, waiting until you're a few steps higher before following you, the staircase creaking as he takes them two at a time. He reaches you just as you arrive at the second floor landing, which is a little more spacious and even has a window to the outside, with a small collection of succulents on the sill.

Gator pokes at one as you unlock this door as well, opening it and stepping in, waiting patiently for him to join you. He does, and you kick off your flats while he crouches down to unlace his boots, leaving them beside your shoes as you close this door too.

“Cute place,” he says, and you feel yourself get a little embarrassed, because it is a cute place—spacious for what you pay for it, since it's always a little warm during the day with all the machines downstairs running and all the foot traffic coming and going—but it's not straightened up. You left it a little bit of a mess—your pajamas and baseball uniform are still on the floor outside the bathroom, and even though you haven't gotten to your bedroom yet, you know that you left your bed unmade and there are at least three outfits you'd tried on for the bar still on top of your sheets, nixing each before settling on the vintage off-white cotton minidress you're currently wearing.

“I wasn't expecting company,” you say, hurrying away from him to pick up the dirty laundry outside of the bathroom. “Make—um, make yourself at home.” You gesture at the couch, which doesn't have anything untoward on it, but the blanket is askew, there's a book on one of the cushions propped open upside-down with the spine cracking, and an unfinished mug of tea sitting on the coffee table, definitely leaving a ring. Part of you wishes you made a better impression, but when you glance back at Gator before you disappear into your bedroom, he's not even looking at your furniture or the disarray you left. He's just looking at you, a faint smile gracing his lips.

When you catch him, he looks away immediately and crosses to the couch.

You just hurry into your bedroom, bare feet skimming over the carpet as you shove the dirty clothes into your laundry basket, tucked away into the closet, then pick up the other clothes you hadn't decided to wear and, in the interest of time, shove those in with your laundry too, even though they are most definitely clean. You straighten your bedsheets as best you can without properly making it, and then return to Gator—who's gone.

Your living area is empty, but you catch movement out of your periphery, and when you turn to your left, you see that Gator's in the little kitchenette, emptying your stale tea and putting your mug into the sink.

“Thanks?” you say, and Gator glances up at you.

“Figured ya might want coffee'r somethin',” he mumbles.

“Sure... thanks,” you say, which feels weird, because this is your house, your kitchen, your coffee—you don't have coffee. “Oh wait, I just have tea.” As you speak, you look back at the couch and notice that your book has also been placed neatly on the coffee table, with the receipt you were using as a bookmark sticking out of the top, keeping your page. You turn to Gator again, who's now at your refrigerator.

“Ya got beer,” he points and you just laugh.

“You didn't have enough beer?”

He shrugs. “Ya fuckin' scampered away so goddamn fast, thought you might need t'relax.”

“I'm fine,” you say. “Like I said I just—wasn't expecting company.”

Gator closes the refrigerator and steps over to you. “I ain't here t'be company, sweets. I don't give a shit what yer place looks like.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nod. “Right.”

“Right,” Gator echoes you, his hands on your waist again, leaning down to kiss you, and you put your hands on his chest, leaning up into him, to meet him half way. It's different in your apartment—behind closed doors, it feels more real, like it will lead to something because now it can. You slide your hands up over his shoulders, wrapping them around his neck again to bow his back further toward you, and then he's pushing you backward, walking you toward your couch. He lays you down easily, settling above you and you sigh at the feeling of his weight atop you, the way he fits between your thighs, his tongue in your mouth and his hands on your sides, moving slowly up and up and up.

“Fuck,” you mutter, not quite meaning to, and you feel him snicker as he pulls away from you, lowering his mouth to your neck to suck a bruise there, leaving a trail of kisses along your throat and collarbones, the neckline of the dress low enough that he can do so with no trouble.

One of his hands settles onto your chest, squeezing your breast through your dress as the other moves back down, hooking his hand around your thigh and pulling it up and over his hip, letting him grind a bit against you even with too many layers of fabric between you. But your legs are more open now, and you can feel your skirt riding up—you whine quietly as he takes your lips with his again, kissing you slow and deep as he rolls his hips down into you.

He's groping your thigh, rubbing his hand over it, sinking his fingers in, squeezing it as you reach down between your bodies and tug at his shirt, trying to untuck it from his jeans and get it off of him for real this time. And this time, he does let you, the t-shirt stretching a little as you pull at it, yanking it up and over his chest, though it gets stuck beneath his arms since his hands are a little occupied.

You don't care—you leave it there and let your hands skim over his front, fingers tracing through the thick patch of hair on his chest, over his nipples, down to his slender waist, and up over his muscular back, which you can feel stretching and flexing as he keeps his hips moving against your core. You tip your head back and he follows you, wanting to keep kissing you, and you press one of your palms against his back before moving the other once again to his chest, tweaking his nipple with two of your fingers to hear the noise he makes when you do. It ends up being a small moan, which makes you smirk against his mouth, smug—and then you just touch him everywhere you can, his pecs and his stomach and up beneath the shirt too, fingertips trailing over his throat until he's had enough and pushes up and away off of you.

Kneeling above you, he straightens up and you watch as he pulls off his shirt the rest of the way. For some reason, it thrills you a little to see that the freckles on his face extend all over his body, and that there's also a thin trail of hair down from his chest to his bellybutton and then lower. You lick your lower lip unconsciously, not even really thinking about it, but Gator clocks it and he snickers.

“Tit for tat, yeah?” he says, and you don't understand what he means—truthfully, you're still a little caught up in having him on top of you—until he reaches down to the buttons adorning the front of your dress and starts to undo them. They stop at your bellybutton, just where the skirt begins, and he pushes the front of your dress open to expose your torso to him, still covered in the satiny, nude bra you'd chosen to wear beneath the white cotton. Wasting no time, Gator just reaches to push the cups up and off your tits, not bothering to try and undo it or take either garment off of you. No, he just frees your breasts from the bra and then leans back down, taking one of your nipples between his lips before it's even perked up from the way his hands slid over them seconds ago.

“Gator—” you gasp, because he's sucking at your tit like there's nothing else he'd rather do with you, and he has the other one cupped in his hand, thumb swiping side to side over your nipple as it hardens, pebbling beneath his touch.

He hums against your chest, pulling off your nipple with a pop to just lave over the pert bud, dragging his tongue over it as you watch, breath coming thin already, his mouth barely even on you for any time at all and already destroying your resolve.

Gator pushes himself up again, bending one of his legs at the knee to tuck it beneath your leg, the one he'd hiked up onto his hip, and licks into your mouth this time, your spit-slick nipple pressing against his chest, the hair he has there tickling you a little as he kisses you, sucking at your lower lip before drawing away.

“What was it I said?” he asks you, and you meet his eyes, wild, uncertain what he's asking. “The night'a that fire,” he reaches up to brush some hair away from your face. “Said, what...I'd letcha suck me off 'fore I fuck ya real nice, was that it?”

You nod, because you remember, vividly, the way he was saying the most vile shit right to your face, the way he said it without any shame.

“Y'know what?” Gator asks. “I think I wanna hear you say it this time.” He leans down again to kiss you, languorous, lips lingering against yours before he pulls back, his thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple a little as he plays with it, tugging and rolling it back to hardness. “Go on. Lemme hear ya spoil that sweet mouth'a yers.”

You huff a sigh, almost in disbelief, wondering if he's really going to make you, but he just settles his chin down between your tits, his hand still cradling the side of your head, the other still toying with your nipple, and it feels so good that you let your eyes flutter closed to lose yourself in it, the way the pads of his fingers squeeze it, the way his fingers gently card through your hair, the way his jaw flexes when he opens his mouth.

“I'm waitin', doll,” he says, and you take a deep breath, opening your eyes to look down at him.

Flitting your tongue over your lips, you speak. “You said...you said you were gonna finger me until I was crying your name.” His lips twitch at the corners, but he keeps his stoic expression. You continue. “Gonna let me taste you before I—ride you,” you breathe out, and he licks his lips this time, nodding.

“'S right,” he says. “'Nd what else?”

“Wanted me to take your—take your fat cock and bounce on it,” you say, and he grins, which makes the warmth in your cheeks ramp up to blazing heat, and even though you're feeling bashful after saying such filthy things right back to him, he seems completely unaffected other than to be even more into it than he was before you did: He surges up over your body and crashes his lips into yours, kissing you harshly as you lift your hips into him, his body aligned with yours well enough that you can, now. He groans quietly into your mouth and drops his hand from your face down between your bodies, sticking it between your legs and rubbing at your cunt through your panties, matching the satiny feel of your bra.

You curl your hips up against his hand, and he pulls away enough to speak.

“Ya gonna make me fuck ya on yer couch?” he asks, and it's such an unexpected question that you laugh, even though he's making your entire body light up with his hands and his mouth and his solid weight on top of you.

“Get off me then,” you reply, but he doesn't move, instead just tugging your panties to the side and letting his fingers slick through your wet folds, finding your slit quickly enough but not entering you. You take a sharp breath in, and he just kisses you in response.

“I thought you”—you try to say, in between kisses—“didn't want to stay on the couch.”

“I ain't puttin' it in yet, sweets, relax,” he says, and curls two fingers into your pussy, making you draw up, tighten up, shiver a little as he pushes them deeper, the pads of his fingers pressing into your front wall. “Ahh, now thatta girl.”

“Fuck,” you say again, and Gator chuckles.

“Gon' give me a big head,” he says, pulling away from your mouth and letting his chin and lips trail over your chest, over the swell of your breast—the one he isn't still playing with—and takes your nipple back into his mouth, sucking at it while he fingers you slowly, curling both digits inside of you again and again, not to make you come, but to rile you up, you can already tell. He told you it was his plan, and not only are you not in any position to fight him on it, you don't want to either.

Just as you lift a hand to curl it into his hair, Gator pulls back from you, moving away and down between your legs. You trail your hand after him, catching up to him when he lets his lips move over your thigh—not a kiss, just a glancing movement, as he slides his fingers free from your slit and then reaches up. He streaks your wetness over your stomach, curling his hand into the elastic of your panties to pull them down, maneuvering your legs so he can slide them off you, and then he's right back where he was, between your thighs, fingers sliding between your lips to spread you open before him.

Your hand cards through his hair and you tug at him; he moves with you easily, lips curled into a smirk as he buries his face in your pussy, his fingertips still spreading you open, and his tongue delves into your dripping hole before both of his fingers join it, stretching you around himself and you curl your other hand into your skirt, pulling it up and away so you can watch as he goes down on you, pressing his fingers into you as deeply as he can, feeling you squeeze down on them.

He pulls away, not really far at all, and latches his mouth to your clit instead, sucking at it, teasing entrance to your weeping slit with a third finger now.

“Gator,” you whimper, and he flicks his eyes up to look at you, to watch you as you writhe on the couch above him.

You feel his tongue moving against your clit, not bothering to come up for air as he presses his mouth a little harder against your mound, really exploring your folds with his tongue, teasing your clit, its hood, sucking everywhere he can close his mouth around, taking your lips between them and dripping spit and your own arousal onto his chin.

He curls a third finger into you, and your hips buck up into his hand, a sharp gasp of breath sounding from your parted lips, and then, to your dismay—he does pull away.

“Wh—” you start to ask, clenching down on his fingers as he stills them, deep within your pussy. He leaves them hooked there as he moves up and over you, tugging at your walls as he slips them out just an inch and then fucks them back in.

“Now, correct me if I'm wrong,” he says, his voice low, stern; you feel yourself gush a little around him. “I said I wanted ta hear ya cryin' my name.”

You stare up at him, just watching his face as he shallowly finger fucks you.

“Ain't that right?” he pushes.

“You—hah—aren't doing it right then,” you say, and he quirks an eyebrow, lips parting as he tucks his tongue into his cheek, looking just this side of pissed—and your chest swells a little in excitement, knowing you got him with that.

“Oh, yeah?” he says, almost sounding amused as he lets his fingers slip fully out of you; you whine as he does, missing the feeling of being stuffed with three of them. “Well, why don'tcha show me how it's done, since you know better?”

A smirk plays at your lips as you tug your skirt up a little higher, your dress half twisted around your body from how much he had you squirming, how much you were rolling your hips up into his fingers. With your free hand, you stretch your arm down your body and rub your palm flat against your pussy, feeling your warm slickness, the ease with which your fingers move through your folds, and then you press your middle and ring finger against your slit and sigh as you slide them home.

Gator watches, eyes half-lidded, as you slowly work your fingers into your own cunt. You gather the fabric of your skirt up into your hand, your chest exposed, panties on the carpet next to you, thighs spread open, one leg hanging off the couch to give Gator the view he'd wanted when walking up the stairs behind you—and finger your own tight little snatch just so he can watch you do it.

“Fuckin' Christ,” Gator mumbles as the first whimper falls from your lips. He looks up at your face and when he meets your eyes, when he realizes you've been watching his face the whole time, he closes his eyes and swallows, then looks back down at your hand between your legs.

“Help me,” you whisper, and Gator doesn't try to play like he doesn't know what you're asking for—he settles himself down between your legs, one hand on your thigh, splaying out to push you open even more, your hips straining at the position you're in, but you don't even fucking care when he adds his middle finger in along with yours, stretching you out, giving it to you deeper than you can reach, and you groan, loud this time, the sound punched out of your chest as he presses into you a little harder than you're doing it to yourself.

“Gat—or—” you half-shout, biting your lip at the last moment to keep your volume in check. He glances up at you, takes in your smirk, and immediately understands what you're doing.

“You little fuckin' brat,” he says, and leans down to suck a harsh kiss to your breast, just beside your nipple, just beside where you'd want him to put his mouth, and then pulls his finger out of you just to add his own ring finger in beside it.

You stutter out a moan, head pressing back into the couch cushion beneath you, as you let go of your skirt and now you have both hands between your legs, one further down, pressing inside of yourself, and the other with two fingers erratically moving over your clit, because you're so stretched out on four fingers you can't possibly keep an even pattern, not with the way your legs are twitching and your cunt is fucking soaked, your thighs tensed.

Gator's fingers work in tandem to yours, and harder too, still; he's fucking you with them deep and fast, in contrast to the way you're gently curling yours into yourself, your clit on fire as you rub at it, not even sure what you're doing to yourself because you're so fucking worked up already.

“Go on, sweets,” Gator says, taunting you, egging you on. “Y'know ya wanna.” He stretches himself over you, his free hand bracing himself on the back of the couch as he hovers above you, watching your face even as he works his fingers with yours, hears the obscenely slick sounds from between your legs.

“Gator,” you say through clenched teeth, and he leans down closer to you, lips trailing over yours.

“Go on,” he says again, and you sob with the feeling of it all, the overwhelming pleasure, the orgasm just flitting around you, ready whenever you are.

“Gator!” you half-sob, half-shout, and he smirks because he won, but even so he gives you your prize: He kisses you, hard, licking into your mouth as your hips flex up into both of your hands and one of his, his fingers slipping out of you even as your pussy tries to suck him back in, and he gives you a small little, harsh little slap right on your cunt.

“Ah—nn—” you intone, your body tensing, wound up beyond belief, and then you're coming, hard enough that you have to pull your fingers out too because you've never felt yourself tighten up like that, never felt your entire body snap the way it had. You're crying his name and then you're moaning his name and then you're sighing his name, and the whole time he's got his lips on your lips, soaking it in, taking it all as you shift a little beneath him, and then you slap him right on the cheek with your come-drenched hand and he looks down at you in shock, drawing back.

“That's for calling me a brat,” you say, and you laugh at the disbelief written on his face, before he snickers too.

“Guess that's fair,” he says, reaching down to rub his hand between your legs, smearing your release over your quivering pussy. He teases entrance again with two fingers, smirking when you clench up. “Nah.” He shakes his head, still rubbing over your cunt before moving sideways to your thigh. “Let's getcha somewhere more comf'table for my turn.”

He pushes himself off of the couch, looking down at you, limp and pliant, and he reaches out one hand to help you up while he reaches down with the other, adjusting his package in his jeans; he has to be hard by now—you'd be shocked if he wasn't.

Once you're upright, Gator keeps his head bowed just a little, watching as you slide the straps of your dress and your bra down off your arms. You lower the dress down around your hips, stepping out of it before crouching quickly to pick up your underwear too, and then you're bare in your own living room while Gator drinks in the sight of you, fully, for the first time.

“After you,” he says, not even trying to tear his gaze away from your tits, except to let them dip down to your crotch, the patch of hair between your thighs, tufted together with the way you both spread your arousal over yourself. You're still wet and him looking right at you makes you squeeze your legs together, just a little. And of course he notices.

“Don't worry,” he says, stepping closer, one hand moving to your lower back, the other pulling your panties from your hand. “I ain't even close t'done with ya.” He holds up your underwear, like you missed him taking them from the little bundle of clothes you're holding, and sticks them into the back pocket of his jeans. “Little souvenir if ya don't mind.”

“I do, actually,” you say, even though the way he's touching you and looking at you and speaking to you is very much affecting your composure. “They're a matching set.”

He smirks as he lowers his hand and gently gives your ass a little swat to get you moving—and you go, stepping around the coffee table and leading him to your bedroom.

“Maybe ya got another pair I can swipe, then,” he says as he walks behind you.

“Should've figured you for a panty thief, Deputy,” you say, glancing back at him, and he just licks his lips, shrugging.

“I'm a simple man, sweets, don't take much t'make me happy.”

“Pervert,” you say, rounding the corner to your bedroom and flicking the light switch. As soon as you drop your clothes into the laundry basket, he's behind you, his arms wrapped around you, turning you so your front is flush with his, your tits against his chest as his belt buckle presses into your stomach, and his cock, still confined in his jeans, pressing against you even through the taut denim.

“Thought we already covered that one,” Gator practically growls, his forehead resting against yours. “Me 'nd you both, remember?” In the dimness of your bedroom—just one lamp, the low wattage of the bulb turning the light yellow and syrupy through the shade—his eyes look deep green, irises barely discernible from his pupils, and you can't even help yourself when you ignore his question and tip your chin up, meeting his lips in a soft kiss, one gentle enough that it defies the fact that you're naked, his hands are tight around your hips, and you can feel his erection, stiff against your thigh. His mouth moves over yours, not really deepening it but instead just pressing kiss after kiss to your lower lip, coaxing your lips to part, and once your mouth is open for him, he licks into you, his tongue moving against yours as you move your hands over his broad back, arms curling up to hold his shoulders from behind, your chests pressed together, his body warm and firm against yours.

He turns away, the strands of hair that fall over his forehead brushing against your nose as he does, and he steps back, moving you with him as he crosses from your closet to your bed. He sits on the edge and you sink down onto his thigh, your wet core settling onto the dark denim of his jeans, soaking them as you kiss him again, your hands on his chest now, one playing with his nipple the same way he'd done to you, and the other skimming through the hair adorning his belly, right above his waistband.

Gator sighs into your mouth as you curl your fingers around his belt, still worrying his nipple between your fingers, and since you're not showing any signs of stopping your ministrations at his chest, he reaches to help you with his belt himself, each of you using one hand to work it open. You slip the button expertly with one hand, tug the zipper down over him as you trail your lips over his tensed neck, and once his jeans have been worked fully open, you slip your hand inside them and cup him through the cotton of his briefs.

“Ahh...” you say, lascivious. “Thatta boy,” you tease, repeating what he'd said to you earlier, and Gator, bless him, tries to snicker but can't quite manage it now you've got a hand on him. You rub him with your palm, the drag of the fabric giving him the friction you can tell he's craving—he's pressing against your hand with everything he has, one hand on your ass to hold you still on his thigh, the other coming to rest gently on your forearm, not to try to force you to do more, but seemingly just to touch you, to feel you as you're feeling him.

You let your tongue flit over his Adam's apple and feel his body give a kick when you do, your nose bumping the underside of his chin, and then you're curving your hand around him, molding it to the underside of his length, as you lean up and kiss him again, pressing your hand harder into him, stroking him without actually stroking him, and he grunts against your mouth as he bucks his hips forward.

“God damn it,” he mutters, letting his head fall back away from you. “Fuckin' tease, gonna make me beg?”

“Maybe,” you say, but you don't hold to it, just slide your hand up and off his cock, palm flat against his stomach before easing it into his underwear, the elastic tight over your wrist as you finally, finally, get your fingers curled around him. Gator practically keens as you take him in hand, jerking him off for real, the skin of his cock velvet, wet and hot and so hellishly soft you know there's no way you'll stop touching him except to feel the silken weight of him on your tongue. “Let go.”

It's obvious he doesn't want to, doesn't want you anywhere but rubbing your sopping pussy on his thigh, but when you pull against his hold, he releases you and you lower yourself to your knees between his legs. Gator hurriedly lifts himself up as you begin to tug his pants down; he helps you get them to his knees, and you purposely don't look up, keeping your face angled down as you rid him of the rest of his clothes. Just as you're about to look, about to see everything he has to offer you, his index finger curls beneath your chin and he lifts your face up—to his face, not his body, and he holds your gaze as he speaks.

“Didn't ferget what I said, didja?”

You shake your head.

“Wanna hear me say it again?” Gator asks.

You inhale sharply through your nose—you remember every word, but that isn't the same as Gator saying it to you. The drawl of his accent, the words he chooses, the way he says it so matter-of-fact, like he could be talking about anything, when it's actually so depraved that it turns you on—yes. You want to hear him say it again.

“Yeah,” you manage, and he smirks, pulling his hand away from your chin and taking hold of his cock immediately, drawing your eyes to it. He's big—you could tell just by touch, it was blatantly obvious—but seeing his hand wrapped around it, your lips part at just the sight.

Gator drags his hand from the base to the tip, slowly, then lets himself go completely just to take hold of himself again right at the root. You watch as he does it twice more, precome beading at the slit as he touches himself.

“Gonna feed it to ya, sweets,” he says, and your eyes flick up to his face and back down to his cock just in time to watch him move his thumb over the head, smearing the wetness collecting in the slit over himself. “Gonna hold ya right in place and just... ease it on in, real slow. Watch ya choke on it.” Your tongue peeks out at the corner of your lips, pink and fleeting. “Oh, ya like that? Wanna feel it in yer throat?” You nod despite yourself. Gator chuckles, reaches out with his free hand, cups your face. He lets his thumb move over your cheekbone, back and forth. “Sweet thing,” he mumbles, shifting himself closer to the edge of the bed, legs spread wide to give you as much room as you could possibly want. “C'mere 'nd take it.” You shuffle closer on your knees, his hand moving to your jaw, and you open your mouth as he angles his cock down toward your parted lips. “Take it,” he says again, and you do.

His precome is the first thing you register, bright and salty on your tongue. You look up at him as best you can, eyes searching for his face above you, but the further you move onto his cock, the harder it is to see him. His palm stays cradling your jaw, and his other hand moves from his cock to your throat, feeling as it spasms a little even though he's not even that far into your mouth yet. It gives you a sick thrill that he's putting his hand there to feel himself when he enters it, and you hum quietly, feeling his cock twitch against your palate when you do.

Lifting your hands to his thighs, that's where you choose to touch him first as you keep drawing him into your mouth, keep sliding forward onto his length; he's massaging your jaw, your neck, and you swallow around the head just as he bottoms out into your mouth.

“I know that's fuckin' right,” Gator murmurs, leaning back enough that you can see him now, eyes angled up toward him, as he looks right back down at you. “Look'it you. Look'it you fuckin' takin' it, just like that.”

“Mmn,” you hum around him, and he sighs your name quietly, thumb rubbing over your throat. You swallow again so he can feel it, but even so, a thin dribble of saliva escapes from the corner of your mouth.

He snaps his hips forward just a little, and you moan around him this time, eyes slipping closed as you do almost choke on it, managing to suppress it; he doesn't seem to mind. He just holds you there for another few moments before he eases you off him, but only enough that he's still mostly in your mouth, and you take a deep breath in through your nose before you get to work, bobbing your head on his cock while you reposition your hands. You move one up his body again, reaching to push your fingers through the hair scattered across his chest, feeling him up before you pinch his nipple, playing with it as he huffs out a sigh; with your other hand, you press your palm against his bare thigh, using it to brace yourself each time you take him in a little bit deeper, letting the tip just barely graze the back of your throat before you pull off.

Above you, Gator makes a choked noise, like he's trying to hold back for your sake, or maybe his, you have no idea and you don't care. You lean back, the wet shaft sliding out from between your lips; just as you lift your hand off his thigh to stroke him into your mouth, he beats you to it and wraps his own hand around himself.

You look up at him, eyes wide, questioning, but he just moves his other hand from your jaw to the crown of your head, and you know he's not going to let you move now. Not that you even want to, really.

Precome is dripping from him as you suck at the head, your tongue teasing the slit, as he starts to jerk himself off right into your mouth. You hum weakly, eyes fluttering shut at how he's using you, using your mouth, just for his own end, and you hear his lips smack as he parts them to speak.

“Look at me,” he says, and you slowly open your eyes again, bringing your hands to his waist, holding onto him. He presses his palm a bit harder against your head, making sure you stay still. “Ya like it?”

You don't bother trying to nod, instead letting your tongue answer for you, licking slow and flat against his tip. He looses a shuddering breath as he starts moving his hand in earnest, the curl of his index finger bumping your lip each time he strokes himself. The taste of him deepens, darkens a little—you know he's close just by how quickly he's moving his hand now, and you suck at his head as he keeps going.

“Can—can I—” he stammers, and you don't know what he wants to ask but you tighten your hold on his sides, squeezing him, hoping he infers that yes, he can come in your mouth. “Lemme—lemme feel yer throat a-again, oh fuck—”

You blink, then try to drop your jaw a bit more, leaning forward, taking another inch or so of his cock into your mouth.

“Fuck yeah, fuck yeah, f-fuck—” Gator is repeating, absently; he doesn't even seem to mean to say it, and with his question as the only warning you really got, he pulls you right up against him by the back of your head, your nose pressing into the short, curled hair nestled at the base of his cock, as he enters your throat again and comes right down it, pulsing in your mouth as his hips twitch forward too, giving you everything he has, making you take it as you drool around him, lips shiny with spit as your cunt throbs between your legs, the arousal you feel for him, because of him, un-fucking-paralleled.

He pulls out of your mouth as one last weak, feeble spurt of come leaks out of his head, and you swallow that too as his wet prick leaves your lips.

You're panting and so is he, and you look up at him, legs numb from kneeling, as he looks back down at you. He cups your face with both hands, thumbs wiping away the wetness beneath your eyes, and then using the back of his hand to swipe away the residual saliva and come from your chin.

“Y'ok?” he asks, and even though your head is still swimming, you can tell he feels strange even asking it.

“Yeah,” you say, voice scratchy, and he hooks his hands beneath your arms to pull you up, back onto his lap. You don't straddle his leg this time, just sit on it as he keeps one arm around you, the other resting along the top of your knee. His fingers dip between your legs then, rubbing at your thigh, which tells you even with the check in on your well being, he's far from finished.

Good.

You're not done with him yet either.

“Do you need a minute?” you ask, turning to him, and he almost has the decency to look surprised, but just smirks.

“Do you?” he counters, and you laugh.

“No,” you reply, putting your hand on his cheek as you kiss him. He swipes his tongue into your mouth with no hesitation, a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he tastes himself on you, and then you're standing up and pushing him backwards down onto your bed, standing above him on your knees even as you move to lean over him. You let your chest lower to press into his, but you keep your hips elevated, even as you meet his lips again, kissing him almost lazily.

“Said y'were ready t'go again,” he says, as you draw away for a moment. “What gives?”

“Nothing,” you purr. “I like kissing you, that a crime too?”

“Smartass,” he mutters, and you lower your face to his again; this time, he doesn't question you, doesn't protest, and when he moves his hands to your hips, you slide your knees down so you're laying on top of him properly now, his arms around you, squeezing your ass as you make out with him tangled together atop your sheets.

It turns into something quiet and easy, the two of you cocooned in the faint light from your bedside lamp, your hands exploring his arms and his front, one snaking down to reach for his cock again, and when you do, he gives your ass a quick slap, making you yelp.

“What is with you?” you ask, but you're not mad, you're smiling too much.

“Nothin',” Gator says, but he's amused too, and you can tell. “Just like pissin' y'off.”

“I think you like when I hit you back,” you say, hands sliding to his shoulders to push yourself up so you're sitting on his stomach. You lift a hand and Gator flinches, then realizes you're not actually moving it.

He grins. “Well, y'ain't that subtle about likin' it either, sweets. Forepl—” he says, but he's cut off as you bring your hand down against the side of his face, not hard, not nearly as fierce as he'd been when he hit your ass or—god help you—your pussy. Below you, he just chuckles. “Hey, if yer into it, I ain't gonna complain.”

“Shut up,” you say, sliding down his body, bowing your back to kiss him again even as your slick folds catch the length of his cock between them. He moans softly into your mouth, your wet heat surrounding him, and just as he's about to grab your hips to hold you there, his own body already trying to roll and grind up against you, you're off of him and pulling open your nightstand drawer.

Gator pushes himself up onto his elbows to watch you, and when you straighten up with a handful of condoms, he reaches out for one, snapping his fingers when you don't immediately hand one over.

“Patience,” you chide him, but he just snaps his fingers again.

“Ain't got none,” he answers, then rolls onto his side and crawls up the bed, settling himself down against your pillows. “That's one virtue I was born without.”

“And other virtues do you have, exactly?” you ask, turning to face him properly.

Gator scoffs. “If yer gonna be like that, yer doin' all the work.”

“I thought we already covered that,” you say, echoing him. “What was it, you were gonna give me a taste before you let me ride it?”

Gator scoffs. “Yeah, but way t'make it sound...clinical.”

“Clinical?” you ask, dropping the handful of condoms to the bed, save one, which you palm as you kneel on the mattress, moving closer to him. “How is 'ride it' clinical?”

“Listen, not everyone got the gift'a gab, sweets,” Gator says, and you roll your eyes, unimpressed. He reaches out for you, and you move into his reach, letting him caress your hip with one hand and your thigh with the other. “Why don'tcha give it another shot?”

You hum as his hands move over your bare skin, tearing the condom wrapper slowly. You tuck your chin down to your chest and look at him through your lashes. One of his hands comes up to cup your breast, thumb skimming over your pebbled nipple. “Wanna... let you fuck me,” you start, and he just nods, encouragingly, but you don't miss the hardened eyes, the quirk of his lips into a smirk because you're not good at this, just like he said. “Gonna sit on your cock. Your...” You bite your lower lip, drawing it into your mouth. “Your big, fat cock.” He exhales audibly, letting his other hand move from your thigh to your mound, trailing two fingertips through your folds. “Let you in my—my wet little pussy.”

“Uh huh...” Gator leads you, and even though you know he's just humoring you because it's really terrible dirty talk, you still appreciate him letting you try, even though you'd be certain you were ruining the mood if he wasn't still circling your clit with his index finger, eyes on where his hand is down between your legs.

“Gonna...get you soaking wet,” you try, and he flicks his eyes up at you. “Gonna come all over you.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you answer, firm and assured, and he withdraws his hand.

“Not too shabby,” he says, tugging you down into him by your wrist. “I'll give ya...an A for effort.”

“Fuck off,” you laugh, pulling the condom from the wrapper and rolling it onto him—he's hard again, or maybe still hard. He definitely didn't feel like he'd gotten soft when you were rubbing your pussy all over him—and when you look back up at his face, he's watching you closely, eyes on your hands.

You lick your lip, almost a little self-conscious, and you have no idea why, other than this has started to feel a little less like a one night stand and a little more like something substantial—which you force yourself to forget, because this is Gator Tillman, not someone like Leon who would take you for breakfast tomorrow morning. You're going to wake up, thoroughly fucked out but alone, because Gator Tillman doesn't do bitches more than once (or so is word on the street. His own word).

With one deft hand, you slide your palm up and down over his cock, then throw one leg over him, leaning forward. He reaches up to cup your tits, and you smirk to yourself as you take hold of his cock again, guiding the tip up against your slit; you both gasp at the same moment when the blunt head presses against you, and you meet his eyes as you lower yourself onto him, the stretch immediate and intense.

“Fuck,” you mumble, breath catching in your throat as he flicks your nipples with his thumbs, palming your tits as you press your hands against his shoulders, clinging to them as you spread your knees a little further apart, taking him in deeper—you're clamping down so tightly on him as your body both accepts the intrusion and rebels against it, clenching down like it could force him out, even though you want him inside.

“Tight little bird, ain't ya?” Gator asks, and you tilt your head back, rolling it to the side, the words affecting you and he knows it. He lowers one of his hands to your mound, searching for your clit again, rubbing his fingertip over it as you lift up and then push back down, his cock entering you even deeper this time. Your walls are sucking at him, and when you fit all of him in you, you exhale, chest stuttering.

“Gator...” you whine, and he presses against your clit harder.

“'S ok,” he tells you. “Yer doin' so fuckin' good, y'know that?” His finger traces figure eights over your clit, the throbbing little bead swollen where it's nestled between your quivering folds. “Perfect little pussy,” he says, and you tremble as you press the heels of your hands down against his chest. He pinches your nipple as you lift up off him, the slide eased with how wet you are, and even though most of him is still in you, you feel woefully empty. You drop back down onto him and it's like sliding right back home, putting him back where he belongs.

“Feel ya shakin' around me, sweets,” Gator says, and you sigh as you pull your pussy up over his length again, strong thighs working as you roll your hips back down, and now that you're used to his size, now that you've taken him in a few times, you fuck yourself onto his cock and he's the one who sighs this time.

“God, look at ya,” he goes on, almost like he's just talking to himself. His fingertips swirl around your clit, which you feel twitch against them. “How's—how's it feel, huh? Talk to me.”

“It's—” you begin, but smack your lips together as you swallow thickly, your arousal dripping down his shaft every time you lift up. “God, fuck, it's so good, Gator—”

“Uh huh,” he leads you, pressing his hand a little further between your legs, letting his fingers slide around where he's got you stretched around his dick, feeling the way your pussy tightens and spasms as he rubs your slit from the outside. “What else? Go on, tell me.”

“I'm so—so fucking...you make me so wet, Gat-Gator, I—” you break off to gasp, then moan as he finds your clit again. “I'm—I'm soaking it—you, just like you—like you said, r-right?”

“That's right,” Gator says, and you look at him through half-lidded eyes just in time for him to sit up and wrap his free arm around you, hold you tight to his front and roll you onto your side, and then your back; his cock slips free of you and you whine, mewl, cry for him.

“No, no—put it—put it back,” you say, reaching up to curl your hand around the nape of his neck, tugging him down to kiss you; he obliges you, but after you lick into his mouth, he ducks away and kneels between your spread legs, your gaping pussy on display for him as he props your thighs up on his. Between his legs, his cock is jutting out, shiny with your fluids as he reaches with one hand to ghost his finger over your slit, which clenches up around nothing.

“Put it back,” you say again, only realizing now how desperate that phrasing is, how filthy and uncouth.

He curls two fingers into you, ignoring his rigid cock, pink at the tip, so hard it's straining up and up, the tip nearly against his stomach.

“And you were gettin' on me for my lack'a virtue,” he teases. “Sounds like you ain't got no manners either, missy.” You can only goggle at him for a moment, because before you can really even formulate a response, he eases his fingers out of you, turns his hand over, and brings his palm down on your pussy in a hard smack, making you jump and moan simultaneously; you feel your pussy practically gush as he rubs his full hand over it, the sound of it reaching your ears and turning you on even more.

“That's one,” he says.

“Two,” you correct him, and he cocks his head to the side. “You did one before.”

He looks at you, then chuckles, smirking. “Two.” He pauses. “How many times didja hit me? Figure I oughtta make it even. You can dish it out, but let's see if ya can take it.”

You squirm a little, splayed open before him, wondering if he'd like it more or less if you made it clear you wanted it as much as he did. “Five.”

“Five,” Gator repeats. “Got three more for ya, then.” He moves his free hand to your thigh, rubbing his thumb over the folded skin where your leg meets your mound.

“Just three?” you ask, and he glances up at you. “What?” you ask, hoping you're not overstepping. “Foreplay, right?”

He laughs at that, then leans down to press a kiss to the valley between your breasts. “Yup, just s'more foreplay, sweets.” He straightens up and gives your cunt a quick swat, making you lift your hips up off the bed, your fists curled into the sheets below you.

“How bad ya want it?” he asks, taunting you, and you bite your lip.

“Want what?” you ask.

He rubs your clit with his thumb for a brief moment, then gives your pussy another slap, the sound of it hitting your ears just as sharply as his hand feels against you.

“You know what.”

“Your fat cock?” you ask, and he grins, smug.

“Yeah. My fat fuckin' cock.” He curls three fingers into you, and push your head back into the pillow behind you as he fingers you, his free hand now curled around his cock too, squeezing himself at the base as he fucks into you with his fingers, deep but not deep enough.

“Gator,” you whimper, and he pulls out of you, rubbing from side to side over your tight clit—you shy away, and he smirks.

“Answer,” he says, taking his hand away from you entirely, replacing it with the one he'd just had wrapped around his cock. He teases your clit with it, rubbing in tight little circles.

“Gator,” you try again, but he just raises his hand, palm toward you, readying the final slap, the one you know will ruin you—the one you want so, so fucking bad.

“Answer,” he directs you, and you flex your hips, parting your thighs as much as you can, giving him room for when he brings his hand down on you again.

You cup your own breasts, rolling your perked nipples between your fingers, and your voice is calm and quiet when you answer him. “Please,” you say. “I—want it. Bad.”

“You asked for it, sweets,” he says, and with one last flick of his thumb on your clit, he pulls his hand away, letting you wait in sweet, painful anticipation, and then he slaps your cunt one final time; you're so worked up and strung out and on edge that the shock of it makes you clamp down on yourself, the pressure between your legs so fucking much that it brings you to orgasm, your heels digging into the bed on either side of him as you arch up off the bed, shuddering and shaking as you come so hard you have no control over the sounds you're making or the words you're saying (or trying to say, really).

“Can I come inside ya?” Gator asks suddenly, and you nod, agreeing without even thinking, and as you feel him slide back inside you, your whole body tenses up again, another orgasm building even though you've barely come down from the previous one.

Gator hikes your leg up over his hip on one side, bracing himself on the bed with his other hand, and snaps his hips into you, so hard and fast that the sound of skin slapping skin makes you moan, would get you off even without how good he feels as he moves into you repeatedly.

You pull your other leg up, hand curled around the back of your knee, opening yourself up to try to feel him even deeper, and you do—he's got his knees up on either side of you, fucking into you half feral, animalistic, your fingernails dig into the back of your thigh as you grasp at his shoulder with your other hand and pull him down to kiss him. It's fierce and neither of you wants to yield control to the other, so your lips are around his tongue and his teeth meet your lower lip and you moan into him as he growls into you and then you're coming again, wrapped up in all of it, in Gator, in everything—your cunt flutters around him as he fucks into you even harder, harder, harder, one more time and then his hips still, pressing his full weight into you as he comes, fully sheathed inside of you, a sound punched from his throat that's half laugh and half gasp.

“Oh my fuckin' god,” Gator says after a moment, his lips still against yours, and he pulls out, fingers on either side of his cock to hold the condom on himself, making absolutely sure it stays where it's supposed to.

You breathe out slowly, then inhale deeply, untangling your limbs from his as he lowers himself down onto the bed beside you, limbless, flopping down to stare at the ceiling as his cock flags to one side. You roll over to face him, laying your arm over his stomach, and he turns his head toward you and kisses you back when you try for one more.

“Lemme get up,” he says, because your arm is on him and he doesn't really want to dislodge you. “'Nd you need ta get t'the bathroom.”

“Conscientious,” you quip.

“I ain't givin' no one a UTI,” he says. “See? Virtuous.”

You laugh and push yourself up, away from him, heading to the bathroom. You hear him pad into the kitchen as you close the door behind you and you wonder if he'll still be in the apartment when you finish cleaning yourself up. You do what you need to do, then wash your face and brush your teeth for good measure, and when you open the bathroom door, you see the light's off in your bedroom.

Stepping lightly across the hall, you peek into your room to find Gator back in your bed, under the sheets this time.

“Hi,” you say, and he looks up at you, smirking.

“Hi.”

“You, um. Staying?”

He looks at you like you've grown a second head. “You kickin' me out?”

“No.”

“A'right. Then what, you waitin' fer an invitation t'yer own bedroom?”

In lieu of answering, you cross the threshold, closing the door behind you as you round the foot of your bed and climb in beside him. You wonder for a moment if you should have put something on, but as you settle the sheets down, you notice—no, he's definitely still naked too.

“You always do this?” you ask.

“Do what?” Gator asks, turning toward you, his features starting to become more visible as your eyes adjust to the dark.

“Stay over. After.”

“After?” You see the apple of his cheek round up. “Sweets, we ain't finished yet.”

You have just enough time to formulate a question—the very eloquent “Wait, what?”—before he's back on you again, lips on yours in the darkness, but you can tell it's different this time. It's softer, calmer, like you earned the right to see a part of him he's never shown to anyone else.

One hand comes to rest on your waist, the other cupping your cheek as he kisses you, deepening it, his tongue against yours as he breaks the kiss but does not move away, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Think ya got one more in ya?” he asks, and as you kiss him again, tongue swiping over his lower lip, you smile to yourself at the fact that he now tastes minty just like your toothpaste.

“Do you?” you counter.

Gator laughs. “This shit again? Yeah. Scout's honor. I'm good fer it.”

You feel over the bedspread for one of the condoms you left there, but before you can move away from him to search for real, you hear the crinkle of a wrapper and know Gator already has one in hand.

“You were pretty sure I'd say yes,” you say.

“Hard pressed t’find someone that says no. And you… ain’t that hard t'read, 'f I'm bein' honest,” he ribs you, and you almost decide to slap him again, just for the bit, but instead you kiss him.

“Lie down,” he whispers against your mouth, and as you do, he joins you, pushing you onto your back and then away from him so your back is to his front.

Behind you, the sound of the wrapper tearing comes and you feel the bed jostle a little as Gator strokes his cock, fits the condom on, and then he's got his chest pressed to your back, the head of his cock poking between your thighs.

You reach back behind yourself to help him, guiding him into your slit again, and this time when he enters you, you groan at the feeling of it, a little sensitive but not too much to stop.

Gator's hips press up against your ass as he rolls them against you, his cock slipping in and sliding out, languid movements as he takes you again, slow and easy. He pulls you back against him, one arm beneath your pillow, and the other draped over your side as he rests his hand on your stomach, holding you close.

Sighing heavily, you close your eyes, pushing yourself back against him as he fucks you, unhurried, taking his time like neither of you have a care in the world, nothing to do besides this, besides each other, and as you relax into him, he stretches himself up around you, his lips tracing over your neck, the shell of your ear, giving you tentative kisses like he's shy about what they might mean, like they mean anything in the first place.

“Gator,” you sigh, and you feel his hips kick a little when you do, thrusting inside of you faster, harder, for just a moment before he eases back to the softer pace, the slower one, the one that feels like he feels something.

Shifting his arm beneath you, he cups your breast in his hand, playing with your nipple as he lowers his hand from your stomach down between your legs, feeling your whole body shiver as he rubs his middle finger over your clit. You lean into him, his cheek against the side of your head, as he makes small noises into your ear: whimpers and whines and little breathy puffs, most of which sound like your name.

“Y'gettin' there again?” Gator asks after the two of you move together, writhing beneath the bedsheets, your bodies joined as his arms encircle you, playing with your clit and your nipple in the same way, circling with his fingertip or rubbing over them both identically. It has you simpering for more, lips pursed as you turn your face toward his, and your lips meet just as the fingers between your legs skim over your clit just the right way, and you're coming on his cock again, your chest tight and your thighs squeezing together; you faintly register his hips stuttering too, behind you, as he groans your name into your mouth and then, for the second time, you two are tangled together, a sweaty, spent mess, all the desire you have to move from your bed dissolving into the sheets where you lay.

Neither of you stir for a long moment; it's only when Gator pulls his hips back from yours that you even realize you have to get up, a second time, and clean up—a second time. Gator moves to lay on his back, glancing at you as he eases off the second condom, and you wait for him to sit up before reaching out to graze his face with the back of your hand, very much a half-hearted slap. He gives you an indignant look and you giggle.

“Fuck was that for?” he asks. “Givin' you the best sex'a yer life? Twice?”

“For making me have to get up again,” you say, sticking your tongue out at him, not even sure if he can see you.

“Fuck off,” Gator says, but there's no bite to it at all. You giggle again. “Fuckin' brat.”

This time, when you pretend you're going to hit him again, he grabs your wrist and redirects the momentum to pull you into him.

“Y'don't have ta get up right now if ya let me give ya number...four, was it?” he suggests. “Might as well go fer five, that's the number'a the day.”

“Bullshit,” you say, even as he leans in to kiss you one more time. “You can't.”

“No one said shit about me, sweets,” he says. “Gonna have ya takin' that back right quick.” His lips find yours and you kiss him, letting him in. “Wanna hear ya say it.”

&&

The next morning, Irv wakes you up bright and early to complain about the truck taking up a space in the laundromat's parking lot, but Gator fixes that by 1) cursing Irv out, 2) informing Irv exactly who he (and his daddy) is, and 3) vacating the spot by pulling a Leon and taking you out for breakfast.

——