Bunnii💕

Maren had wanted you to come since the beginning of the semester, but it wasn’t her you needed to convince. No, the problem had been her father, the brilliant Dr. Reid who’d made it very clear from the first weekend you’d visited that he didn’t like you. Not in a loud or obvious way, but in the subtle, clipped comments. The way he never smiled at your jokes. The way he’d told Maren—in a voice he must’ve thought you couldn’t hear—that you were “immature” and “not a good influence..”

You hadn’t let it get under your skin. Not really. You knew who you were. You were smart enough, got good grades, held yourself with plenty of grace, thank you very much. So what if an old, retired… ridiculously good-looking federal agent thought less of you?

It didn’t matter.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But when you walked into class on the very last day of the semester, coffee in hand, Maren was already at your usual table, practically bouncing in her seat, grinning like she’d just won the lottery.

You slid into your chair, eyeing her suspiciously over the rim of your cup.

“What has you grinning like the cat that caught the canary?” you asked, voice muffled by a sip of coffee.

Her grin widened, and she leaned forward like she was about to let you in on the secret of the century. “He said yes,” she whispered, all giddy and conspiratorial.

You frowned. “He said yes?”

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “My dad! He said yes to the beach house in California!”

Your eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly hit your hairline. You almost choked on your drink. “Wait. Your dad… said yes? Seriously? You didn’t like—threaten him or something, right?”

“Maybe,” she said with a grin that was far too smug for comfort. “But he said yes. All you have to do is show up.” She did a little victory wave with her hand like this was some kind of sacred mission accomplished.

“Show up?” You tilted your head, incredulous. “You mean I don’t have to pay to get there? Nothing?”

“Nope,” she said, popping the p with delight. “Apparently he’s flying anyway for some conference thing, so he just said, ‘Don’t worry about it.’” She reached over and stole a sip of your coffee like she hadn’t just shattered your entire world with that sentence.

You blinked. “Wait. He’s gonna be there?”

“Uh… yeah? It’s his house.”

You set your cup down slowly, brain short-circuiting just a little. “How am I supposed to get my tan on in my teeny-weeny bikini with your dad lurking around?”

Maren wrinkled her nose and gave you a horrified look. “Ew. Gross. He’s my dad. He doesn’t… he won’t look. He barely likes people.” She said it with a laugh, like the idea was absurd.

But the thought lodged in your brain anyway.

Because you remembered the first time you met him: how he’d barely looked at you, how his voice was low and thoughtful, like everything he said had been filtered through ten layers of logic before leaving his mouth. You remembered the quiet intelligence in his eyes—and how, annoyingly, he looked nothing like someone’s dad was supposed to look at forty-something. He was all sharp cheekbones, lean lines, a little too much height for his own good, and forearms that had no right looking like that when he rolled his sleeves up.

You didn’t like him, obviously. He didn’t like you.

But you weren’t blind.

Now, though? Now you were thinking about him seeing you stretched out on the poolside chair, sun dripping across your skin, your bikini the color of his favorite cup of chamomile tea if he even drank anything so frivolous.

You imagined him seeing the tiny bead of water running down your stomach after a swim, the baby-blue strings tied at your hips.

You shook your head, forcing your brain back to reality as the professor finally strode into class.

Focus.

You were going for the beach, for sun, for sand, for Maren.

Not for her dad.

Right?

After class that day, you went home with one thing on your mind: California.

Specifically, a sun-drenched beach house that belonged to none other than Dr. Spencer Reid, retired FBI agent, brilliant mind, and full-time thorn in your side.

You should’ve been finishing your last bit of coursework or maybe calling your mom to let her know you wouldn’t be home for the first half of summer break. Instead, you were on your bedroom floor surrounded by chaos—suitcases open, clothes everywhere, holding up bikinis to the mirror with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for job interviews.

You packed all your cutest swimwear. The barely-there black bikini that tied in neat little bows. The white one-piece that was technically a swimsuit but clung like lingerie. The baby blue one—your favorite. The one that made your skin glow and felt like trouble just waiting to happen.

Not that you’d actually… do anything. Right?

You told yourself that as you tucked matching lingerie sets into the side pocket of your suitcase. Just in case. Not because of him. Definitely not because of him.

Maren had texted you mid-packing frenzy:

Dad booked flights for tomorrow morning. You’re coming, right??

You grinned down at the message before firing back:

You mean he booked flights?? He’s serious?

Yep. 9:30 flight. Be ready.

The man hadn’t even asked if the time worked for you. Typical. A very this is my schedule, keep up kind of deal.

Jokes on him—you were free.

The next day came fast. You showed up at the airport buzzing with energy, hair done, wearing your best travel outfit—linen trousers, little white crop top, sandals. Casual but cute. Maren squealed the second she saw you, throwing her arms around you like you hadn’t seen each other in, what, two days?

“You have no idea how excited I am,” she gushed, pulling back with bright eyes. “We’re gonna swim, we’re gonna tan, we’re gonna drink margaritas—”

“Margaritas?” you grinned.

She winked. “Dad doesn’t need to know about that part.”

And speaking of…

He was there.

Dr. Reid himself. Standing off to the side in a soft gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, dark slacks, hair a little longer than last time you saw him, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked… tired, maybe. Or maybe that was just how his face was shaped, all sharp cheekbones and thoughtful eyes like he carried the weight of entire galaxies behind them.

“Hi, Dr. Reid,” you said, polite, like you hadn’t heard him once tell Maren you were “immature.”

“Morning,” he said simply, voice even, expression unreadable as he handed you your boarding pass.

No smile.

No real eye contact.

Then he was already moving toward security like you weren’t even there.

Maren rolled her eyes. “Don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone.”

But you knew he wasn’t. You’d seen him smile at waitresses, cashiers, neighbors. He was choosing not to like you. Which only made you more aware of him.

On the plane, Maren snagged the window seat. You took the middle.

Dr. Reid—Spencer—sat across the aisle and two rows back, about as far away as possible while still technically traveling together. He had a book open before the seatbelt sign was even off, long fingers holding the pages like he couldn’t stand to waste a second.

Not a single glance your way. Not even when you laughed at something Maren whispered to you about California boys or when the flight attendant offered pretzels.

Nothing.

It bugged you more than it should’ve.

At one point you craned your neck slightly, just enough to see him over the seat. He didn’t notice—eyes on the page, brow furrowed, jaw tight like maybe the words weren’t sinking in as easily as he wanted them to.

Maren elbowed you lightly. “Why do you look like you’re plotting something?”

You blinked innocently. “I’m not.”

She gave you a look. “My dad doesn’t bite, you know.”

“Sure,” you said lightly, leaning back, trying to shake the thought of him. “He just glares silently from across the plane. Totally normal.”

The flight dragged and yet flew by. California sun hit your face the moment you stepped off the plane, warm and sweet and nothing like the city air you’d left behind.

Spencer was already striding ahead through the terminal like he had somewhere better to be, Maren jogging to catch up, chattering about beaches and ice cream and late-night swims.

You wheeled your suitcase behind you, sunglasses perched on your head, trying not to notice the way his shoulders shifted under that stupid gray button-down or the way his hair fell into his eyes before he pushed it back absently.

This was fine.

Totally fine.

Just a family trip.

Nothing more.

The beach house was even prettier than you’d imagined.

A white, weathered bungalow perched above the sand like something out of a postcard. Blue flowers lined the small porch railings, their petals nodding lazily in the warm coastal breeze. The ocean was right there—close enough that you could hear the waves sliding in and out like some soft heartbeat.

You and Maren both stopped on the porch to stare, but her father didn’t even glance at the view. It was his, after all. He just unlocked the door with the same quiet efficiency he seemed to do everything with, shouldered it open, and stepped inside.

The place smelled faintly of salt and cedar.

Spencer dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, voice low and even when he finally spoke.

“Bedrooms down that hallway,” he said, pointing vaguely to the right. “No noise after ten p.m. No drinking. I don’t care that you both legally can.” He said it like it was a speech he’d prepared on the plane, rattled off in that matter-of-fact cadence that sounded both awkward and unyielding at the same time.

You nodded, polite. “Of course. And… thank you. For letting me come.”

He gave the smallest nod back—like maybe he hadn’t expected you to thank him—before disappearing down the opposite hallway. You assumed that was his room, his part of the house, the invisible line you weren’t supposed to cross.

The second he was gone, Maren turned to you, eyes bright. “Bikinis on. We’re tanning before the sun sets.”

She was halfway down the hall before you could answer, all excitement and plans.

Your room was small but perfect—white sheets, one open window letting in a breeze that carried the faint sound of gulls. Maren’s room was right beside yours. His was at the other end of the house. Far enough that you wouldn’t have to think about him unless you wanted to.

Which you didn’t. Obviously.

You shut your door and stripped out of your travel clothes, digging through your bag until you found the tiniest bikini you’d packed. Black. Tied at the hips, barely there on top. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror as you fixed the straps.

You looked… good.

Dangerously so.

Not that you cared what he thought.

You stepped back into the hallway just as Maren called through her door, “Five minutes! Go out without me, I’ll catch up!”

You knocked anyway. “Hurry up! I’m already wasting tanning time.”

“Then go tan!” she yelled back. “The pool’s clean, Dad always has someone check before he comes out here.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you wandered toward the kitchen.

The place was open-concept—living room flowing into kitchen, all windows and sunlight. The fridge was stainless steel, big enough to hold half the state of California inside.

You pulled it open, scanning the shelves until you found bottled water.

And that’s when you heard it.

A small sound behind you—almost like someone choking back a cough.

You turned, two bottles in hand, and froze.

He was standing there.

And not like he had on the plane in his gray button-down, all bookish and tired. No, now he was in a pale blue linen shirt, loose white pants, hair still a little messy from the flight but somehow better for it. He looked… young and not young at the same time.

But what got you wasn’t the outfit.

It was the fact that he’d very, very obviously just had to drag his eyes up from your ass to your face when you turned.

You saw the guilt in real time.

He swallowed hard, throat working, before managing, “I—uh… I was just—”

“Getting some water,” you finished for him lightly, holding up the bottles. “Yeah. Me too. Sorry, didn’t mean to be in the way.”

He shook his head too fast. “No. No need to apologize. It’s… good. It’s good to stay hydrated.”

His voice cracked on hydrated.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

He was trying so hard not to look. You could feel it, like a second sunburn prickling over your skin—the way his eyes darted anywhere but the tight triangles of black fabric covering you.

“Right,” you said slowly, leaning one hip against the counter, handing him one of the bottles. “Wouldn’t want to faint or anything.”

He took it, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long. “No. Definitely… not.”

His eyes flicked over you again before he snapped them away, jaw tight, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, fuck’s sake.

“Sorry, what was that?” you asked, all faux-innocence.

“Nothing.” He twisted the cap off the bottle like it had personally offended him. “Just… shouldn’t you be wearing sunscreen?”

You raised a brow. “Why? Worried I’ll burn?”

“Worried you’ll get skin cancer,” he said flatly, but his ears were pink. “The sun here is… strong.”

You smiled slow, wicked. “Thanks for the tip, doctor.”

His mouth opened like he had something to say to that—something he probably shouldn’t—but Maren’s voice came down the hall just then, yelling about the pool and music and something about making margaritas later.

You saw the way his fingers flexed tight around the water bottle before he turned sharply toward his room, muttering, “Christ,” under his breath as he disappeared down the hall.

That night and most of the next day blurred into sun and water and drinks Maren swore were “virgin” cocktails. They weren’t. You knew it. Spencer definitely knew it. He just didn’t fight it—like maybe the battle wasn’t worth it.

But you noticed it.

The way his eyes lingered now. Not openly—never openly. Always quick little glances, like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t help himself. Like seeing you in a bikini the first time had rewired his brain, and now every time you walked past in a sundress or shorts, he couldn’t stop imagining what was underneath.

The next day the heat rolled over the house like a blanket.

You picked your baby-blue bikini this time. The one that made your skin look sun-kissed and glowy.

By early afternoon, Maren was floating lazily in the pool, half asleep on one of those ridiculous flamingo floaties, while you lay sprawled on a lounger. Book in hand. Sunglasses sliding down your nose. The sun warm and heavy on your skin, water still beading down your stomach from the last swim.

The sliding door opened behind you with a low shhhk.

You looked over lazily.

And there he was.

Spencer Reid, former FBI golden boy, now standing barefoot on the patio in a half-unbuttoned white linen shirt and tan shorts that did unholy things to his legs.

Hello thighs…

You had to drag your eyes back to your book before you embarrassed yourself, but not before you caught him looking at you.

No, not just looking.

Lingering.

Like his eyes couldn’t decide which part of you to settle on first.

He cleared his throat, too quick, glancing toward the pool instead. “I—uh… Maren?”

She looked up, water dripping from her hair. “Yes, father dearest?”

He sighed. “I’ll be back later tonight. Don’t… wreck the house. Please.”

Maren gave a lazy salute. “Yep, yep, no crazy parties, go to your boring things.” She waved him off and went back to floating.

You didn’t even know why you opened your mouth.

“Where are you going?”

He turned his head slowly toward you, eyes dragging over your bare legs before meeting your gaze. His voice was flat, but there was something under it. “Bit personal, isn’t it?”

And then he turned on his heel and went back inside.

Just like that.

Shut down.

You stared after him, heat creeping up your neck—not from the sun this time.

Fine. Whatever. You didn’t care.

Right?

Time passed.

The sun dipped low. Maren eventually gave up her floaty kingdom and stumbled off to bed, mumbling something about sunstroke and too many not-so-virgin cocktails.

You stayed outside, sprawled on the lounger, book in hand. The air had cooled, the breeze carrying the faint sound of waves against the shore. The backyard was lit only by the glow of the pool lights and the warm spill from the house.

The sliding door opened again.

You didn’t even look up at first, expecting Maren coming back for her phone.

But it wasn’t her.

It was him.

Spencer stepped outside, same clothes as before, hair a little mussed like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He looked… tense.

“It’s late,” he said finally, voice low.

You sat up slightly. “Sorry.”

He shook his head. “Where’s Maren?”

“In bed,” you said, watching him. “Out cold.”

He gave a small nod like he’d expected that and then, to your surprise, sat on the lounger beside yours. Not laying back—just sitting, elbows on his knees, water bottle in his hands.

Up close, you could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. The tiredness that didn’t quite hide the way he kept… glancing at you.

You cleared your throat. “Sorry about before.”

His brows drew together. “Before?”

“When I asked where you were going,” you said, shrugging.

“Oh.” He hesitated, then gave a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I was being a… jerk, so to speak.”

You smirked faintly. “So to speak?”

His eyes slid over to you, then down—quickly—to the thin straps of your bikini top before he looked away just as fast, like the sun might burn him for it.

“I had work stuff,” he muttered finally. “Doesn’t matter now.”

You studied him for a moment. The tight set of his shoulders. The restless way his fingers tapped against the bottle.

“Do I make you nervous?” you asked suddenly.

His head snapped toward you so fast you almost laughed. “What? No.”

But his voice cracked just slightly.

You leaned back on your elbows, the motion arching your back enough to make his eyes flick down before he caught himself.

“You seem nervous,” you said lightly, like you weren’t noticing the way he was gripping that bottle like it might save his life.

“I’m not nervous,” he said flatly, but his voice had gone rough, lower than before. “I just… Christ.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, then through his hair, like he was trying to physically scrub thoughts from his brain.

“Just what?” you pressed softly.

His eyes cut toward you.

Dark.

Frustrated.

Hungry.

“Just trying not to stare at you like some fucking creep,” he muttered finally, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

The words hit like a punch low in your stomach.

You smiled slow, wicked. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He let out a sharp laugh—short, humorless. “Terribly.”

You huff a laugh, shifting slightly on the lounger so your knee brushes his thigh.

“Terribly?” you repeat, teasing just a little.

“Yes. Terribly,” he mutters, taking a long swig of his water like maybe hydration could wash away the thoughts running through his head. His jaw works as he swallows, a vein standing out at the side of his neck like even drinking water was putting him under pressure.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Ah… because you don’t like me,” you say. Not petty. Just matter-of-fact.

His head snaps toward you like you’d just accused him of committing a federal offense. “Don’t like you?”

You shrug, a tiny smirk tugging your lips. “Yeah. You don’t—”

“What? No. No, I—” He shakes his head too fast, the words tangling in his throat. “I… I like you. I don’t dislike you.”

Oh, he was panicking now. You could see it in the way his hand rubbed over his jaw, his hair, like he didn’t know where to put his nervous energy.

He muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” you pressed, eyes narrowing slightly.

He let out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh, still staring straight ahead like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this wouldn’t feel as dangerous as it was.

“I like you too much,” he blurted suddenly. “More than I… more than I definitely should.”

Your throat went dry.

“Wh–what do you mean?” you asked softly.

His eyes flicked over, down the length of you stretched out on the lounger. He tried to catch himself halfway through, but his gaze lingered anyway—on the thin straps of your bikini top, the slope of your stomach, the beads of pool water that still glimmered faintly under the patio lights.

When his eyes finally met yours again, they were darker. Tighter.

“You’re…” he started, then stopped, then dragged a hand through his hair like he was angry at himself. “You’re tempting.”

The word hung there, heavy as the air around you.

You shifted slightly, sitting up now, the space between you narrowing.

“Tempting?” you echoed, tone softer.

“Yes,” he said, voice low like it scraped his throat on the way out. Then, faster, panicked, “It’s—I mean, it’s wrong. God, it’s so wrong, you’re Maren’s friend, you’re—hell, you’re twenty-one, and I’m—I’m twice your age, and this is insane, and I’m clearly losing my fucking mind because I can’t stop looking at you, and—”

“Spencer.”

His mouth shut with an audible click.

You’d never said his first name before.

Not like that.

His Adam’s apple bobbed hard. “What?”

“Stop thinking so much,” you murmured.

He let out a laugh that was mostly air, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You have no idea how impossible that is for me.”

“I think you just admitted you can’t stop looking at me,” you said lightly, even though your pulse was thundering.

He groaned softly, dragging his hand down over his mouth this time, voice muffled. “Christ, you’re—”

“What?”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

It was the way his voice cracked slightly at crazy that made you move.

Just a little—just enough that your bare thigh pressed against his where he sat on the edge of the lounger.

“Spencer,” you said softly, almost testing the name again.

His breath hitched.

And then, like he was finally losing the battle with himself, his hand lifted—hesitant, trembling slightly—and his fingertips brushed the side of your thigh.

The smallest touch.

But it felt like a match dragged across dry wood.

You didn’t stop him.

He dragged his hand higher, slow, fingers tracing the curve of your skin until they rested dangerously close to the thin tie of your bikini bottoms.

“This is…” He shook his head, voice dropping. “This is so fucking bad.”

“Then stop,” you whispered.

You could see his jaw tighten. “I can’t.”

The kiss wasn’t sweet.

It was desperate.

He leaned in suddenly, one hand cupping your jaw like he’d finally broken whatever leash he’d kept on himself. His mouth crashed against yours, hot and frantic, tasting of water and panic and something far dirtier underneath.

You made a sound low in your throat that had him groaning, his tongue sliding against yours like he couldn’t get close enough fast enough.

His hand on your thigh gripped tighter, thumb brushing the inside now, so close to where you wanted him it made your stomach twist.

When he finally tore his mouth from yours, he muttered against your lips, “You have no fucking idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

You laughed softly, breathless. “Tell me.”

His mouth hovered over yours, eyes wild now, words spilling like he couldn’t stop them.

“Since the first time you came over,” he admitted, voice rough. “In those stupid little shorts, acting like you weren’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I just—God, I wanted to bend you over my desk and fuck you until you couldn’t even think. And now you’re here, in this—” He glanced down at the baby-blue bikini, groaning softly. “Christ, this is torture.”

His hand slid up, finally, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip.

“Spencer,” you whispered, half-warning, half-plea.

He smirked faintly against your mouth, the first sign of anything cocky in him all night. “You say my name like that again, I’m gonna lose it.”

You smirk faintly, breath still uneven from his confession.

“Lose it?” you murmur, teasing.

His lips hover against yours. “Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper back.

He freezes for half a second—like maybe he was waiting for that permission—and then it’s like something snaps in him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, and suddenly you’re airborne.

You squeal, startled, as he scoops you up bridal-style with surprising strength, your book thudding to the floor forgotten.

“Spencer!” you gasp, laughing despite yourself, arms instinctively looping around his neck.

He actually laughs softly at your surprise—low and rough like he hasn’t laughed in a while—and you feel it rumble through his chest as he carries you inside.

But instead of your room, he heads down the opposite hallway.

You know exactly where you’re going.

He kicks his door shut behind him with one sharp push of his heel and then throws you—not hard, but definitely not gentle—onto the bed.

You bounce slightly against the comforter, half propped on your elbows before he follows, crawling over you like something feral.

“Fuck…” His eyes drag down your body like he doesn’t even know where to start. “Do you always wear such… such tiny fucking bikinis?”

His mouth is already at your neck before you can answer, kissing, nipping, leaving heat trailing down your skin as his hand settles on your thigh.

“Packed them for you,” you hum, smug.

He freezes mid-kiss, groaning low against your throat like you just punched the air out of him. “Jesus Christ—don’t… don’t say shit like that.”

“Why?” you smirk, tilting your head so he can kiss lower.

He lifts his head, eyes dark now, a faint smirk twisting at the corner of his mouth.

“Cause it’s gonna make me fuck the hell out of you,” he says, voice rough, low, vulgar.

The words alone make heat pool low in your stomach.

“Please,” you whisper, and it comes out more like a whimper than you mean it to.

He groans—deep, guttural—and then he’s gone. He sits back just enough to yank at the ties on your bikini bottoms, cursing under his breath when the knot doesn’t give immediately.

“Who the fuck invented these stupid little strings,” he mutters, voice sharp with frustration before he finally rips the bow loose.

Your top comes next, sliding off in his hands as his eyes drink you in.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, running a hand down his face like maybe he can’t believe this is actually happening. “So much prettier than I imagined.”

That makes you blink.

“Imagined?” you repeat, watching him start unbuttoning his linen shirt, fingers clumsy like he can’t get them open fast enough.

He glances up, smirking faintly.

“Yeah. After I saw you in the kitchen yesterday?” He shakes his head like he’s scolding himself, shirt falling open to reveal the sharp lines of his chest, the faint trail of hair disappearing under his waistband. “Couldn’t exactly… leave the house like I planned. Had to, uh… take care of a situation first.”

The confession makes heat spike low in your stomach.

“You jerked off to me?” you ask, voice half-teasing, half-breathless.

His smirk is crooked, self-deprecating, filthy.

“Twice,” he admits shamelessly, leaning back over you, the fabric of his pants straining now as his cock presses hot and hard against your thigh.

“Spencer,” you whisper, fingers sliding into his hair when his mouth returns to your neck, hungrier now.

He groans into your skin, muttering against your pulse, “Been wanting to taste you since the second I saw you in that stupid bikini—fuck—you have no idea how bad.”

His hand drags down your stomach, slow, fingers shaking slightly before finally sliding between your thighs.

“Jesus,” he mutters when he feels the damp heat there, middle finger stroking through you slowly. “You’re so wet already. Fucking soaked. Did I do that?”

You nod breathlessly, hips jerking as he circles your clit lazily.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

“Yes,” you breathe. “You—fuck—you did that.”

“Christ,” he groans, lips finding yours again, messy, open-mouthed as his fingers slide lower, teasing at your entrance before pressing in slowly.

One finger. Then two.

You whimper into his mouth, clenching around him as he pumps them deep, curling just right, his thumb rubbing your clit with maddening precision.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, kissing you hard. “Can’t wait to feel this on my cock—Jesus—you’re gonna ruin me.”

“Tell me…”

It comes out of you soft, shaky—your voice splintering on a moan when he curls his fingers just right inside you.

He smirks against your neck, lips grazing your skin as he keeps moving those long, clever fingers in a slow, maddening rhythm.

“Tell you what?” he murmurs, feigning innocence even as his thumb circles your clit with precision that makes your thighs shake.

You swallow hard, hips jerking against his hand, too far gone for pride.

“Tell me what you thought about,” you gasp, “when you… when you jerked off to me.”

That makes him groan low in his chest—like he wasn’t expecting you to actually ask for the details—and his pace quickens without him even meaning to.

“Hm?” His mouth curves against your jaw as his fingers work you faster, harder. “You want me to tell you? Tell you exactly what I was thinking? What I wanted to do to you while I was getting myself off?”

You nod frantically, a broken moan spilling out as his fingers hit that spot inside you that makes your breath catch.

“Yeah?” He breathes out a laugh, almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe you want this filth out loud. “Jesus Christ… okay.”

He kisses you once—hard, messy—before leaning back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, lips slick from kissing you.

“First time?” He pauses, curls his fingers deep inside you again. You whimper and nod for him to keep going. “First time was after I saw you in that little black bikini in my kitchen, drinking out of my water bottle like you fucking owned it. Thought about getting on my knees right there on the tile and tasting you until you couldn’t stand.”

Your eyes flutter, head falling back as heat burns through your stomach.

“Spencer—”

He keeps talking, rambling now, like the words can’t stop coming out of him.

“Second time,” he continues, voice rougher now, “I imagined you in my bed. Just like this. My hand between your legs, you soaking my sheets while I made you come on my fingers first… so tight and wet for me, fuck… just like you are right now.”

His thumb presses harder on your clit like punctuation, making your hips jolt.

“God, you feel even better than I thought you would,” he mutters, almost to himself, eyes locked on where his hand disappears between your thighs. “Thought about spreading you open, fucking you slow first… making you beg for it before I gave you what you wanted. Did you want that? You want my cock the way I thought about it?”

You whimper something that might be “yes,” but he’s curling his fingers so deep and fast now it barely comes out at all.

“Yeah, you do,” he says, voice low, filthy, lips brushing your ear. “Wanted to fuck you so hard this whole fucking house heard you screaming my name. Wanted to fill you up so bad you couldn’t walk straight the next morning.”

“Spencer—” It’s almost a cry this time, your walls tightening around his fingers as you feel the edge creeping closer, hot and relentless.

He kisses you again, swallowing the moan that slips out of you when he adds a third finger, stretching you open, fucking you rougher now.

“You close, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your lips, pace unrelenting. “’Cause I’m not stopping until you soak my fucking hand. You hear me?”

His mouth moves to your throat, sucking bruises into your skin while his fingers drive you closer and closer to the edge, the filthy words spilling from him in a constant stream.

“Gonna make you come so hard on my hand first… then I’m gonna fuck you stupid just like I thought about. God, you feel like heaven around my fingers, can’t wait to feel you on my cock—“

You break apart under him with a sharp cry, back arching, thighs trembling as the orgasm rips through you.

He groans into your neck when he feels you clench and pulse around his fingers, fucking you through it slow, drawing it out until you’re panting beneath him.

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice low and rough, kissing you like he can’t help himself.

He pulls his fingers from you slow, watching the way your slick clings to him before he lifts them to his mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, licking them clean, groaning low in his throat like he can taste your orgasm on his tongue. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever fucking had.”

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, still trembling from what he just did, but then he’s sitting back on his knees, shoving his linen shorts down fast.

And—oh God.

His cock smacks up against his stomach, big and flushed and hard as hell, thick enough to make your pulse skip.

You stare. Can’t help it.

He notices instantly, smirking faintly as his hand wraps around himself, giving one slow stroke.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice dark but amused.

Your eyes drag back up to his, lips parting. “Can you blame me?”

He huffs out a laugh, leaning over you again, his hands coming up to squeeze your breasts roughly before his mouth crashes to yours in a wet, messy kiss.

“God, you’re a bad girl,” he mutters against your lips, cock dragging through your soaked folds now, teasing you until your hips are moving on their own. “A bad… bad… girl.”

He hooks your legs wider, lifting them up around his waist, adjusting until his tip catches right where you need him.

“Fuck… you gonna take it?” he smirks, the head of his cock sliding through your slick, coating himself in you.

“Yes… yes…” you whimper, fingers twisting in the sheets.

His jaw tightens, breath heavy. “I won’t be gentle. Fuck, I can’t. Even if I wanted to—”

“Be rough,” you interrupt, voice cracking on the plea.

That’s all the permission he needs.

He grips your hips, groaning loud as he pushes into you in one hard, deep thrust, bottoming out so fast your back arches off the bed with a broken cry.

“Jesus fuck,” he snarls, head dropping to your shoulder as he feels you clench tight around him. “You’re gonna kill me. You’re so… fucking… tight.”

He doesn’t move right away, like he’s holding on by a thread, his fingers digging bruises into your hips while you adjust around him.

“Spencer,” you whimper, legs tightening around his waist.

He groans, lips dragging along your neck. “You feel even better than I dreamed about. Every single night since you walked in my house with that sweet little ass and those tiny fucking bikinis… been thinking about this. Thinking about splitting you open on my cock till you scream for me.”

Then he pulls out nearly to the tip and slams back in, hard enough to make the headboard crack the wall.

You moan loud, gripping at his shoulders.

“That what you wanted?” he growls, fucking you deep now, rough and fast, every thrust punching out moans you can’t hold back. “Wanted my cock? Wanted me to lose my fucking mind over you? ‘Cause congratulations, sweetheart, you did. Been jerking off in my shower every night since you got here—thinking about bending you over my counter, this bed, the fucking pool if I’m honest—fuck—you feel so good—”

His pace turns brutal, hips snapping into you hard, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room mixed with his filthy words.

“Such a perfect little pussy,” he groans, sucking a mark into your neck before his mouth moves to your breast, biting lightly around your nipple as he slams into you. “Gonna make you come on my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze the fuck outta me while I fuck you stupid.”

“Spencer—”

“Yeah, say my name just like that,” he pants, his hand leaving your hip to rub your clit fast, rough, timed with each hard thrust. “God, you’re taking me so good, baby. Like you were made for it. You like it rough? Hm? Like me ruining you for anyone else?”

You nod frantically, nails dragging down his back as the coil in your stomach snaps tighter and tighter.

“Gonna fill this perfect little cunt up,” he growls in your ear, fucking you so hard the bed shakes. “Make you drip with me all fucking night.”

And you’re gone—shattering around him with a sharp cry, your whole body tensing as you come hard on his cock, clenching so tight he swears loud, head dropping to your shoulder as his thrusts turn desperate, ragged.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he groans, rutting deep, spilling into you with a low, broken moan as he jerks through it, grinding you down into the mattress until you’re both panting messes.

The room was still thick with heat, the air buzzing with it, your body still trembling faintly under him. The only sound for a moment was both of you breathing—ragged, uneven—like you’d both just run ten miles.

He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, lips soft, lingering there like he didn’t want to pull away yet.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges.

“Yes… I’m okay,” you whispered, still catching your breath. “Are you?”

He gave this soft, almost incredulous laugh against your skin, shaking his head slightly. “I’m so… so okay,” he murmured with a grin you could feel against your shoulder. “Like… dangerously okay. Probably the best I’ve been in a while, actually.”

His hands were still on you, palms big and warm as they dragged slow over your sides, your hips, your thighs—touching like he didn’t want to stop, like he couldn’t.

You huffed out a disbelieving laugh, covering your face with one hand. “Oh my God… I can’t believe we did that.”

That made him laugh softly too, kissing the spot just under your ear. “Do you regret it already?” he teased, voice playful but with this undercurrent of something real in it, like he actually wanted to know.

You shook your head instantly, meeting his eyes. “Absolutely not… felt too good to regret that.”

Something about that made his mouth curve into this crooked little smile as he exhaled a soft, “Jesus.” He bent to kiss you again—slower this time, messier too, like he was trying to taste the words right out of your mouth.

And then you felt it—his hips shifting.

Not pulling out. Not yet. Just this slow, lazy roll forward, his cock still deep inside you, making your breath hitch at the stretch all over again.

“Spencer…” you whispered, half a moan, half a plea, but you didn’t tell him to stop.

“You feel…” He groaned, trailing off like he couldn’t even get the sentence out properly. His hand slid down your side again, over your stomach, to hold your thigh open wider. “…so fucking amazing. Like you were made for me or something. Tightest, sweetest little thing I’ve ever been inside, swear to God.”

The words were filth but his voice was soft, reverent even, like he couldn’t help it.

He stayed buried deep, hips moving in these slow, shallow thrusts that weren’t really about getting off again—just about staying connected, about feeling you everywhere.

“Did you know,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple as he talked, “there’s, um… actual science… about how long-term physical closeness releases oxytocin, lowers stress, even boosts immunity? Like technically… me staying inside you right now could be improving both our immune systems.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re such a nerd.”

He smirked, kissing you again before whispering against your lips, “Yeah, but I’m your nerd now, right?”

He didn’t give you time to answer before his mouth started trailing down your neck again, slower this time, almost lazy with it, kissing and nipping gently like he was memorizing you.

One of his hands drifted up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple while his other hand kept stroking your thigh softly.

“You’re gonna make me obsessed with you,” he admitted against your collarbone, voice low but serious now. “Already feel like I am, if I’m being honest. Haven’t stopped thinking about you since you got here. Kept telling myself not to touch you, that you were off-limits, that I was too fucking old for you, but Jesus Christ—then you had to go and wear that baby blue bikini…”

You smirked faintly, running your fingers through his hair. “So this is my fault?”

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation, lifting his head to kiss you softly, slow this time, a stark contrast to how he’d just fucked you into the mattress.

When he finally did pull out, he cursed softly under his breath at the mess between you, grabbing a towel from the chair nearby. He cleaned you up carefully, almost tenderly, like he wanted to make sure you didn’t move a muscle you didn’t have to.

Then he crawled back over you, laying down this time, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against his chest.

“Not done with you,” he muttered against your hair, voice already sounding drowsy but hands still roaming your back, your hips, everywhere he could reach.

“Good,” you whispered back, smiling faintly into his neck.