“Oh?” Tom finally responds, angling his head towards you, though his gaze is still set on the notepad as he writes. “What kind of dream?” His tone is curious but void of anything that would imply he’s being coy. When he briefly glances at you, there’s nothing in his expression that hints that he’s assumed what you could be referring to, merely genuine interest. “What kind of dream?” he repeats, giving you a reassuring smile, as though he’s not sure you heard him the first time.

You briefly wonder if you have time to come up with something different than the actual events of the dream, but your mind blanks, giving you nothing that would sound normal or believable. You let out a sigh, and try to play it cool as you begin to speak.

“Yeah, we were…” you trail off for a moment but then power through. “We were at The Waterline together so you could make the announcements for Founder’s Day.” You let out an involuntary, nervous chuckle, narrowing your eyes at your laptop, pretending to read something. “And, uh, you kissed me,” you add, with a shrug, trying to play it off. “Then…it’s silly. That's all.” You stop yourself before revealing the rest of the dream, finding yourself flushed with embarrassment; you finally bring your attention to Tom when he doesn’t answer. He finishes what he’s writing, and sets his hands down on the notepad, one on top of the other, a small grin on his face.

“That’s all?” he echos, and now you think you detect a faint playfulness to his tone. You get trapped in the sound of his voice, until you realize that you haven’t responded to his question.

“Yeah,” you shrug, looking back to your laptop. “Like I said, it was silly.”

“Was it a good kiss at least?” Tom asks, and you can’t help but laugh.

“It was a peck,” you reply. “I don’t know.”

“Well–”

Though Tom speaks with a smile, it immediately drops from his face as Patricia enters the room carrying a stack of papers towards his desk. His demeanor quickly shifts to professionalism, straightening his back to focus on Patricia’s explanation of the paperwork she sets before him. The energy that had begun to fill the room has evaporated, and you’re hit with the reality that you were tempted to reveal the full extent of your dream to him. It makes your heart race, as you still haven’t come to terms with these newfound feelings you’ve developed for the mayor, so you quickly finish the final bullet points of your station announcements and snap the laptop closed. The sound catches Tom’s attention, who is almost too eager to break his focus away from Patricia to peer at you.

“Everything okay?” he asks, a flash of disappointment in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you smile, standing up and tucking your laptop into your backpack. “I’ve got the agenda for the announcements ready to go, you’ll just need to prepare your speech.” You gesture towards the clock on the wall that reads half past eight, forcing a smile to your lips. “I gotta get back to the station,” you explain. “The music block I set up ends at nine.”

“The announcements are tomorrow, right?” Patricia asks, looking between you and Tom. “I can help you write the speech.”

“No, that’s–thank you,” Tom replies. “No, thank you. I have an idea of what I’m planning on saying.” Tom’s tone with Patricia is only slightly annoyed, as though he’s been working on improving his patience; you stifle a laugh at the thought. “Okay,” he says, looking at you once again. “What’s the theme for this morning?”

“Americana.”

“Country music?” Patricia asks.

“Not quite,” you reply. “Think more of a blues and folk sound than regular country, but there’s some overlap.” Patricia hums, looking back at Tom, who adjusts the volume on the radio.

“Like Bob Dylan?” Tom asks.

“Exactly,” you agree. “Any requests?”

“Hmm,” Tom hums, thoughtfully. “James Taylor count?”

“Of course. Sweet Baby James?”

“Perfect.”

“Patricia?” you ask. “You got one for me?” She lets out a heavy sigh, her eyes darting around the floor for a moment as though she’s sifting through all of the songs she knows for one that would fit the theme.

“Bob Dylan?” she asks, referencing Tom’s earlier suggestion.

“Easy enough,” you nod, with a smile. “I got you both. Tomorrow at noon okay with you, Mr. Mayor?”

“I’ll see you then,” Tom replies, rolling his eyes at your teasing.

The following day sees Tom with you at The Waterline, the studio you inherited from your mother, to make the announcement regarding the upcoming Founder’s Day event. Though the broadcast radius is only as wide as the island, you take great pride in your job and introducing people to new music that you think will suit them. Over the time you’ve known Tom, you’ve mentioned songs here and there but when he finishes his speech and you throw to a block of music, the man inspects your record collection, commenting on those he’s heard of.

The conversation feels like it goes on for ages, and still ends too soon for your liking. In an effort to make an escape before Patricia comes looking, Tom leaves you with a request: make a mix CD for him of songs you think he’ll enjoy. It takes the rest of the day for you to curate the perfect playlist of songs that remind you of him, and as the songs burn to a disc, you peer out the window, noticing that a storm has begun to form over the water. The clouds, dark and heavy, don’t seem real but judging from the demeanor of other inhabitants of the island as they pass by your studio, you think you should begin to take it seriously - starting by boarding up your window.

The wind whips around you, nearly causing you to lose your balance as you struggle to keep the plywood pressed against the window frame. Rain obscures your vision, dirt and debris kicking up with each gust, complicating your task. You fumble with a nail that you try to bring up to the corner of the board, lifting your knee to keep the board upright to free up one of your hands.

“Fuck,” you groan, when you lose your grip on the nail, and it falls to the ground. When you attempt to dig another nail from your jacket pocket, you keep one hand on the edge of the board and your knee beneath it. You curse yourself for not removing the picture window from The Waterline when you first took over.

A noise echoes from within the storm, something that sounds like a voice, but you attribute it to the other islanders hurrying to secure their belongings before the storm worsens. The voice sounds like it’s nearing you, getting louder but still indistinguishable over the siren and the swelling storm. Just as you hear the voice calling your name, a person pushes up beside you, grabbing you by the bicep before you lose your footing.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Tom yells to be heard over the wind, leaning in close to you for support.

“Boarding up the fucking window!” you respond.

“Leave it!”

“If it breaks, my equipment is fucked!”

“Goddamnit,” Tom responds, taking the board from your hands and holding it in place, nodding his head to direct you to hammer in the nails. “Quickly!” You hurry to hammer in as many nails as you can along the board, fastening it firmly in place just as the rain begins to pick up. “Get inside!” Tom shouts, grabbing your arm to pull you along with him into the entrance of the studio.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, pushing the door closed with your body and locking it, your foot slipping on the wooden floor. When you fall to your hands and knees, Tom hurries over, crouching beside you with a hand on your back.

“Are you okay?!” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you laugh, “Thank you for your help. I probably should have done that earlier in the day, before the sirens.”

“I waited too long to sound them,” Tom mutters, standing so he can remove his raincoat. You sit up onto your knees, slipping your own coat off to hand to him, watching him hang them on the coathook. “Jesus Christ,” he sighs, wiping his hand over his face to rid it of the rain.

“You just had to run for mayor, huh?” you joke, sitting with your back against the door. Tom laughs quietly, shrugging his shoulders as he sits on the floor against the wall diagonal from you.

“I was the best candidate,” he assures you.

“You were the only candidate,” you correct, laughing along with Tom. “You do a good job, though. You couldn’t have known it was going to kick off like this.”

“I’ve been watching the fucking radar all day,” he replies. “I was hoping it would break up.”

You spend a few moments reassuring Tom that he did what he could, and he can’t control the weather, but he continues to beat himself up. You wonder if something else is bothering him, but each time you try to direct the conversation elsewhere, he turns it back to the storm. Even when you attempt to discuss his successful radio debut earlier that morning, Tom waves his hand dismissively, his thoughts clearly preoccupied. His mood has changed drastically since you saw him earlier in the day, so you decide to pivot back to the storm, seeing it as your best option for a conversation.

“I’ve always hated storms,” you say, picking at the fray in the knee of your jeans. “When I was young, and I would visit the island, my mom would always make me decide what I would want to take with me if we needed to evacuate in a hurry.”

“That’s smart,” Tom says, nodding his head. “It’s good to be prepared.”

“I’m sure that’s what she thought,” you shrug, looking back to Tom with a faint smile. “Her and my dad always wanted me to be brave, but the prospect of having to pack in a rush gave me anxiety…” You laugh quietly, tipping your head back against the wall behind you. “It got to the point that the sound of thunder would make my heart race,” you add. “I don’t know why I moved to this fucking island knowing that the weather could change so quickly.”

“Hmm, this is different,” Tom mutters, angling his head as if to listen for the sound of the growing storm outside. He appears thoughtful, concerned, as though he’s keeping something to himself but a sudden rumble of thunder from outside pulls his attention back to you. “Let’s get you away from this window,” he says, carefully hoisting himself up from the ground.

You watch Tom mill about the room for a few moments, collecting a blanket from the back of your desk chair and pushing a nearby card table to the far corner of the room. As he drapes the blanket over the small table, he waves you over, and you abide, crossing towards him and awaiting your next instruction.

“After you,” Tom says, gesturing towards the table. You laugh quietly at the small fort that he built but you crawl beneath it nonetheless, affording Tom some space so he can squeeze beside you. “This table seemed bigger from up there,” he chuckles, relaxing when he realizes there’s not enough room to give more than an inch of space between your bodies. “Is this okay?”

The confined space of the table and the blanket dampening the sound make Tom’s words seem louder than a whisper, but you nod with a smile, thanking him for being thoughtful. You sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments, finding your anxiety beginning to subside as the sound of the storm feels distant. When Tom shifts his body to get more comfortable, the inch of space is gone, leaving your sides pressed together, neither of you in a hurry to break apart. Unfortunately, the longer you sit beside him, the more anxious you become, searching for something to talk about.

“I broke into your house a few times.” You don’t know what drives you to bring it up at this exact moment, but admissions like this seem to be a new habit when you’re around Tom.

“What?” Tom asks.

“Your family’s summer house,” you clarify. “When I was a teenager.” You angle your head just enough to catch the change in Tom’s expression as you speak, the confusion giving way to incredulity. “I’d heard about you a lot when I would visit,” you say. “My dad could only afford to bring us here in the off-season to see my mom, so there weren’t a lot of people around, especially ones my age so I spent a lot of time hanging out at The Barnabus with all of the grown-ups…they taught me to play cards, so it wasn’t so bad.” You focus your attention on your frayed jeans again, feeling slightly embarrassed to continue. “Wyck and my dad were close, so my whole life I’ve heard him complain about the kids from the mainland,” you go on. “Especially you. Man, he hated you.”

“Of course he did,” Tom sighs.

“The novelty of being a kid in a bar wore off pretty quickly,” you continue. “I must have been fifteen by the time I started venturing out around the island by myself. Sneaking out at night was my favorite. We couldn’t stay with my mom when we visited…so, uh, we’d sometimes crash at Wyck’s if the Breakwater wasn’t in the budget…”

“Your mom was at The Home, wasn’t she?” Tom asks. You nod, pushing your fingers past the fray in your jeans and scraping your nails along your skin to ground yourself. “We don’t have to talk about that,” Tom assures you, his voice gentle. You nod and mutter your appreciation before you continue.

“I guess I started to get jealous that all of these other kids from the mainland could come into town with their families during the summer and ride their bikes, play games together,” you say. “I wasn’t having fun anymore, so I wanted to make my own fun.”

“By breaking into my family’s home?” Tom asks. You laugh, looking back at him for a moment to see his expression mixed between amusement and uncertainty.

“It wasn’t only your house,” you say. “Besides, everyone left their doors unlocked back then. Is it still considered ‘breaking in’ if you didn’t lock up?”

“Oh, definitely,” Tom replies, with a chuckle, nodding his head. “Did you take anything, or was being in a stranger’s house the fun of it?” You try to hide your smile at his question, but Tom catches the minute change in your expression, which causes him to scoff. “What did you take?” he asks.

“Your Johnny Damon rookie card,” you admit, scrunching your face into a wince as you await his response. Tom’s eyes widen, his lips parting as your words sink in; it’s as though he has all of his baseball cards cataloged in his mind and he was flipping through them to find anything missing. “I clocked the Tom Gordon rookie card,” you add. “But that would have gotten me caught…besides, I had a huge crush on Johnny Damon.”

“I can’t believe it,” Tom scoffs, shaking his head.

“Only with the beard, though,” you joke. “Once he shaved it, I didn’t care for him as much.”

“That’s not what–” Tom stops short, with a sigh.

“C’mon, Tom, I was a punk teenager,” you chuckle. “You were like, what, twenty-five? In college, your priorities were elsewhere…I didn’t think you’d miss it.”

“I suppose I didn’t,” Tom replies. “So, did you sell it? I doubt it would have gotten you much back then.”

“No, I still have it,” you say, gesturing idly. “I’ve got a few binders of trading cards on a bookshelf in my room. I wanted to keep it safe.”

“Trading cards you stole from other people?” Tom asks, and you shrug your shoulders, failing to stifle a laugh. Tom sighs, shaking his head, but you notice his expression is far less annoyed than you were expecting; he seems more amused. “Well,” he sighs. “I’ll have to stop by sometime to see my old card.”

“Oh, you just want to see my bedroom,” you quip, waving your hand dismissively. It takes a moment for the words you spoke to click on your head, but when you realize what you had implied, you can feel your cheeks flush in embarrassment. “That was weird,” you force a laugh. “Sorry, I was just…I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay,” Tom replies, his voice lower, and a hint of amusement clear in his tone. “Don’t apologize.”

You both remain quiet for a few moments, and you worry that you made him uncomfortable despite his assurance that everything was fine. You shift your position, pressing your palms against your thighs, letting your fingers dig into your jeans, twisting to calm yourself. Tom clears his throat, shifting ever-so slightly to close the bit of space between your bodies once again. The action surprises you, but not as much as the excited lurch in your chest at the contact.

“Why did you move to Widow’s Bay?” Tom asks. “You didn’t have anything here after your mom passed, and you know what this island does…what it is.” You notice that Tom’s hands are fidgeting, his fingers rubbing together before he clenches them into fists, then releasing. His sudden anxiety is as palpable as feel yours must be, but you think of his question, and the soft, concerning way he poses it.

“I had this place,” you say, gesturing around the room. “Which is more than what I have on the mainland. The island had been quiet for a while; I didn’t think anything of it.” You sigh heavily, resting your back against the wall and rolling your head to the side so you can peer directly at Tom. “This storm,” you begin. “This is part of it, isn’t it?”

“Mhm,” Tom nods, mirroring your position of leaning back against the wall, but he doesn’t look at you immediately. “I’m afraid of what we have to do to stop it. I don’t think I can.” You study Tom’s microexpressions as he thinks of his own words: sadness, worry, a fleeting moment of clarity as if he comes to terms with things before immediately dropping back into his anxiety.

“Hey,” you whisper, catching Tom’s attention. He rolls his head to look at you, his gaze softening when he sees the smile on your face. “You’re braver than you think you are.”

“You might be the only one who believes that,” Tom whispers, smiling sympathetically.

“Who gives a shit what everyone ‘believes’?” you ask. “If it’s true, that’s all that matters.” Tom stares at you for a moment, allowing your words to sink in. His eyes scan your face, as if he’s searching for the truth, so you smile gently. “I just remembered, I also took your VHS copy of Fast Times,” you whisper. “You forgot to rewind it, so it was stopped at the pool scene–”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Mayor Loftis,”  you begin, trying your best to sound scandalized. “Were you jerking off to Phoebe Cates?”

“You just can’t help teasing me,” Tom mutters, a small tinge of pink visible on his cheeks.

Tom’s response is endearing, earnest, and you’re not sure if it’s the proximity or something that you’ve been carrying with you, but you’re hit with an urge you hadn’t experienced with Tom before. You cut off any excuse he may have by angling your body closer to him and pressing a kiss to his lips; Tom freezes, stiffening at the contact, which causes you to pull away immediately.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, finding it to be your turn to be flush with embarrassment once again as you look away from him. “I don’t know…what came over me…that was inappropriate.” You wiggle your body away from him, pressing yourself as close to the legs of the card table as you can so you’re no longer touching him.

“There’s no reason to keep apologizing,” Tom says, quietly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” His voice is still soft, but his tone shifted, deepening just enough that you can feel another jump in your bones as he speaks. “I’m not upset,” Tom continues. “It’s fine…nice, even.”

When you look back to Tom to gauge his expression, he leans in to kiss you this time. It’s soft, hesitant, like he’s trying to recall how to kiss, or that he’s worried you’ll push him away. You sigh gently, leaning into him to urge him onward; Tom’s response is still timid, only giving you a few tame, closed-mouth kisses. In an effort to get him to relax, you turn your body towards him and grasp the damp material of his sweatshirt to pull your body closer to his.

Tom hums quietly, but doesn’t change his actions, only carefully places his hand on your bicep to keep contact with you through his soft kisses. You make a move instead, kissing the corner of his mouth to his cheek, and down his jaw. The grip he has on your arm tightens, his breath coming heavier as you kiss along his neck. He nuzzles his head against yours, trying to get your attention, so you pull back to peer into his eyes; he only stays like that for a split-second before he brings you back towards him again.

The kisses are more forceful now, needier, but you can tell he’s still holding back. You want to give him a better indication that you want him to give in, because you want to give in, as well. You use your grip on his hoodie to pull yourself even closer to him in the small space, shifting your hips so you can hook your leg over his thighs. Tom’s hand moves to your thigh as you try to pull yourself onto his lap, but the small table hinders you, causing you to bump your head.

“Shit,” you mutter against his mouth, trying to keep your body slouched enough to get onto his lap, but you struggle with the space. Tom breaks from the kiss, both of his hands on your hips to help you, but you both find the space far too confined to get into the correct position. “Goddamnit,” you hiss, dropping back into your previous position on the floor but leaving your leg hooked over him. “We can…” You trail off, gesturing outside of the small fort, towards the floor. Tom glances from the floor to you, the hesitance returning to his face, which causes your stomach to drop. “Oh, fuck,” you say, flushing again. “You don’t…you’re not into…I’m sorry.”

“What? No!” Tom replies quickly. “I just…” He trails off rubbing his hand over his forehead as he scrunches his eyes shut. “This might not be a good time,” he says, looking at you. “I need to get back to town hall to make sure everyone made it safely…you need to be there, too.”

“Sure,” you nod. “Okay, I’ll pack up my stuff.”

“Please, it’s not–”

“I get it,” you reply, pulling your body away from him and crawling from beneath the table. Tom calls your name following close behind you so you’re both on your feet once again. “It’s okay!” you say, forcing a smile to your lips as you nod at Tom. “I got caught up for a second there…it won’t happen again.”

You keep your back to Tom as you begin to collect your things, the sounds of the storm just outside the building now coming back into focus. There’s a palpable tension in the room and you’re certain you can feel Tom’s attention still on you, but you’re far too embarrassed to look his way again. When you slip your raincoat on again, pulling the hood up, Tom brushes past you to grab his, taking a few steps back as he dons his coat.

“I forgot,” you begin, pulling the sleeve containing the disc you made him from your pocket. “Here’s that CD for you.”

“Oh, that was fast,” Tom says, appearing surprised as he accepts the gift. “Thank you. I can’t wait to listen to it.”

“Lead the way, Mr. Mayor,” you say before he has a chance to speak any further.

Once Tom slips the disc into his hoodie pocket, he yanks the door open, only to be met with an intense gust of wind that almost sends him tumbling to the floor. You stay close behind him, one hand gripping the back of his coat so you don’t lose him in the quick dash up the street to town hall. Tom ushers you into the building first, pausing to check that you’re unharmed, but the concern in his eyes brings you back to the moment at The Waterline. You can only flush, breaking eye contact with him and following Dale towards the storm shelter, not able to spare another glance at Tom as you depart.

—

Upon returning to the Waterline the next day, there’s minimal damage to the building, however you are unable to get a signal. You check the antennas and transmitters on the roof of the building, finding them to be working as expected. With a groan, you stare across the island to the radio tower, dreading what damage was done to the structure and how difficult it will be to repair. You get in contact with the radio affiliate on the mainland, explaining your situation, and he agrees to send the parts on the next ferry if you provide him with a list.

The walk to the tower brings you past town hall. You spot Tom’s Jeep in the lot, and despite your embarrassment from the night before, you’re hit with a need to see him. As you near the building, you try to plan what you’ll say to him, how to approach the topic without seeming as pathetic as you feel, but your mind fills with static instead the second you set foot over the threshold.

You duck past Patricia and Dale, hoping to avoid any conversations about the chaos that occurred in the storm shelter the night before, but are still trapped by Rosemary who insists on telling you about Ruth’s mishap. You nod along with the gossip, finding it unbelievable that she would ‘accidentally’ get shot, but you don’t ask questions in the hopes that Rosemary will finish her story sooner. When Tom walks past the office, he thankfully spots you, coming to a stop in the doorway and giving a small smile as he clears his throat, saying your name to interrupt Rosemary.

“There you are,” he says, stepping into the room. “We’ve got, uh, a meeting…to discuss some pressing…radio matters. About…” You notice Tom struggling to find a lie to break you away from Rosemary, so you jump in to assist.

“The parts I need to repair the tower,” you say. “The storm did some damage last night.”

“Right,” Tom nods. “Exactly, the tower. So, if you’ll excuse us, Rosemary.” Tom gestures for you to lead the way to his office and he falls in line closely behind you, shutting the door once you’re both inside. “Hey,” he smiles, taking a few steps closer to you. “Sorry about that. She didn’t have you too long, did she?”

“No, only a few minutes,” you answer. “She was saying something about Ruth getting shot?” The smile drops from Tom’s face and he swallows hard, breaking eye contact with you to look towards his desk.

“It was a graze,” Tom explains. “Dr. Morgan was able to patch her up, and she’s got a few days off to rest. She’ll be fine, don’t worry.” Though what he’s saying sounds sincere, he also sounds nervous. “So, the radio tower took some damage, huh?” he asks, rubbing his hands over the side of his slacks.

“Uh, yeah,” you say. “I haven’t gotten over there to check it out yet. I was on my way, actually, but I saw your Jeep outside and wanted to stop in to see you.” The smile returns to Tom’s face, his eyes lighting up at your words.

“I’m glad you did,” he says, quietly. “I planned on coming by the Waterline, I just haven’t had a moment yet this morning.” You both stay silent for a second, waiting for the other to continue the conversation as though neither of you are sure how to discuss the night before. “Uh, I was about to take a drive around the island,” Tom begins, gesturing behind him with his thumb. “I need to check out the damage from the storm…”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to slow you down,” you reply, prepared to turn and leave but Tom speaks again.

“No, not at all!” he hurries, taking a few steps closer to you. “I was going to ask if you’d want to join me. Patricia has a call with the shipyard on the mainland about the ferries, so I’m in need of a note-taker if you’re up for it. We can stop at the tower to see what’s going on.” Tom gives you a hopeful smile, awaiting your response, but before you can, Patricia enters the room carrying her purse and notepad.

“Ready, Tom?” she asks.

“What happened to your call?” he asks.

“They pushed it back until two,” Patricia says, noticing the disappointment spreading across Tom’s face. She glances between you and Tom, scoffing when she sets her eyes on the mayor once again. “Clearly, I’m interrupting something,” she says, gesturing in frustration with both of her hands.

“No, we were just talking about the radiator tower,” you explain. “I can’t get a signal out and the transmitters on the roof are fine. Tom was asking me to ride with him to the tower to check.”

“That’s a good idea,” Patricia says, nodding. “We can drive by there on the way to the docks.”

“Yep,” Tom nods, with a sigh. “We can.” He spares you a quick, apologetic look, before gesturing for you both to walk ahead of him out of the office.

In part, you’re glad that Patricia invites herself along for the ride, because the thought of being alone with Tom brings complicated feelings within you. After the botched attempt at romance the night before, you’re feeling wounded, and you fear that Tom will want to talk about it to explain why he rebuffed your advances. However, you replay the expressions on Tom’s face once you entered his office that morning: he seemed relieved and excited to see you. Not only that, but the disc you made for him is playing quietly over the speakers in his Jeep, several tracks into the mix already. With that, you wished that Patricia had stayed at the office.

During the drive around the island, you frequently catch Tom’s gaze on you in the rearview mirror. He’s clearly frustrated with Patricia, who returns the sentiment, and you feel like you’re trapped in a car with two bickering siblings. They argue over what constitutes ‘damage’, why Tom isn’t taking his time to assess everything properly, and why Patricia is so insistent that Tom stop the car so she can take pictures of everything (he’s sure that she can snap a clear enough picture as he drives thirty-five in a twenty).

By the end of the ride, you’re thankful to be away from the two, but before you can get too far, Patricia stops you to ask if you can DJ the next party she wants to host three days later. You notice the tense expression on her face when you make a quip about the previous party she put on, but you agree to help her out nonetheless. You notice that Tom is lingering around as you speak with Patricia, as if he’s awaiting his turn to talk with you, but the other woman drags him back towards town hall with talks of a meeting.

That was the last time you saw Tom until this moment, at Patricia’s party. From your position behind your DJ table, you spot the man entering the Barnabus as casually as he can muster. His eyes don’t find you immediately, but from the way he moves, stiff and rehearsed, you can tell he’s trying to play it cool. You can’t help but smile at the sight of him peering around the room at everything except you, nodding his head to the beat of the music. When he finally spots you, he feigns surprise, giving you a small wave; you only roll your eyes with an amused smirk on your lips.

Tom still does not approach you right away, instead continuing to act indifferent as he greets a few of the guests of the party. You decide to follow his lead, queuing up the next song from the playlist that Patricia curated along with your suggestions. It surprised you that she was even remotely susceptible to persuasion when it came to her party, but you decided not to ask questions, taking advantage of the moment. 

“Hey, do you take requests?” Looking up, you find Tom smiling at you from across the table, two drinks in his hand. You return the smile and shake your head.

“Sorry, regulations say that I cannot play anything that is not on the pre-determined playlist,” you reply, raising your voice to be heard over the music. “But you can pick something out from the list if you want.” You nod your head, gesturing for him to join you behind the table.

“Here,” Tom says, holding out one of the drinks as he slips into place beside you.

“I don’t drink anything at Patricia’s parties,” you wince, and Tom laughs.

“Straight from the tap,” he assures you. “I promise you that I watched them pour it myself.” You chuckle, accepting the glass from him and taking a sip as Tom leans in closer to get a view of your computer screen. “Patricia picked out all of these songs?” he asks.

“I helped her fine tune it,” you reply, as Tom leans even closer into your space.

“I can tell,” he grins, cutting his eyes to you for a moment before looking back to the screen. “Thanks again for the CD by the way. I can’t stop listening to it; it’s fucking great.” His admission catches you by surprise, and you’re thankful he looks back at the computer so he won’t see the expression on your face. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it,” he goes on. “But we haven't had many opportunities since the storm.”

“I know you’ve been busy. You’re the protector of the island, after all.”

“I still could have found time,” he says, turning so that his back is towards the dancing crowd. “I’ve been thinking about you.” His admission sets a flutter across your stomach, and you let out a small laugh.

“About how stupid I was that night?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “How stupid I was.”

“You had responsibilities to attend to.”

“I could have been clearer about why I was hesitant,” Tom explains. “You don’t–”

Tom is cut off by someone bumping into the table, nearly knocking down the laptop in the process. The woman mutters an apology, but you can see the frustrated look on Tom’s face as he glances around at how crowded the room is becoming. You quickly queue up a few songs onto the laptop before gesturing towards the kitchen in a silent question to Tom. He nods, moving ahead of you towards the back of the building where the entrance to the kitchen sets. Once you’re both out of earshot, Tom turns to face you, his hands fumbling nervously.

“It’s okay if you were nervous, Tom,” you assure him. “I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been with anyone, but–”

“No, it’s not that,” he interrupts. “I mean, it has been a while, but that’s easy enough to handle.”

“Oh,” you say, your shoulders dropping as your mind begins to come up with more disappointing reasons why he rejected you that night. “That’s cool; I understand not being interested–”

“Will you just let me tell you?” Tom interjects once again, a very vague hint of frustration in his tone as he tries to keep his expression focused. You feel an embarrassed flush overtake your body, so you nod your head and mutter a quick apology, allowing him to speak. “I was interested in you,” he says, before hurrying to continue. “I still am! It didn’t have anything to do with you…not really.” You furrow your brow, waiting for him to explain. “That night was…” Tom trails off, searching for a word to explain, but coming up empty. “That fucking storm…I wasn’t in the right state of mind that night.”

“Sure.”

“The only thing I knew for sure at that moment was that if that was to turn into something more…passionate…” he continues. “I didn’t want our first time to be on the floor of the Waterline.” There’s silence for a moment as you think about his statement, but Tom adds, “You deserve more respect than that.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding. “I wouldn’t have thought you didn’t…respect me or anything. I really wanted it. I wanted you.” He chuckles, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck nervously. “I understand, though,” you add. “Thank you for wanting to be respectful.”

“I was thinking,” he begins. “You could come to my house next Friday after the Founder’s Day kickoff…Evan will be with his friends, I’m sure, and once the festivities begin, I’m free. I can cook dinner for you and we can–”

“We can fuck in a bed?” you quip, watching the playful yet shy grin spread on Tom’s lips.

“If that’s what you want.”

“Okay, deal.”

You extend your hand towards Tom to shake, but he looks between your face and your hand with a chuckle. Instead of accepting the handshake, he steps closer to you, sparing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you’re alone, then grasps you by the forearm to pull your body into his. He kisses you softly, one of his hands pressed to the small of your back while your hands rest on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the soft material of his cardigan.

The kiss is soft at first but you feel his hand plant more firmly to your back, leading you to anticipate a more passionate kiss, however, someone quickly enters the kitchen, sending you both scrambling apart to avoid being caught. The bartender doesn’t notice either of you as he mutters under his breath about a drink request, so you and Tom both stay still to avoid catching his attention. After digging through the cabinets for a moment, the bartender finds what he’s searching for and quickly exits the room once again.

This time, you make the move, backing Tom into the fridge, your hands on either side of his face while his hands find your waist to pull you against him. Your head reels in excitement, soft moans rattling in your throat as Tom deepens the kiss, allowing the tips of his fingers to slip just beneath the hem of your shirt so he can make contact with your skin. You grind your hips against Tom on instinct and he breaks the kiss to let out a groan of your name, his fingers digging deeper into your skin.

“You’re going to…I’m going to get hard if you keep doing that,” he explains, his expression half shy, half turned on.

“If you do,” you begin, leaning in to kiss his neck. “I can take care of you…” You grind yourself forward again, sticking out your bottom lip in a pout to tease Tom when a strangled moan falls from his lips. “Oh, but you want to wait,” you whisper, gently pushing away from him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor.” Tom stays pressed against the fridge, as if he’s frozen in place. He swallows hard, peeling himself away from the appliance, adjusting the crotch of his slacks to hide the growing bulge.

“I’m looking forward to Friday,” Tom says, running his thumb along the corners of his lips to wipe away the saliva from your kiss. “No interruptions…no teasing.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” you laugh. A small, playful grin starts to spread on Tom’s lips, but he tries to hide it with a stern expression as he points at you, warning you.

“I am the mayor,” he says. “You should listen to what I say.” His cheeky tone makes you smile even though his words give you butterflies. You take a step back towards him to kiss him on the corner of his mouth.

“That was actually kinda hot,” you whisper. “I’ll try to listen better, Mr. Mayor.” You’re close enough to hear Tom’s breath hitch when you speak, but you don’t give him the opportunity to reply. You exit the kitchen to return to the party, leaving him to think of nothing but you.

—

The days leading up to Founder’s Day feel as though they drag on for eternity. Although you would have enjoyed teasing Tom as much as you could during that time, you find yourself on edge, riddled with excitement and nerves. Each time you catch a glimpse of Tom around town, your skin flushes, your hands trembling, thinking of what will happen when you finally have uninterrupted alone time with him.

When you arrive at Tom’s house for your date, Evan answers the door. You struggle for a moment to not appear disappointed, thinking it’s possible that he just hasn’t left for the night yet. That is until he invites you in, and you see Tom’s annoyed expression when he greets you. Evan excuses himself to return to watching television in the living room, and you follow Tom to the kitchen, where you see dinner is almost complete. To your surprise, you hear a song from your mix for Tom playing from the boombox on the counter; you wonder if Tom truly enjoys the music, or if he’s pretending so he can spare your feelings.

“I’m so sorry,” Tom says, quietly. “He doesn’t want to go to Founder’s Day. Usually I can’t keep him in the goddamn house, but when I need him to, he won’t get the fuck out.” The annoyance in Tom’s voice makes you laugh, so you step beside him placing your hand on his bicep to give a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay,” you assure him, with a smile. “Dinner smells great.” Tom lets out a heavy sigh, tipping his head to the side to be able to peer at you. He scans your face, studying you as though he’s unsure of how you really feel, and he wants to read your true emotions. “I bet it tastes great, too,” you add.

“I’m sure you do,” Tom responds, the soft dreaminess in his tone letting you know that he didn’t realize what he said. You bite your lip, stifling a laugh but still feeling a flush wash over you at the thought of his head between your thighs. “Fuck,” Tom says, closing his eyes. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Don’t apologize,” you say. “I kinda like when you talk that way.” Tom chuckles, looking at you once again. This time, you notice a mischievous glint in his eyes, his pupils dilated more than before, so you lean in and give him a quick kiss on his lips. “Did you need any help cooking?” you whisper.

“No, I’m just finishing up,” Tom answers. “I have a feeling you’d distract me anyway. Go out in the other room with Evan.” You squeeze his bicep once again, opting not to respond with any of the teasing retorts that immediately came to mind. “Go,” Tom urges, pinching your side before gently pushing you towards the kitchen door. “And try not to steal anything.”

After dinner, you sit beside Tom on the sofa while Evan lounges on the floor several feet away, focused on his handheld game and ignoring the movie that plays on the television. Tom, who keeps a few inches of space between your bodies, keeps his hands on his lap, alternating from rubbing his hands over his knees to clenching his fingers. Even with the distance between your bodies, you can feel the tension radiating off of him, and you’re certain he can feel the same from you.

In an effort to get some contact with Tom to alleviate the taut feeling in your skin, you feign a shiver, hugging your arms around yourself. Tom notices, picking up the blanket from the arm of the sofa, and spreading it over both of your laps. He beckons you in, setting his arm on the back of the sofa around your shoulders to invite you even closer. You snuggle in beside him, slipping one of your hands beneath the blanket to set on top of his thigh, an action that gives Tom a noticeable smile.

A few minutes pass with you both staying in your new, comfortable position, and you can’t help but feel the need growing within you. You angle your head towards Tom, finding his eyes already on you, a very faint tinge of pink gracing his cheeks as you catch him. Closing the space between you, Tom kisses you softly, another one of the quick pecks you’re growing used to, but something that leaves you wanting more of him. Your hand on his thigh slips a little higher, your fingers pressing against the seam along the inner thigh of his slacks with just enough urgency that Tom breaks from the kiss to give you a look of panic.

You’re forced to steady yourselves when Evan suddenly gets up to leave the room, thankfully not even sparing a glance your way. Once Tom is sure that Evan is out of earshot, he looks back to you, inching himself closer and tightening his arm around your shoulders. You kiss him again, a little more forceful than before, enough to pull a small sigh from Tom. All you want is to feel his hands on you - the thought plagues your mind and you can’t help but grab for his free hand to drag it beneath the blanket covering your laps.

Tom hums almost indiscernibly, struggling to keep as quiet as possible when he breaks from the kiss. He keeps his eyes on your face for a moment, mouthing ‘what are you doing’ before checking that Evan hasn’t returned. This time, when he looks back to you, he lowers his focus to your lap, peeking beneath the blanket to watch as you slip his fingertips just beneath the hemline of your skirt. You release your grip on his hand once you rest his hand on your inner thigh, allowing him to make the next move.

Wasting no time, Tom pushes his hand higher, and you spread your thighs on instinct when you feel his fingers begin to stroke over the damp spot of your panties. It’s difficult to stifle the small gasp the contact pulls from you, but Tom’s attention snaps up to your face, giving you a warning glare. You nod quickly, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and not breaking eye contact with him. His fingers gently trace back and forth over the lace of your panties, not applying enough pressure to give you much pleasure, but enough to leave you edging your hips into his touch.

When he hooks his index finger into your panties, tugging them aside, you pull in a sharp breath, desperate to keep your composure, but Tom is quick to trace the tip of his middle finger through your folds before retracting his hand from beneath the blanket. The second your eyes lock onto his hand, fingers damp with your slick, you’re hit with an urge you hadn’t felt in some time. You grab his wrist to pull his hand towards you, your tongue slipping out to tease the pads of his index and middle fingers.

Keeping your eyes locked with Tom’s wasn’t a choice, but an instinct, unable to break away from his hypnotized gaze, blue eyes darkened with desire. You would be tempted to make a show of things, moaning and whining with an aching need for him, but with his son still home, you keep yourself together, opting to take your time instead. Once Tom slips his fingers into your mouth, however, you feel your willpower beginning to crumble and from the expression on Tom’s face, he’s struggling too.

Given Tom’s proximity, you can hear the hitch in his breath when you suck softly on his digits. You give him the most innocent eyes you can muster, using your gentle grip on his wrist to give shallow thrusts of his fingers into your mouth, dragging them across your tongue. His jaw clenches, his eyes cutting down for the briefest moment when he catches your hips rolling involuntarily against nothing.

There’s a second that you see a change in him, something snapping inside despite his best efforts to control it. He snatches his hand from you and adjusts your skirt, along with the blanket to ensure you’re both covered completely before he settles against the sofa again. You’re stunned at first, specifically when he inches himself away from you enough that you’re not pressed together anymore, his arm dropping from around your shoulders back into his lap. If you didn’t know any better, you’d wonder if he suddenly became repulsed by you. After a few moments in silence, Evan reenters the room, and Tom clears his throat, glancing at his watch.

“The fireworks for Founder’s Day should be starting soon,” he says. “Evan, buddy, did you not want to check those out? With PJ and the guys, maybe?” He attempts to keep his tone casual so as not to give away his intentions to his son, but when the teenager stops in his tracks, you notice the confusion on his face.

“You’re telling me to hang out with PJ?” he asks.

“Well, he’s your friend,” Tom chuckles nervously. “You’re a teenager; go have some fun, ya’know?” Judging from Evan’s expression, he’s unconvinced by Tom’s words, and the older man looks to be on the verge of passing out from trying to maintain his composure, so you step in.

“I’ve been trying to get your old man to unclench a little,” you say to Evan, tossing the blanket from your lap and smoothing out your skirt as you stand from the sofa. “Cut you some slack, ya’know?”

“Okay…” Evan says, slowly. You cross to where you dropped your bag when you arrived and unhook your keys from the zipper, turning to face Evan again.

“You can take my car,” you say, walking towards him and holding your keys out to him. “Pick up the guys and head to the beach for the fireworks.” Evan looks back and forth between you and Tom, as though he thinks you’re trying to trick him. “I can trust you, right?” you ask, narrowing your eyes. “You’re not going to do some illegal shit—”

“Language,” Tom interrupts.

“—Stuff,” you correct yourself, sending a glare to Tom before looking back to Evan. “In my car, are you?”

“No, no!” Evan hurries, reaching for the keys, but you pull them from his reach.

“I’m serious, dude,” you lower your voice. “Your dad has enough on his plate with this island; he shouldn’t have to worry that you and your dumba—your goofy friends are getting into trouble.” Evan nods as you continue. “If you work with me on this,” you begin. “And you don’t do anything stupid, your dad would maybe ease up on you and let you breathe a little. Cool?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Evan says quickly, nodding again. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” you say, handing him the keys and looking between Evan and Tom. “Do you have a curfew or something? Does he?”

“Fireworks should be done by eight,” Tom says, his voice still tight. “Bonfire is nine to eleven, so let’s say midnight, at the latest. How’s that?”

“Great!” Evan nods. “Thank you! Thanks!”

The young man scrambles out the front door letting it slam shut behind him, leaving you alone with Tom. For a moment, neither of you move, simply stare at one another as you listen to the sounds of Evan shutting the door of your car and the engine rumbling. Your heart begins to pound in your chest at the thought of finally having Tom to yourself, and from the way he’s tossed the blanket from his lap so his fingers can twist at the fabric of his khakis, you know he’s just as anxious as you.

“Is he gone?” Tom asks, his voice low as though he’s still afraid of getting caught. You hear the crunch of tires in the driveway, the hum of your engine growing faint as he departs. Still, you glance towards the window, ensuring that you don’t see the headlights shining through.

“He’s gone,” you nod, peering at Tom.

Time seems to stand still, both of you caught in this long awaited moment together, thoughts racing with the events of the last several days. Even from across the dimly lit room, you can see in Tom’s eyes that he’s trying to determine where he wants to start, but is immediately overwhelmed with options. It’s then that you notice the bulge in his pants, straining against the zipper of his khakis and stretching the thick material. You nearly salivate at the thought of tasting him, of touching him, finally feeling him inside you.

“Upstairs,” Tom says, suddenly, hoisting himself from the sofa and moving with purpose across the room. He catches you by the wrist, his grip firm so he can tug you along behind him while he ascends the stairs. “Careful,” he warns, when he feels you stumble on one of the steps.

“You must be really horny,” you joke.

“How could I not be?” Tom mutters, pushing you ahead of him into the doorway of his bedroom.

“I bet you wish we hooked up that night at the Waterline, huh?” you ask, looking at the decor of his room.

“It’ll be one of my lifelong regrets,” Tom replies with a laugh.

“Don’t worry,” you say, sitting on the edge of his bed and peering towards him. “The station isn’t going anywhere and neither am I. We’ll find a time to make up for it.”

Tom stares at you for another moment, his hands clenching into fists and then releasing again so he can stretch out his fingers. The nervous tic has endeared you even before you started flirting with Tom, but now you can only focus on how his hands will feel when they’re on your skin. He makes his way towards you, each step careful as though he expects you to change your mind before he closes the distance, but instead you straighten your back and spread your knees, silently beckoning him closer.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles once he’s stood between your knees, his hands cradling your head so you can look up at him. “I don’t think I’ve told you that yet, but it’s true.”

“So are you,” you smile, setting your hands on his hips. Tom laughs quietly, an unconvinced, bashful laugh that brings a small tint of pink to his cheeks.

“Here…” he mumbles, dropping his hands to grab the hem of your shirt. He stoops slightly, bringing his face near yours, and you can’t help the grin that spreads across your lips. “What?” Tom asks, tightening his fingers on your shirt.

“You haven’t shaved,” you whisper, noting the slightly surprised look on his face at your comment.

“Oh, I haven’t had—yeah, sorry, I guess that wouldn’t be appealing,” he stumbles over his words and attempts to pull away, likely to go to the bathroom, but you stop him.

“I’ve been dying to see how your stubble feels on my skin,” you reply, rubbing your hand over his cheek.

A devious grin cracks across Tom’s face just before he captures your lips in a kiss. It’s light, neat; nothing about the kiss feels like it’s right for the moment, but you attribute it to Tom’s lack of romantic activity in recent years. His fingers find their way beneath your shirt, gently making contact with your skin, gauging your response. Your only reaction is to break from the kiss and look up at him again.

“Tom,” you say, cupping his cheek again. “I’m not delicate or precious about this stuff.” Tom nods, soaking in your words. “I promise it’s okay,” you continue, tracing your thumb along his bottom lip. “If you’re being cautious for yourself, that’s one thing, but don’t take your time for my sake because I need you right now. Please. I can’t wait anymore.”

“Okay,” he nods, taking your hands away from him and once again grasping the hem of your shirt so he can finally tug it over your head.

This time, when Tom kisses you, the passion is there and the hesitance abandoned. His tongue slips into your mouth, meeting with yours and trying to touch everywhere he can. You whine quietly into his mouth, grabbing onto his shoulders so tight that you fist at the material of his shirt. Tom responds with a gentle hum, as if to let you know he hears you and he’s here with you, but the sensation of his hand cupping your breast pulls another whimper from your lips.

After a moment, Tom urges you onto your back, dropping one knee into the bed and bracing himself with his free hand onto the mattress. You stay locked into this kiss for more time that you can quantify; it feels like minutes stretching on into hours, but it still doesn’t feel like enough time. His thumb circles around your nipple, feeling it harden through the thin material of your bra until he can gently pinch it. The surprised yelp you release startles Tom, and he tips back so he can see you.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“What about this?” Tom asks, peppering a few kisses over your throat and collarbone as he travels down your body. You can feel his breath through the lace of your bra for a brief moment before his mouth captures your nipple. His tongue circles it, teeth gently teasing with a soft tug that makes your back arch against him “I was taking it slow,” he breathes, moving to your other breast to repeat his actions. “Because I didn’t want to come across as desperate.”

“I like desperate,” you whisper. “For you to show me how badly you need me?” You close your eyes and pull in a deep breath, savoring the thought, when you feel Tom moving again, lowering to his knees on the floor. You prop onto your elbows so you can watch his hands spread your thighs wider.

“You don’t like slow, though,” he says, keeping his eyes on you as he pushes your skirt up your thighs. “Do you?” You shake your head, too mesmerized with that playful glint that’s returned to his eyes when he glances down at your panties. “I’ve never seen you wear a skirt before,” Tom points out, pressing his hand flat against your pelvis so his thumb can brush against your panties. “Did you do that because you wanted to see me on my knees like this?”

“No,” you respond. “I thought I’d ride you on the sofa, but I like this view a lot better.”

“So do I,” Tom smiles, stroking his thumb over the damp material of your panties. “Your panties are so thin, I’m sure I can taste you through them.” He doesn’t wait for your response before he leans in to give you a few small kisses through your panties, making you gasp in surprise. “Have you been wet like this for me all night?” he asks, dragging his tongue over you this time. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you dripped onto the sofa…this is fucking beautiful.” You whine his name, reaching one hand towards him to cradle his head. “You can show me where you want me,” he whispers. “Go on.”

You guide his head towards you again until his mouth presses against your clit through your panties. Tom hums softly when you tug his hair, signaling to him that’s where you need him the most. Both of his hands press against your inner thighs to spread them wider, opening you up to he can toy with you through your underwear.

“Fuck,” you whine, watching him close his eyes as he focuses on his actions. He switches between gentle sucking and quick flicks of his tongue, having you edge yourself closer to his mouth when he gives the slightest bit of reprieve. “Tom, that feels so good,” you breathe out, watching his eyes flutter open so you can see the way his normally bright eyes have darkened over with desire. “Wait, wait.”

“Mmm,” Tom hums, breaking away but giving another quick kiss through your panties before he looks up again. “What is it, sweetheart? Are you okay?” You expected his tone to be teasing, but he’s concerned, the drastic difference between the two making you flush all over.

“I want to take them off,” you explain, shifting your hips so you can reach beneath your skirt to grab onto your panties. “I have to feel you.”

Tom nods, sitting back just enough to help you slip your panties from your feet. He quickly discards them to the side before he dives back between your thighs. You’re able to feel him completely now, the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow against your sensitive skin as his mouth resumes its torture on your clit. When you grind your hips against his face, Tom moans, his eyes closing again, and that’s when you notice his hand is out of your sight past the end of the bed.

“Fuck, are you touching yourself?” you ask him, your voice weak, sounding entirely unlike your own. Tom’s eyes open again and he hums with a nod, breathing harder against you when he pauses.

“I’m really fucking hard,” he pants, his arm still moving at a slow pace. “Everything about you makes me feel like I’m losing control.”

Tom’s voice is tight, the desperation in his words almost too much to bear, so you gently nudge him away to give you room to sit up. For a moment, Tom looks confused, until you remove your bra so it can join your panties on the floor. His hand still slowly works over his length as he watches you, his eyes lingering on the newly exposed skin, but you urge him to stand up.

“No wonder you’re always so stressed,” you mutter, moving his hand away from his length so you can see him completely. “A dick this big…” You trail off, keeping your eyes angled up to watch his face as you slowly drag your tongue over his head to lick up the taste of him. Tom’s strangled groan makes your own composure harder to maintain, but you persist. “That tastes so good,” you add, swirling your tongue around to gather another taste. “Being neglected?” You take only his tip into your mouth, giving a soft suck while your tongue makes another swirl over him, and your hand holds him near the base. You listen to the way Tom fights back his moans as you tease him, so you pull away, leaving only your hand on him when you peer up at him. “If I’d known,” you begin. “I would have been under your desk every day to give you what you needed…Mayor Loftis.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tom grunts, his hand finding the back of your head, pressing firmly to bring you back towards him.

“It’s just me and you here,” you remind him, as you lean in again, carefully spitting to coat his length with a few strokes of your hand. “Be as loud as you want. I know I will be.”

This time you take him deeper into your mouth, your hand stroking over what remains. Each bob of your head, you take him ever-so-slightly deeper, your tongue dragging on the underside of his shaft. Tom keeps one of his hands on the back of your head, not enough pressure to push you to take him deeper but he does help you increase the speed of your movements.

“Goddamnit,” Tom hisses, his hips rocking in time with you. It’s easy to see from the restrained movements that he is struggling not to push himself deeper still, so you give him a moan to get his eyes on you again. “You’re doing good, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Your mouth feels…” He trails off, his eyes slipping closed to allow him to focus, but the sight gives you a chill, the sensation running through your whole body to end between your thighs.

You slip Tom from your mouth but keep your hand stroking the entirety of him. This catches his attention once again, his eyes boring through you, wondering what you’ll do next. Only for a moment, you stop touching him, just long enough to bring your hand between your thighs to collect some of your slick onto your fingers, using it to coat him once again. Tom mutters under his breath but you’re too focused to decipher his words, instead taking him back into your mouth to taste the combination of the two of you.

“Fuck,” Tom grinds out. “You’re…” He loses his words when you take him deeper, dropping your hand back between your thighs to touch yourself as you bob your head over his length. “That’s it,” Tom breathes, nodding. “You like how we taste together?”

“Mmmhmmm,” you drag out the hum intentionally, sending sensations through the man that makes his knees buckle and his grip on the back of your head to tighten.

“You love being a little tease,” Tom states, losing his breath as he speaks.

Tom’s voice is deeper, raspier than you’ve heard it, his slightly restrained dirty talk making your insides twist in excitement. You set your hands on his hips, leaning closer and getting more comfortable as you take him even deeper into your mouth so he touches the back of your throat. Tom moans, pressing your head harder and nudging his hips forward so he settles as deep as he can go before going still.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tom moans. “Stay just like that, sweetheart.” You give a small hum, just to toy with him while he’s stretching out your throat, and Tom body jerks involuntarily. “Fucking tease,” he mumbles. “Can’t help yourself.”

You struggle to keep him in place for a moment longer, your eyes watering from the intrusion, until you can’t take it anymore. You give a squeeze of his hips, signaling that you need to breathe; Tom is quick to pull out of your mouth, stroking his hand over your back as you gasp for breath.

“Get up on the bed,” Tom directs, his voice stern but still wavering. “All the way. On your back.”

Once you’re able to regain your composure, you listen to Tom’s instructions, crawling towards the pillows and dropping onto your back to get comfortable. When your eyes fall on Tom again, he’s removed his shirt, and is working on the rest of his clothes while he watches you. Following his lead, you remove your skirt, leaving you completely naked for him, so you spread your thighs, allowing him a better view.

“What a sight,” Tom chuckles when he sees you sprawled out on his bed, your fingers softly tracing through your slick folds. “If you’re not careful, I won’t let you leave this bed so I can keep you all to myself.”

“Is that meant to be a threat?” you ask, dragging your damp fingers along your stomach and between your breasts. Tom gives a few slow pumps of his fist over his length as he watches you, then climbs onto the bed with you.

“The way you’ve been dripping onto my sheets, you may as well,” he mumbles, kissing and licking along the path that your fingers trailed up to your collarbone. As he nuzzles against your cheek, kissing your jaw and your neck, his fingers play between your clit and your entrance, never staying in one place long enough to give you enough pleasure. “I made you this wet?” Tom asks, his voice soft, his tone mischievous with a hint of hopefulness. “This is all for me?”

“All yours,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his short curls to guide his mouth towards a tender spot on your neck. “I’ve been like this since I had that dream about you.”

“I knew you didn’t tell me all of it,” Tom smiles against your neck, pausing long enough to leave a mark on the spot you directed him to. “Is that why you wanted me to fuck you on the floor so badly? Is that what you dreamt I did to you?” Tom presses his forehead to yours, reaching between your bodies to grasp his length and dragging his tip along your folds. “As the mayor,” Tom begins, a look of uncertainty in his eyes. “It’s my job to look after my constituents.”

“I’ve never had anyone talk politics while trying to slide their dick into me,” you laugh breathlessly, noticing that faint blush return to Tom’s cheeks. “You’re gonna take care of me, Mayor Loftis? I’ve been aching for weeks, and I need your help to make it better.” Tom lets out a soft gasp as he works his tip inside of you, struggling to stay there as his eyes search your face. “Do you like it when I call you that?” you ask, cupping his face so you can rub your thumb along his cheekbone.

“Only when you’re teasing,” he mumbles, turning his head to kiss your palm. “Once I’m inside of you, it’s ‘Tom’.” He eases himself inside of you slowly, burying in to the hilt before stopping to pull in a deep breath. “Un-fucking-believable,” he groans, breathing your name against your cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm,” you hum, nodding your head. “You?”

“You’re really…” Tom stops short when your walls clench around him, his words turning into a needy moan. “…tight,” he manages, his voice strained.

“You’re used to your hand,” you tease, your voice not confident enough to sound as playful as you wanted, but Tom chuckles against your neck.

“You’re right,” he agrees before planting a kiss on the mark he left on your throat. “Don’t think I’ll be able to go back after this.”

“Do it right and you won’t have to.”

Tom groans, adjusting his position so he’s on his knees, still buried inside of you. He runs his hand over his hair, pushing away some of the curls that have matted to his forehead from sweat, but his eyes never leave you. He looks over your body to commit it to memory, as though he’s worried this will be his only opportunity to do so. A brief feeling of shyness washes over you, laying vulnerable under his gaze, but Tom smiles at you, pulling your thighs around his body and grasping your hips.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

Tom’s thrusts begin slowly, shallow at first until you're accustomed to him. With each movement, his grip tightens on your hips, holding you impossibly harder with every passing second, to the point you worry of the marks he’ll leave. You take hold of his forearms, using him to help you rock against his thrusts. Tom moans your name softly, nudging himself closer to you to make sure he’s taking up every bit of space inside of you.

When his thrusts become more forceful, Tom gets deeper, stretching you in a way you’ve never felt before. His speed doesn’t change, still a slow, steady pace, but each motion of his hips feels like the first. The sensation makes your thighs pull together, tightening around Tom’s waist, which drives him to slide his hands down to grip the thickness. Your hands find their way to his stomach then his chest, stretching as much as you can to let your fingers trace over the hair that’s scattered across his skin.

“Tell me about your dream,” Tom breathes, nodding in encouragement. “I need to know.”

“After you kissed me,” you begin, closing your eyes to focus on your story and not the slapping of Tom’s skin with yours. “You bent me over the control board and fucked me.” Tom grins lazily, dragging his tongue out to wet his lips. “I love the idea of you bending me over…” you admit. “The idea of you in your fucking khakis and your cardigan, losing yourself while you fuck me from behind…” Tom loses his rhythm for a moment, but adjusts his grip on your thighs, pulling you along with each thrust so he can increase his pace. “We were facing the window,” you whine, your nails digging into his chest hard enough to make him suck in a breath through his clenched teeth. “Didn’t close the curtain, everyone could see us.”

“Fuck,” Tom hisses, losing his concentration so how thrusts fall out of time. “You love to tease so much…I bet you were showing off for your audience.” You laugh breathlessly, grabbing for Tom’s biceps to drag him down on top of you.

“You’re the only one that matters,” you mutter, pulling him in for a kiss.

With his hands pressed to the mattress on either side of you, he attempts to resume the pace he had set while he kisses you deeply. You moan into his mouth, a needy sound that would normally embarrass you, but you feel Tom thrust harder, as if he’s chasing more reactions from you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down his arm, desperate to hear Tom moan your name. Tom mumbles something indiscernible under his breath when he breaks from the kiss, closing his eyes to focus on the timing of his thrusts. You wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him deeper with each stroke, and when one of Tom’s hands finds its way to the back of your thigh, sliding down to your ass, your heart races in excitement. He lands a gentle spank on your skin, then grabs a handful of your ass immediately after. You’re overwhelmed with the urge to tease him again.

“You look like you’re barely keeping it together,” you tease, and Tom gives a particularly sharp thrust in reply, punctuating with a warning grumble of your name. “Are you losing control, Tom?” you push. “Are you gonna come already?”

Tom doesn’t answer, but gives you another slap on your ass, as if he’s warning you. He pries your legs from around his waist, pulling out of you and moving onto his knees again. You’re worried you upset him, but the expression on his face says otherwise. He maneuvers so he’s sitting with his back propped against the headboard, peering down at you expectantly. When you don’t move immediately, he beckons you in with a crook of his finger, so you hurry to oblige.

“Fuck, did you get tighter in the last thirty seconds?” Tom mutters once you settle on top of him, your hands resting on his shoulders for support. “I’ve been picturing you riding me this whole time. You look gorgeous.” You slowly begin to rock your hips, working up to match the pace he had set. Tom keeps one hand on your waist to assist while the other grips the sheets beneath him. “Make yourself come like this,” he begins. “You can use me to get off…I want to to see how bad you need me.”

“Tom, I want you to fuck me,” you whine, your face scrunching up prepared to plead with him, but he shakes his head. “Please, I want to feel you filling me up.”

“You whine so much for a tease,” he says, angling his head to follow your gaze though you refuse to make eye contact with him. “I know you’re trying to make me come first. You think I’m so desperate that I can’t keep my composure, don’t you?” You whimper, still avoiding eye contact as you ride him slowly. “Look at me, sweetheart.” Tom’s gentle tone drags you in, and you roll your head back towards him, peering into his eyes. “Once you come,” he begins, his eyelids heavy. “I’ll bend you over the foot of the bed and give you what you want.”

Tom remains mostly still while you follow his instructions, opting to grab the headboard to assist your movements as opposed to Tom’s shoulders. He keeps one hand on your thigh, the other cupping your jaw so he can gently pry your mouth open with his thumb. He touches your tongue and you watch the twinkle in his eye when you wrap your lips around his thumb. Tom remains transfixed on your mouth for a moment while you continue to roll your hips against him, so you decide to tease him one more time.

You moan loudly, the neediest, cheapest moan you can muster. It’s intended to be fake, but you find it feels good to let loose, so you do it again. Tom’s gaze immediately fixes with your, his lips parted with a slightly dumbfounded expression while he watches your face scrunch with desperation. He nods slowly, whispering your name in encouragement while his hand on your waist guides you along.

What initially was meant to tease Tom turned into something you needed, the intensity of your moans helping open you up to really feel your climax. You pull Tom’s hand from your face, dragging it down to your breast to urge him to touch you like he had before, and Tom is eager to please. He gropes your breast without much thought for a moment, before his fingers begin toying with your nipple again, this time tugging harder than before.

“Oh, fuck, Tom,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, baby. Please.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Tom nods, giving you a look that borders on sympathy. “Let go for me and I’ll fuck you like you need me to.”

You nod your head, bouncing in Tom’s lap, rocking your hips around to feel him as much as you’re able. When Tom’s hand suddenly moves from your breast to your clit, you gasp, watching between your bodies to see how he quickly rubs circles to get you closer to your orgasm. Your whimpers become more pathetic, moans of his name as you tell him how good he is; Tom nods along with you, showing more restraint than you expected him to be capable of.

When your climax hits, your body quakes, and you lean into Tom, burying your face against his neck. You ride it out, Tom’s fingers never leaving your clit, never slowing until you have to shove his hand away to stop the overstimulation. He hooks an arm around your body to pull you closer against him, helping you remain upright in his lap.

“Good, so good,” he breathes, kissing the top of your head. “Do you need a minute?” You shake your head, recalling his promise to you just minutes before.

As quickly as you’re able to, you pull from Tom’s arms, easing yourself from his lap and off of the bed. He watches each of your movements as though he’s unsure what comes next, but when you stand beside the bed and bend over, Tom lets out a shuddered breath. You plant your elbows onto the mattress, arching your back to stick your ass out as far as you can, inviting him in.

“Please, Mayor Loftis,” you beg, pouting. “I want you to come inside of me. I need it.”

“You…” Tom trails off, his words escaping him. He moves swiftly from the bed to stand behind you, one hand on your lower back while the other grips his length to give a few slow strokes. “It’s not going to take much,” Tom warns, pushing himself back inside of you with a groan. “You’re too tight…”

“Too tight?” you laugh breathlessly, your fingers gripping the bedsheets. “You can’t handle it?” You clench around him with intention and Tom lets out a stuttered plea of your name, both hands now finding your hips. “Show me how much you respect me, Tom,” you whisper, grinding yourself back against him. “Fill me up.”

Tom wastes no more time, knowing he won’t be able to keep himself together much longer. His fingers adjust on your hips, yanking your body back with each snap of his hips. Your knees feel weak beneath you thanks to the force Tom shows, your legs trembling as you fight to stay standing. Tom mutters under his breath, mixes of curse words and teasing threats directed at you, but your vision blurs, your thoughts clouding over as you feel your second orgasm rapidly approaching.

Tom slows only for a moment so he can position one of your knees onto the bed, effectively opening you even wider for him. Once returning to his previous pace, Tom softly mutters your name, then speaks through clenched teeth, warning you how close he is. You nod, encouraging him and winding your hips against his quick, forceful thrusts. All you’re able to do is put a deeper arch in your back, keeping your ass up for him while you stretch your torso onto the bed.

Feeling your climax nearing and knowing Tom isn’t far behind, you slip your hand beneath yourself, rubbing your clit in tight circles. You can’t help the way you moan Tom’s name, loud enough that you wonder if the neighbors will hear, needy enough you know there will be teasing from him later, but you squeeze your eyes shut, letting the orgasm wash over you. Tom continues his thrusts, getting more shallow, and quicker before he moans out your name, muddled with praises and more cursing.

Once Tom gives one final thrust, pushing in as deep as he can, his body presses against yours, the hair from his chest tickling your back. Once he braces his weight on the mattress with one hand, he trails kisses from your shoulder to your ear, staying still for a moment as he catches his breath. After a moment, he carefully pulls out of you, helping you lay across the width of the bed with him so you’re facing one another, still taking steady breaths to regulate.

“I want to avoid any cliche,” he mutters, reaching out to stroke his hand soothingly over your shoulder. “But I don’t think I can…” You laugh softly while you shift closer to him to let your fingers toy with his curls. “That was really fucking good,” he grins. “I don’t think I’ve ever had sex like that before.”

“What, like from behind?”

“I’ve always been very simple,” he explains, that faint blush returning to his cheeks. “None of the women I’ve been with before have been like you.”

“Do you mean they never burglarized your house?”

“Not that I know of,” Tom laughs, cupping your face to angle your head towards him, stealing a quick kiss. “Maybe they weren’t as adventurous as you.”

“Tom,” you chuckle, twirling one of his curls between your fingertips. “That wasn’t adventurous. Who knows, though? Maybe next time you’re in your office, I can slip under your desk and we can start making you take some bigger risks.” Tom drops his head against yours, letting out a groan.

“Max, what the fuck is your problem?” you hiss, unzipping your hoodie and glancing around to make sure no one is in earshot.

“What?” he asks, agitation apparent in his tone.

“You’re mugging right now,” you whisper. “I know you’re pissed about missing your family’s party, but can you at least try to have a good time?” Max appears indignant for a moment, parting his lips to reply, but he stops and takes a deep breath before he answers.

“Whatever,” he sighs, moving away from you, following the sounds of the football game on the living room television.

As the day continues, Max seems to relax for the most part, spending time talking to your family to catch them up on his life over the past year. He speaks like a used car salesman, selling your family members on himself like he needs to convince them he deserves to be there. Out of all of Max’s personalities he chooses to portray, this is your least favorite one. It’s inauthentic, cheap. When his bragging gets the reaction he wants, he builds on his stories, exaggerating beyond believability, but your family continues to devour every word. It’s both refreshing and annoying that they still treat him as a member of the family.

Along with Max’s ego, another unwanted guest is at the party: your cousin, Pete. Every year, he drinks too much, and finds a way to instigate an argument. Today, he’s made his rounds to all of the attendees of the party, antagonizing them as best as he can, only to be dismissed or given the silent treatment. It’s clear from the way they all roll their eyes that they’ve reached their wits end with Pete, and you wonder if he’ll receive an invitation for the next gathering.

After dinner, the party winds down, and the remaining guests find their way into the back patio to start the customary gossip session about the other family members. When you look for a place to sit, you find your options limited: laying in the grass with your younger family members or sitting at the patio table with Pete. You search for Max, finding him leaning against the wall of the house, talking animatedly with your uncle. You’re tempted to join their conversation, but you’re happy to see Max smiling for the first time that day, so you leave him alone.

“Hey, cuz!” Pete exclaims as you take the seat across from him.

“Hey, Petey,” you reply, trying to keep the reluctance out of your tone so he doesn’t see you as an easy target. “How’s it going?”

“My dad said I’m cut off for the night,” he groans, and you try not to laugh before you respond.

“Your dad left like twenty minutes ago,” you say. “Besides, you’re, like, fifty years old, Petey. Can’t you make up your own mind?” Your aunt flicks your ear as she passes the table, wagging her finger at you to discourage your instigation. “But yeah,” you say, rubbing your ear to soothe it. “Maybe you should ease off or you’re gonna be crashing on the couch.”

“I’m surprised you brought Max tonight,” Pete says, stumbling over his words as he ignores you altogether. “Your breakup was messy.”

“No, it wasn’t,” you sigh, immediately catching what his intentions are. “I wouldn’t have invited him if we weren’t friends, shithead.”

“That’s not what Max was saying,” Pete sighs, shaking his head. “He said you two broke up because you cheated on him.”

You have to hand it to Pete: he may gossip like a teenager but he’s determined. You’ve never known him to make up accusations before, though you’re inclined to believe he only does it since the night is drawing to a close without any chaos. Sitting back in your seat, you fold your arms over your chest and smirk at Pete, rolling your eyes.

“Your desperation knows no bounds, Petey,” you say. “Don’t be surprised if you don’t get invited back for the next one.”

Pete responds with a barrage of slurred curse words as he takes his leave from you, wandering around the party in search of another victim. You lock eyes with Max, who stands with his arms folded, back against the brick wall of the house, a stony expression on his face. While you can’t read his emotions completely, you can tell he’s still frustrated, but you’re unsure what the cause is. That is until Pete finds his way into Max’s personal space.

Though you can’t hear the conversation completely, you can tell from Max’s body language that he doesn’t want to talk to Pete. You’re almost certain that Pete is going to get the response he’s looking for from Max, judging from the way your ex clenches his jaw and rolls his eyes. You’re glued to your spot, watching from several feet away, trying to hear what Pete is saying because you’re curious who he’s trying to set Max’s ire on.

Just as you stand from your seat to intervene in the conversation, Pete puts his hand on Max’s arm, nodding his head as he continues to speak. In that second, you can see the switch flip in Max’s head, his eyes immediately lighting up with anger. Before you can reach them, Max punches Pete, his fist connecting with the older man’s jaw hard enough to send him tumbling towards the ground.

“Max!” you call out, hurrying over and putting your hand on his chest to back him away from where Pete lays on the ground groaning quietly.

“I told him to back the fuck up,” Max says. Though you expect him to sound apologetic, his tone is reminiscent of the times he’s in the ring cutting a promo, condescending and exact. “He’s been fucking with everyone all night,” he adds.

“Yeah, that’s what he does, Max,” you say. “You know that.” You glance over your shoulder to see Pete struggling to roll onto his side, still groaning and muttering under his breath. The only person who has made the move to check on him is your uncle, who stands with his hands on his hips, chastising the other man for his actions. “Get in the house,” you tell Max, gesturing to the door as you continue to push him by his chest.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” Max scoffs, his face scrunched in an amused confusion. You ignore his response and shove him towards the door, pushing it open so you both can enter the house. “That pathetic fucking loser is lucky that I didn’t hit him again,” Max seethes, pointing past you as you close the door. “The things he was saying, and then putting his hands on me?” Max stops and puts his hands on his hips, a wry chuckle leaving his lips. “That dipshit would be on his way to the hospital if I wasn’t feeling generous,” Max adds, the condescending tone tipping straight into MJF territory.

That’s when the feeling hits. You haven’t seen Max like this in person in a long time. Pissed off, practically shaking with anger, but also cocky. Listening to him speak, and knowing that he was holding back when he hit Pete, a flush spreads across your skin. Try as you might to hide the change in your demeanor, Max can read you just as well as you can read him, and you know you’re caught when you see the smirk on his face.

“Doesn’t take much with you,” Max laughs. “Never did, really. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s unconvincing, you both realize that, but it’s a quick, futile effort to keep that last shred of dignity. Max tsks in response, shaking his head.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. You were never good at it.” Max’s smirk is faint now, but the fire is still visible in his gaze. “You were much better at other things, though,” he continues, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s what you want to do in your family’s house? Is that why you invited me tonight?” He uses the disparaging tone he’s perfected, adding the extra sharpness that he saved just for moments like this with you. It amazes you how quickly he’s able to switch gears, but you don’t bother to think about it too much; right now, your thoughts are elsewhere.

You brush past Max, hurrying up the stairs as you hear him following closely behind you. When you duck into the bathroom, Max pushes his way in with you, grabbing you by your waist so he can back you against the door. He keeps you pinned there as he presses a rough kiss to your lips, your head knocking back against the door from the force. A moan escapes your lips as he deepens the kiss, and you grab his hips to try pulling him closer. Much to your disappointment, Max breaks from the kiss and he grabs both of your wrists.

“I never told you that you could touch me,” he chastises, dragging you to the sink. You brace yourself on the counter, your back to Max as he moves to stand behind you. He sets one hand on your shoulder, urging you to bend over enough to press your ass against his crotch. When he pushes his other hand beneath your skirt, fingers coming in contact with your panties, he locks eyes with you through the mirror, his expression returning to anger once again. “Take ‘em off,” he demands, taking a small step away from you. “You know better than that.”

“Sorry,” you breathe, reaching beneath your skirt to drag your panties down your thighs and kicking them away from your feet.

“I should make you throw them all out,” he says. “I bet you’d do it if I told you to; you always do everything I tell you. You’re such a fucking slut.” You nod your head, your eyes watering already as your cheeks heat up even more. “Let’s see,” Max mumbles, shoving his hand between your thighs to drag his fingers through your folds. “Jesus Christ, you filthy little whore. All of this because I was a little mean to you?”

“Yes,” you nod your head, maintaining eye contact with him through the mirror. He retracts his hand, looking at your slickness that covers his fingers, and his expression shifts to something detached and almost annoyed at you. “Please,” you say, without thinking.

“What are you begging me for?” Max scoffs. “You don’t even fucking know what you want. I can tell from your eyes: you just miss my cock, and you’ll take it to you however I give it to you, right?” You nod your head quickly, never breaking eye contact. “Have you fucked anybody else since me?” Max asks, unfastening his belt.

“No,” you reply, shaking your head, arching your back to invite him in. Max drags the zipper down his slacks, flicking the button open so he can slip himself free of his briefs. You angle your head to peer over your shoulder, watching his hand stroking your slickness over his length, and you clench at the sight of him. “Fuck,” you mumble, the flush returning to your body.

“Come here,” Max mutters, hooking his arm around your body so he can grab you by your throat. He pulls your body flush against his, leaning his head against yours to speak into your ear. “You missed it, didn’t you?” Max asks, his fingers tightening on your throat just enough to make you gasp in surprise.

“Yes, so much.”

“Then beg me for it. Act like the pathetic slut I know you can be, babe.”

“I need it, Max,” you hurry, your voice strained. “Please, I have to feel you. I missed your cock so much. I couldn’t fuck anybody else because my pussy belongs to you and no one else will ever be able to compete with you.” Max’s grip tightens on your throat again, pulling you closer when he peers between your bodies to drag his tip through your folds. “Please, please, it’s yours,” you whine. “Fuck me. Please.”

Max eases himself inside of you, letting out a steady breath as he buries himself as deep as he can at this angle. Your only option is to stifle your moan, so as not to be heard by any of your family members who may be nearby. Placing a hand firmly to your shoulder, Max forces you to bend over once again, and you grip the edge of the sink to support your new position.

“Fuck,” Max mutters, pressing his hips forward, grinding against you. “You’ve been keeping this pussy tight for me, haven’t you?” You whine, nodding your head, listening to Max chuckle at the way you clench around him. “Tell me,” Max commands.

“I didn’t even touch myself without you; I couldn’t.” The words flood out of your mouth faster than you can hear them, and you begin to realize just how much you missed him. “It’s all yours, daddy,” you continue. “Take it.”

Max shoves you forward again, adjusting your positions just enough to keep your head away from the faucet. You grip the edge of the counter for support as Max draws his hips back slowly, dragging himself out of you until you can only feel his tip before pushing in hard. Biting your lip to stifle your surprised yelp, you try to tip your head to peer over your shoulder at him, but the action proves difficult in this position.

“Don’t try to look at me with those pathetic eyes,” Max sneers. “If you wanted someone to be sweet to you, then you wouldn’t have invited me.” You nod your head, your eyes squeezing shut as Max begins a slow and steady pace with his hips. “You never liked me to be gentle, did you?” Max mutters. “You need this: cheap and nasty, just like you.” Max adjusts his hands, his fingers digging into your hips with more pressure, helping pull you to meet each of his thrusts.

“You’re gonna leave—”

“What, I’m gonna leave bruises?” Max interrupts. “Your body is mine, so I’m gonna leave my mark on you.” You whimper, clenching tighter around him from his words. “What happened to my slut, hm?” Max asks, slightly breathless as he continues at the same steady pace. “The one that begged me to slap her and choke her. What happened to daddy’s girl?”

“Oh, God,” you whine, as you feel the ache in your hips from the edge of the countertop.

“Maybe you don’t want to be too loud for your family to hear,” Max continues, pressing his hand between your shoulderblades to keep you in place. “I should stop…we wouldn’t want someone to walk in…”

That’s when it hits you: neither of you locked the door. You whimper, struggling under Max’s grip as you try to break free, but he pushes you down harder, a quick thrust of his hips jamming you against the counter’s edge. Your knees buckle and your moan echoes in the sink basin, but Max still doesn’t free you from his hold. Instead, he buries himself all the way inside of you and pauses, angling his head so he can catch your gaze when you glance over your shoulder.

“You just remembered that the door is unlocked, didn’t you?” Max whispers, his tone devious, proud. “Anyone could walk in…find you bouncing back against my dick like this.” Much to your shame, your body reacts to the idea of being caught, and Max feels it. “There she is,” he laughs. “Pussy clenching around my dick just from the thought of someone walking in. Jesus Christ, you’ll probably gush down your fuckin’ legs if it actually happened.”

“Please, Maxwell,” you whine.

“What, are you going to come already?” he scoffs, his hips thrusting again, moving just a little faster now. “I almost forgot how easy it is to get you off. Do you remember the time you came from me teaching you how to wrestle?”

Max’s tone is demeaning, like he was disgusted by what he is saying, but you know that he loved that night just as much as you did. The two of you hadn’t had the opportunity to be intimate in a few weeks, and a sweet, playful training session quickly turned into something much different. It was quick, and you didn’t expect it, but the built up tension mixed with the way Max’s hands felt on your body, the way he felt pressing against you with each move…you didn’t realize that you were clenching your thighs together, and you definitely didn’t realize the way you were grinding against Max when you were on top of him for a pin. You were humiliated at the time but Max calmed your emotions before taking you back to his house for some more privacy.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” Max breathes, pulling you from your memories and back into the moment, where he now has one hand pressed to the counter beside you so he can have better leverage. “I’ll bet it doesn’t even need to be me,” Max goes on, his hand on your hip now holding on with a bruising grip. “You’ll come like that for anybody, won’t you?”

“No, no,” you reply, quickly, your breath escaping you when he resumes his thrusts, this time much faster. “I need you, Max. It’s only you.”

Max breathes heavily as he thrusts harder, small grunts that he tries to silence just loud enough for you to hear. You reach one hand behind your back, feeling for him, but he grabs your wrists, pinning them hard against the small of your back with both of his hands. When he pushes his weight into your back, your legs tremble beneath you before giving way, leaving your body held in place solely by Max’s grip.

“You don’t get to come,” Max hisses. “Not yet.”

“No, Max, please,” you whine, tears beginning to sting at your eyes.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he grinds out, thrusting harder.

“But–”

“I’m going to come inside of you,” Max cuts you off, the pace of his hips increasing, the force driving you harder against the counter. “When we get to your place tonight, if I think you’ve been a good girl for the rest of the night…”

“Fuck,” you whimper, your eyes slipping closed as you struggle to hold back your climax.

“You can use your toys to get yourself off while I watch you,” he goes on. “That’s your punishment for lying to me.”

“What–?”

“I told you that you’re not good at lying, sweetheart,” Max mutters. “I know you fucked Will.”

You didn’t expect Max to know the truth, but you shouldn’t be surprised. The encounter was months ago, once and never again because that wasn’t your intention when you went to the show that night. It doesn’t seem like the time to argue with Max over the situation, especially not to tell him that you were jealous when you saw him flirting with someone else, and Will was the perfect person to really make Max jealous in response. No, you’d save that for another time when you have a little more privacy.

The possible options of how to handle this moment play in your head quickly: deny it, ignore it, or accept it. Before you have the opportunity to make a decision, Max’s thrusts begin to fall out of time, though he doesn’t relent. He mutters under his breath, something bordering on praise for you, but he keeps his voice low enough that you can’t be sure.

“Jesus Christ,” Max grits. “This is all you’re good for.” You whimper, and clench around him as his thrusts become shorter and more shallow. “Fuck,” he mutters, pushing his weight harder into your wrists. “Don’t you fucking come, do you hear me?”

You open your mouth to speak, but you lose your breath as you struggle to maintain your composure. You’re teetering on the edge of your climax, so close that you’re afraid you’ll pass out when Max finally reaches his own end. He thrusts harder and harder through his orgasm, filling you up until he’s spent. When he finally stills, his length still buried inside of you, his grip on your wrists loosens, and he grabs you by your shoulder to pull you upright again.

“Look at yourself,” he pants in your ear. “Who is the only one that makes you look like this?”

“You are,” you breathe, studying your disheveled appearance in the mirror. “Please don’t leave me like this. I need to–”

“You need to what?” Max scoffs. “You can fucking wait until we get back home. Then you can tell me all about what you and Ospreay did while you play with yourself. I still haven’t decided if I’m going to let you come then either.”

“Maxwell, you said–”

“And you said you didn’t fuck anyone else,” Max interrupts, a smirk on his face. “We’re both liars, I guess.”

When Max finally pulls out, you let out a whimper, the ache left in his wake causing a thrum through your entire body. Only for a split second does Max break from his character when he locks eyes with you in the mirror, an almost indiscernible shift in his expression as he checks in with you. You give an equally discreet nod of your head, before adjusting your appearance to something more presentable.

You both are silent for a few moments as you dress, until Max grabs your panties from the floor, peering at you with a mischievous smirk. He appears to weigh his options for a moment before taking a step towards you and putting the clothing into your hand. In an uncharacteristic move, at least when he’s like this, Max presses a gentle kiss to your lips and peers into your eyes.

“Don’t get used to it,” Max whispers, undoubtedly seeing the confused expression on your face. “This is the nicest I’ll be to you all night. The only reason you’re getting your panties back is so that you don’t leak anything onto your family’s couch. Petey will never let me hear the end of that one.”

Max leaves the room before you are able to respond, allowing you a few more minutes to yourself. Giving yourself a final once-over in the mirror, you exit the bathroom on shaky legs, hoping it’s not too obvious. Descending the stairs, you find Max talking to your uncle again, now much more relaxed than he was before. His eyes find yours for a moment, a devious glint in them that sends your mind racing with excuses that will be able to get you both out of there.

“You okay?” Max asks, when you reach him, concern on his face.

“Yeah, I think I’m ready to call it a night,” you reply, nodding your head.

“It’s only halftime,” Max says, gesturing towards the living room where television still plays. “We can’t leave before it’s over.” It’s another instance where you know Max well enough to read his tone and expression: he’s toying with you, trying to make you sweat as long as he can. Instead of playing into his hand, you let out a sigh and shrug your shoulders.

“I guess we could stay the night here,” you suggest, watching the amusement drop from his face as you call his bluff. “All of the rooms are occupied, though, so you’ll probably end up sleeping on the couch with Petey.”

“Hmm,” Max hums, something igniting behind his eyes. “You’re right.” You both take a moment to say goodbye to your uncle, before he exits the room, leaving you alone with Max again. “You thought that was cute, huh?” Max asks, nodding his head.

“A little.”