Dalton Charm's Neverending Stories

You don’t know what drove you to do it. Or rather, you do know. All too well.

You snuck out at night, like a thief, leaving your husband in bed.

How ironic. Until recently, you were responsible, a devoted wife, someone who tried her best to make the relationship work.

Of course, that was before you found out your husband was systematically cheating on you. Every sudden meeting, every urgent deadline, every project he had to work on late into the night—it was actually his boss secretary riding his cock in a seedy motel.

So what was the point of struggling to hold together the shards of something that was shattering right before your eyes?

What was the point of settling for your vibrator, masturbating silently in the bathroom, biting your lips and stifling your desperate need for someone to make you come the way your husband hadn’t even dreamed of doing for so long—far too long—while he had no qualms about shoving his cock into another woman’s pussy?

One day you stopped by the construction site where you thought you’d find your husband to bring him his favorite sandwich.

You didn’t find him. But you found Joel, his boss.

He was nice. He told you your husband was out to lunch. “Actually, he’s running late—he was supposed to be back half an hour ago.”

You looked at him. You looked at the desk next to his, and then back at him.

“Where’s Joanne?”

“At lunch,” he told you.

“They always disappear at the same time, right?”

You saw the exact moment when something clicked in his brain, when he connected the dots and his eyebrows furrowed, his lower lip trembling.

“Shit,” he whispered, his hands on his hips.

He didn’t dare look at you anymore, his eyes fixed on Joanne’s empty chair.

You didn’t want to cry, but you felt your cheeks streaked and wet.

Joel looked embarrassed, sorry, still confused as to how something like that had slipped his mind.

“I had no idea, I’m sorry,” he tried to explain.

“It’s not your fault, you know. A wife notices that kind of thing…” you said, quickly wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.

Joel hugged you.

Driving home, you spent the whole time thinking about why you’d chosen a man like your husband instead of someone like Joel.

Why did you always fall in love with jerks? Why did you always let them treat you that way?

Your husband was late again. By now, you’d given up hope that he’d change. You pretended to be asleep, waited for him to get into bed and hear him snoring, and then you slipped out from under the covers.

Fuck it. Fuck him and the way he never knew how to satisfy you. Or take you into consideration. He’d been taking you for granted for at least a year.

At that point, you’d had enough of having dinner ready for him, the house clean, and his clothes washed and perfectly ironed.

Fuck it.

You threw on a dress in a hurry, fixed your hair, grabbed your bike, and started pedaling into the night. You weren’t even thinking about where you were going as the wind whipped against your face and your bike’s light cut through the darkness.

You arrived in front of Joel’s house. You left your bike in his driveway and knocked on the door.

The light was on in his bedroom. You heard his footsteps approaching as you waited under his porch in total silence.

The neighborhood was asleep.

“What are you doing here? Did something happen?” Joel asked you. He seemed surprised but stepped aside to let you in.

“Sorry for showing up here at this hour,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling the weight of what you were doing. “Joel, he…”

“Did he do it again?” he interrupted, looking at you with concern.

You instinctively buried your face in his chest. Joel didn’t touch you, but he let you do it.

“I’m so tired, so tired,” you cried, soaking his shirt.

You looked at him through your tears, asking the one question you were truly afraid to ask.

“I have to file for divorce, don’t I?”

“I mean…not my business but he’s a jerk. He doesn’t deserve you,” Joel nodded.

You knew that.

Joel had become your confidant by chance, but he’d been a good friend.

You’d been talking for a few weeks, ever since the first time he’d comforted you.

It was nice. He was nice. 

You didn't have the courage, and you'd never been the vengeful type, but a few times you were on the verge of asking him to fire your husband.

Joel’s hands rested on your shoulders, then on your back, holding you close. “Cry,” he said simply, in a gentle voice, “let it all out.”

Joel was warm. He was gentle, reassuring, affectionate. And you needed that.

Your tear-filled eyes met his again, his knuckles brushed your cheek in a barely perceptible caress.

You took his hand. Clasping it tightly in yours, you pressed your lips to the back of his hand, whispering, “Thank you, Joel.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, smiling at you “You can stay here for a while if you want. I'll go to my room, but call me if you need anything.”

“No, please, don’t leave me alone…” you begged him, unable to let go of his hand.

You hadn’t held a man’s hand in a long time, and Joel’s fingers intertwined with yours felt wonderful.

A feeling you’d been missing.

“What can I do for you?” he asked you. No one had asked you anything like that in years.

No one had paid you any attention in months. 

Your husband fucked you lazily a couple of times recently, just quick thrusts, without any care or feeling, just out of marital duty. It was as if he were having sex with an inflatable doll. 

It made you feel stupid and inadequate, without any charm or allure.

You didn’t know what to say.

“I…” You were afraid. Afraid to express what you were feeling, to say what you were going through, to put a name to what Joel was making you feel.

You realized you were trembling in his arms. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t fear—it was desire.

And when your brain registered it, sending the message to the lower part of your body, you felt a warmth rising from your stomach. A sensation similar to when you let yourself go in the privacy of your bathroom, slipping the vibrator into your panties.

So screw it.

“I just want to feel alive again, I want passion… I want…”

“Sex?” He interrupted you. Straight to the point.

“I…yeah” you lowered your gaze, looking at the tips of your shoes.

“With me?” He asked, gently taking your chin with two fingers and bringing your gaze back to his.

“P-Please…” you muttered.

You couldn't have thought of anyone else. No one who made you feel as safe as Joel.

“Take my hand where you want it,” he invited you. He was calm, reading your eyes, sensing your need.

“Take my hand where you want it”

Holding him by the wrist, you lifted your dress with your other hand, placing Joel’s hand on your hip, just above the waistband of your panties. Joel’s hand was relaxed; he let you guide it.

That was all it took.

You were standing in his living room, and the way Joel’s eyes were looking at you made you think you deserved more. You deserved someone who would look at you as intensely as he was. You deserved him.

Joel held you gently, respectfully; his fingers lingered at the hem of your panties, waiting for your consent. He didn’t go any further, letting you enjoy the weight of his hand on you, his warmth, and his long, calloused fingers resting on your bare skin.

You basked in that sensation, feeling your body come back to life, ignite, and burn.

Joel had never allowed himself to cross the line; he’d always acted like a friend up until that moment—never an inappropriate joke, never a mean remark, never trying to dominate you or force you to do anything you weren’t ready for.

But now, this unexpected closeness was telling you everything you needed to know. His gaze spoke for him, as did his hands and his hips, which moved involuntarily against yours, like a reflex he couldn’t control. He lowered his gaze, you even thought you saw him blush.

You were ready to allow yourself to think about yourself—and only yourself—as you hadn't done in far too long.

You let his hand slide down onto your panties.

His fingers moved cautiously, sliding down at the side, as if he were afraid to get too close to your center.

“Joel…”

“What do you want, baby?”

“I want you” you hesitated for a second before adding, “I want you to remind me what it feels like… touch me, Joel.” Your voice was shaky as you looked into his eyes. But you were certain, more certain than you’d ever been about anything.

“Guide me, then. Use your words, sweetheart, tell me exactly how you want me to touch you.”

And you did. 

His hand slid down over your mound, while his mouth was on your neck, kissing and sucking on you tender skin. 

His index and middle fingers found your wetness, plunging into it, gathering it up, and guiding it toward your clit.

You moaned, and when he began to trace tight concentric circles on your nerve bundle, you praised him, “Like that… just like that, don’t stop.”

Joel tried to take it slow and steady; whenever he applied too much pressure, you gently corrected him, and he caught on immediately, learning to read your body’s reactions.

His other hand clasped your breast again, and you found enough strength to whisper, “Play with my nipples.”

Two of his fingers closed around it, twisting it, pulling gently, making it harden. A shiver ran down your spine, and a guttural sound escaped your throat: “God… yes.”

He was completely focused on you; his clothed erection was pressing against your thigh, but he didn't seem bothered by it. 

Your dress slipped over your head shortly after, he pulled down your bra, and his fingers were around your button again.

He leaned down, his fingers still tracing circles over your clit as your nipple slipped between his lips. He began to suck slowly, his tongue darting over the tip, his hand cupping the underside of your breast, testing your softness.

“Bite it…” you moaned, your hand tugging his hair at the base of his neck. 

He did it, softly, holding his bite ever so gently but squeezing enough to make your knees buckle.

He smiled on your skin, watching you slowly fall apart for him. 

“You like that, huh? Want more?” 

“Yes” you replied under your breath, clutching your other hand on his bicep. 

“This pussy’s been neglected for too long, babe, you want me to take care of her?” He whispered.

“Please…that’s all I want” you whined.

“Table, couch, bed… choose” he growled. 

“Table” You didn't know how long it had been since your husband had slammed you onto your kitchen table to fuck you. He'd done it when you were newlyweds. Now it was a faint memory.

God, you missed that type of passion so badly. 

Joel took you in his arms, your legs around his waist. He pushed you on the table, took off your shoes and slid your panties down. 

“Taking this a little souvenir, okay?” He said, pushed them down the pocket of his jeans. 

You giggled “yeah, why not” 

He looked at you, all spread and open for him. 

“You look amazing like that” 

You felt your cheeks heat up as you begged him, “Fuck me, Joel, please.”

“How do you want it?” he asked. He was calm and composed, waiting for your instructions, despite the bulge growing in his pants. 

“Rough,” you replied, “and raw.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, Joel.” You smiled at him. You had a IUD and you trusted him more than any man you knew.

Joel wasn’t a womanizer. He raised his daughter on his own, built a company from scratch, he didn't have time to screw around. 

But boy, he fucked you like crazy that night. 

He leaned down over you, kissed a trail down your neck, along your collarbone, and down your arm until he took your fingers into his mouth. 

He coated them with his saliva, his tongue gliding skillfully over them. He released them, smirking. 

“Do me a favor, okay? Use them on your clit while I fuck you. I'd really love to see it”

You nodded, feeling your whole body aching for him..

He took off his shirt, revealing his freckled, tanned chest. Your mouth watered at the sight. He was so handsome. Muscular, but not too much. Your eyes took in his broad shoulders, his biceps, and drifted down to the happy trail that disappeared into his jeans. He pulled them down, kicking them off.  When his boxers joined his jeans on the floor, you were left breathless. 

He was huge. He wrapped one hand around it, moving closer. 

“I know what you’re thinking. It’s okay, it’ll fit.”

You were soaking wet. With every centimeter he entered you, you felt his veins sliding against your walls, his girth stretching you, as you eagerly sucked his cocked in. 

Joel was praising you, whispering in your ear, “Good girl. All nice and wet for me. You’re taking it so well.”

Every word that slipped into your ears sounded like honey—or perhaps like a poison that was hypnotizing you. You liked it. You wanted more. Moans rose from your throat uncontrollably. 

“All the w-way in,” you managed to stammer, “give it to m-me. . . all of it, Joel.”

When he reached the bottom, you felt his balls press against your butt. 

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” You were filled to the brim. Craig, your husband, couldn't even come close to competing. He had a nice cock, sure, but Joel...

He grabbed your legs, holding them slightly raised with his arms, and started moving.

You were bouncing on the table as if you weighed nothing, while he thrust into you. 

One of his hands reached for your breast, the other held you by the hips.

“That's what you needed, right? For me to stuff you like this? To stretch out this pretty little pussy, huh?” He grunted. 

“Yes. Yes Joel”

He lifted you up to sit on the table, sliding you along the edge—still inside you—while holding one of your legs. 

The change in position allowed him to reach that special spot inside you. 

You slid your hand down between the two of you, reaching your clit.

“Yeah, baby, touch yourself.”

It was intoxicating. As soon as you started drawing circles on your bundle of nerves, you started moaning his name, over and over. So loud that you thought the whole neighborhood would hear you. 

Your breasts were pressed against his sweat-beaded chest, your nipples rubbing against it with every thrust.

Your other hand slid through his hair, tugging at his curls. 

“That’s it, gorgeous, Don’t stop stroking that pretty clit for me”

That idiot Craig never let you do it, every time you tried, he complained that he wasn't enough for you.

Joel was urging you on, “Come on, baby, I know you’re close, I can feel the way you’re clenching around me” speeding up the pace.

You did, your cunt was literally spasming around the huge thickness of his cock, crying all over, juices dripping on your inner thighs. 

You came, quivering in his arms, your whole body shaking, overstimulated and exhausted. 

He came right after you with a convulsive thrust of his hips, unloading his cum inside you in long, thick spurts. 

“Everything okay?” he asked you, as soon as he caught his breath. 

He gently kissed your lips, cupping your cheek. 

You smiled. You hadn't smiled like that in so long you couldn't even remember when.

“It was amazing. Everything I could have wanted, and more.” You returned his kiss, lingering on the taste of him. 

Craig was no longer even in the back of your mind. He and his lover could have a happy life—you didn't care.

Gatherings were already not your thing, but a party thrown by self assured academics is much worse than anything you can think of. You would much rather continue writing your thesis in the comfort of your hotel room, but in the end, this party is the reason why you’re here. 

Cutting through the crowd, your skin crawls at the sound of fake laughter and the sight of fake smiles. Offended looks follow your steps when you accidentally brush upon them. You ignore the stares, and hold your breath until you reach the balcony. Luckily it’s somewhat less crowded. Only a couple holding each other as they embrace the sunset and a group of friends making a toast to their achievements. 

You look ahead. The view is breathtaking. The blue fading into the orange, the sun slowly dipping behind the small buildings, sunbeams reflecting off of the tiny windows, the warm summer breeze caressing your skin and lulling you into a sense of a movie like beauty. This right here. This is why you accepted to come, this is why when Cee asked you to attend, you said yes in a heartbeat. Venice is deserving of every poem, every film and art showcasing its elegance. The soft waves of water echo from the canals, Italian vocals reaching your ears. You focus on the song. Music is such a beautiful thing. You don’t understand a word, yet your body reacts to it. Goosebumps coat your skin as the tune envelopes you in the form of a soft wind becoming colder. With a smile, you gently start to sway from side to side but as you move, you hear something that didn’t come from the streets. Another song being played by someone above. 

Your body stills, ears perking up. The tune stops, then begins again and stops once more. Your eyes trail up, ghosting over the closed windows that show nothing but the fading light of orange sunbeams. 

Curiosity gets the better of you and you slip back inside. With the corner of your eye you notice Cee chatting with the bartender, a glass of red wine nestled between her fingers. She seems happy. Unlike you, she actually knew some Italian so it was easier for her to mingle with whomever she pleased. 

Her gaze flickers to meet yours, her smile widens upon seeing you and she waves, calling you over. You shake your head and motion that you’re heading up, despite seemingly confused, she doesn’t pry and shrugs, returning to her conversation. 

The chatter soon fades into the background, music of the band dwindles leaving only the sound of your steps and the soft tunes of what you can now clearly identify as a piano being played. The soft light of the setting sun seems to evade the walls you pass by, leaving them untouched. Every artwork your eyes lay upon seems darker, sorrowful, almost. Or maybe you feel like that because of the music. It’s louder now and you can tell that the notes come from a place of bitterness. The sharp stops after each press of a key becomes more prominent. Angry. You wonder what kind of person is behind the composition. You try to imagine but you can’t quite make up a face to go along with the song, you can only vision emotions.

When you’re done climbing the stairs, you come across a wide hall. The floor is made of checkered marble, leading all the way to a door slightly cracked open for anyone to sneak a peek. The sound of your steps bounce off of the walls. Every other door is shut tight. It’s as if life itself is leading you to a moment of no return. You read about moments like these. An inevitable moment of fate. You never felt so strongly about anything before, you don’t believe in fate, yet you’re positive that if you turn around right now, you’ll be climbing up those stairs again. Gently, you press your finger against the white wooden door with a touch so gentle that it doesn’t move. Your pulse quickens, mouth suddenly feeling dry with the thought of who might me on the other side.  

It’s wrong. You know better than to sneak up on people, but you can’t help it. The devil whispers in your ear; it’s charming, impossible to say no to. 

Holding your breath, you lean closer. The sun peering from the balcony of the room illuminates your eyes. The first thing to catch your gaze is the white tulle fluttering with the summer breeze, you follow the dance of the fabric. The cruel melody begins again. You see a man sitting on the piano stool. He’s tense. Jaw locked tight and muscles popping beneath the toned skin. His right leg bounces up and down, fingers hovering above the keys as if he’s trying to feel their soul. He swallows. His nostrils flare with a deep breath and he plays. 

His finger tentatively presses a key, then another one. You expect a third to follow but it doesn’t. Instead a string of curse words follows. His hand abruptly comes down onto the piano. A collaboration of notes rings into the air with the impact. You jump at the loud, curt sound. The door creaks wider. More light hits your face. 

The man gets up, his jacket following him like a tail. For a brief moment you get a decent enough glance at his face; He’s handsome, much to your surprise. He has a jaw that can cut diamonds and a piercing dark gaze that screams hatred for the world. Before he turns to face the balcony, you notice a patch of blond in his otherwise short dark hair. 

Stuffing a cigarette between his lips, he sighs. You really should go. 

Your legs take root in the marble. 

“I know you’re there, you can come out now. The shows over,” 

For a moment you contemplate whether you should run or not, but given the fact that you’re not a child and a grown-ass woman, you hold your breath and push the door fully open. Knees shaking (you might be a grown-ass woman but that doesn’t mean you don’t get nervous), you step inside, his back is still turned to you. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to– I just heard–” 

When he turns, you feel the air being knocked out of your lungs. He’s gorgeous. The unlit cigarette is still between his lips, a shadow falling over his face due to the light warming his back. He looks you up and down. The air between you two crackles with electricity. His gaze reaches the utmost depths of your soul, he raises a sole eyebrow, a glint of curiosity visible. You want to take a step back. Want to hide. But your mind screams at you to hold your ground. It’s just a man. A man looking at a nosy woman. 

“Curious little thing aren’t you?” there’s a hint of an accent beneath his words. A southern drawl. He’s not from here either. “You an archeologist like the rest down there?” 

You nod. He looks away, you sense a hint of sadness. 

“You should go downstairs, have a good time,” 

“What’s your name?” you ask, ignoring what he just said. 

Your legs take you to him. Before you know it, you’re standing next to him, both of you staring outside the balcony, yet still within the building, admiring the darkening view. 

“Ezra,” 

Silence follows but it’s not actually silent. If you know how to listen, you can hear the sound of summer; the sound of glass clinking, toasts being made, drunks laughing too hard, the voice of the party still going on downstairs– Summers are never silent, so it’s easier not to speak. You tear your gaze away from the view. He’s still tense. His black coat draped over his shoulders, his arms hidden. 

“Why are you alone?” 

He licks his lips, refusing to look at you. 

“What makes you think that little bird?” 

Your cheeks heat up at the nickname, heart slowly spreading from your gut towards your skin. The cigarette now loosely hangs between his lips, you wonder how it’s not falling. 

“I’m here with my goddaughter, she insisted that I come,” he chuckles. “She convinced me that this city might make me feel better about myself, that I might find my muse and get my mind off of things. I believed her, at the time– She’s quite convincing– but it seems all my muses have already fled, leaving me all alone,” 

“Being an artist must be hard,” you chew on your bottom lip, why are you anxious? “But maybe you’ll find your muse soon, going out might help? It’s a truly beautiful city,” 

“Just because something is beautiful doesn’t mean it always inspires– Art is born from pain, a smallest of light within the darkest of times. But sometimes it’s so dark that the muses refuse to entertain you, they fade with the light, burying you in complete bitterness,” 

His sentence had begun soft, but ended in a hiss, his tone venomous. 

For some reason, you want to understand him. He’s only a stranger with a name, nothing more. Yet, you can’t help but be drawn to him. 

Suddenly Ezra turns to you, his mood completely shifting. There’s light in his eyes.

He pulls the cigarette away from his lips and holds it to you. You shake your head which is accompanied by the wave of your hand.

“I don’t smoke,”

He raises an eyebrow, eyes full of condescending humor.

“It’s a blunt birdie. You smoke that?”

You blink heavily, mind seemingly scattered.

“Weed?” you ask. 

“Indeed,”

You shrug, “Sure,” 

The two of you finally step onto the balcony. It’s been long since the sun had disappeared, the blue night conquering the yellow. It smells fresh out, like frshly cut grass and wine, the stars wink down at you both.

When he places it back between his lips, you expect him to pull out a lighter with his left hand. But he doesn’t. Your brain whirs in your skull, his situation slowly starting to sink in. You’ve only seen him use his right hand, never his left. 

Ezra lights it between his lips, takes two quick puffs. The end turns red, a crackle reaching your ears. When he’s convinced that it’s lit properly, he extends the rolled up blunt to your lips. Heartbeat ringing in your ears, you lean down and wrap your lips around the end of it, it burns your lungs when you inhale. A pleasant thrum ringing in your veins as you take another deep breath, your body melting. 

He pulls it back, bringing it to his own lips. You notice the shade of your lipstick encircling the butt of it, he doesn’t mind. He dutifully wraps his lips around the mark and takes a deep breath, he closes his eyes, brows relaxing as a puff of enticing smoke curls out from between his lips. His head falls back, exposing more of his neck and the veins that trail across the column, you swallow, heat building between your legs. 

Ezra turns and gestures towards the wall behind you. 

“Wanna take a seat, birdie?”

Your shoulder presses into his when you sit. He’s warm, muscles firm. After taking another puff, the smell of cannabis encircling your both, he offers it to you and shrugs off the jacket. 

Despite the pleasant haze of your mind, your eyes widen. His arm. It’s not there. 

Fuck– you shouldn’t be staring but your body is slow. You blink, it feels as if seconds stretch out into hours till your lashes touch the skin underneath. When your gaze gains focus, he’s staring at you. Eyes misty, dazed, but yet he’s watching you so clearly, like you’re the only thing in the world. You just met this man. Your heart shouldn’t be beating this fast. 

“It happened two years ago,” minutes pass between each word. “It’s cliche really, a car accident. And I don’t even have anyone to blame. ‘Drank the whole damned bar and drove myself into a wall of a church– I was either gonna die or lose an arm, fucking paramadic decided to save me, cut my arm clean off,”

It’s jarring to hear him swear. The back of your neck tingles as he reaches forward to pull out the joint from between your lips. His own puckers around it for a long pull, he blows out the smoke in one long breath. Tongue feeling swollen in your mouth, you lazily watch as the gray swirls up into the night sky. 

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” you stutter out. “I can’t even imagine how that must’ve been like,” 

He grins, extending the joint back to you. Before smoking, you hold it between your fingers, waiting for him to finish. 

“It’s shit,” he lays his head against the cold bricks. “Every morning I’m in pain. I go to rub it away but there’s nothing, just air, but it still hurts. An imaginary feeling I’m forced to live everyday again and again, like Prometheus– You know who that is?”

“Of course I do,” you didn’t intend it, but you sound offended, you’re talking too fast. “He was cursed to get his liver eaten out every morning by an eagle. It absolutely sucks,” 

“It does,” he laughs, chest trembling with the sound. “Sometimes I feel like I’m him reincarnated,” 

“You believe in that kind of stuff?”

“Hmm, sometimes. You don’t?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, the but of the cigarette finds your lips and you take two quick puffs. The tips of your fingers heat up. “If I had a life before I feel like I should be able to remember it at one point. In a dream, in a sudden flashback or some crap like that– Brains are powerful, it should send me a signal or something,” 

“What makes you think that it's not?” 

His head is on your shoulder. Ezra looks up to you with doe eyes, he parts his lips and you place the blunt in between. You feel like jello but sparks fly across your body when the soft skin brushes against the length of your fingers. He inhales, long and deep, you can see his lungs expanding. You pull it back, immediately placing it between your lips. The heat of his mouth still surrounds it. His eyes follow the movement, your own flutter closed, relishing in the feeling of the smoke going down your throat. You’re numb. 

Your eyes slowly open when you feel his thumb at the corner of your lips. He smiles, chin pressing into the curve of your shoulder. 

“Or maybe you don’t feel like you’ve lived a life before because you’re brand new, darlin’” his words slur, he laughs again. You smile back. “Or you’re just shit at reading the signals, one of the two,” 

“What signals have you received?”

“Many– but the one most memorable one is that it didn’t surprise me when I woke up with a limb short. I was in pain, I was sad, bitter, angry. But not surprised. It felt like it had already happened before. It felt–” you take another drag and blow the smoke towards his face, he sighs. “It felt like fate. Destiny. I was meant to lose an arm, but I ain’t happy about it.” 

“Who would be?” you’re buzzing, a smile tugs at your lips without actually feeling joy. “I doubt your destiny was to lose an arm. You think too much,” 

His smile is tender. 

“Perhaps I do. But when the worst has happened you tend to think about it,” 

“That’s not the worst,” 

“What do you reckon the worst would be then?”

“Dying,” 

“Death would be a blessing,” his hand extends to the sky, an attempt to touch the stars. You won’t be surprised if he actually does. Again, you place the joint between his lips. He inhales and when you’re about to pull away, he grabs your wrist and keeps it there. He takes another drag, then let’s go. You feel a searing circle around your wrist, his fingertips engraved into your skin. “You’re forgetting that I’m Prometheus. Would you say that to him? Along with my arm, I lost everything. I foolishly believed I was meant for greatness– To take my place between the stars and be a part of something great. Now I can’t even play two notes,” 

He’s a pianist. 

“You’re a pianist,” 

“I’m a pianist,” he chuckles, eyebrows raised. “You didn’t figure that one out while you were spying on me?”

You’re dumbfounded. It shouldn’t have taken you so long to put the pieces together, you kind of just assumed he might be playing as a hobby. He peels himself away from your shoulder, leaning against the bricks once more. Your shoulder feels unbearably cold now, with the feeling, a shudder climbs up your spine. You want him close. You want him to hold you. When he licks his lips, dried from the smoke, heat builds between your legs. By the time you place the cigarette back between your lips, you notice that there isn’t anything left to smoke. Sticking your bottom lip out, you pout. He grins, eyes skimming across your lips and bare neck. 

“I have another one if you want to,” he hums. 

You shake your head, all you can think about is how wet you feel. 

You want to kiss him. It feels like one of those moments where you get the urge to jump on the tracks or dip your finger into boiling water. In those moments your brain tells you to stop. But the same mechanics of your mind don't work with him. You want to jump into the fire and feel the burn of his cock deep inside of you. You want him to make you scream and for the whole world to hear. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Normally, you would be embarrassed about being so forward. But with the pleasant hum still ringing in your ears, and the buzz within your head, you only smile and lean closer. His grin is wide, dark eyes full of amusement. He inches closer and slowly brushes your lips together, the sound of your heart joins the hum that’s already loud in your eardrums. 

“You want to kiss me?” he asks, already knowing the answer. “If you want to you can,” 

You want to, so you do. 

He tastes like cannabis and bitter coffee. He inhales you like smoke, hand making its way into your hair, he pulls you closer, the curve of his nose pressed snug against your cheek. You melt into him. Everything you feel, you feel tenfold. His tongue swipes against the seam of your lips, you open wide, the soft muscle sneaking into your mouth to have a taste. His fingernails gently scratches your scalp, you would purr if you could, the same hand travels down and cups you from above your dress, thumb pressing into your nipple. You moan into his mouth, not a care in the world as another cool summer breeze blows over you both. 

You lick his bottom lip as you pull away, Ezra’s mouth skims down to your throat, nibbling the sensitive skin. 

Desire bubbles inside you. His lips are pure sin. Enticing like the stars above. Your hand finds his clothed erection, you squeeze playfully, grinning wide as he groans. His thumb brushes your bottom lip. 

“You wanna suck my cock pretty bird?” 

Another gush of arousal drips from your thighs. Your lips find his, pressing against them briefly before traveling down his body. You press a soft kiss into the juncture of his neck, a swipe of your tongue following while you unbutton his pants. Your breathing quickens. Slowly, your fingers wrap around the length of his cock, he feels hot and heavy within your hand. He hisses out a breath, the veins in his neck popping. You suck on the skin, you could stay buried in his neck for hours if you had the time. It smells and feels like something more, something you can’t bear to move away from. 

Your hand moves quickly. Sliding up and down his length, the heel of your hand briefly swipes against the head, the precum making it easier for you to move. The sounds that come off of you both are lewd, dirty. He must’ve been just as worked up as you were. His cock is drooling all over your fingers, making everything messy and wet.  Your hand glides up and down with ease, little whimpers leaving his lips whenever you suck on his neck. You don’t want to leave the comfort of his skin but you know it’s inevitable. 

When you take him between your lips, heat scalds your skin. He feels glorious on top of your tongue. So wet. A thick layer of precum coats the inside of your mouth, you suck at the tip and take him in deeper. His hand gingerly pushes you down. 

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “Take it all, little bird…I know you can– Such a good girl for me,” 

You moan at his praise, dark curls tickling your nose. Before taking him deep into your throat, you hadn’t realized how thick this man was. Your chin strains with the pressure but you still manage to swirl your tongue around his cock, swallowing around him. Ezra continues to spit out filth as you begin to move your head up and down. 

“You’re quite a sight to behold, lips barely wrapped around my cock– You’re making a mess, look at you…so dirty for me, don’t you care at all that anyone might see you?”

His cock throbs, gushing out precum, you swallow; your own hands slid up his thighs, fingers digging into the flesh. 

With an idea shaping in your mind, you pull away from his cock. Your gaze never leaves his as you stick your tongue out, a string of saliva dripping down and sliding down his length. He takes a sharp breath, you can almost hear his heart beating fast in his chest. You stroke him before wrapping your lips around him again, taking him in whole with a swift slide down. His fingers tighten in your hair, a groan follows. 

“Shit– Birdie– I need to fuck you– ‘ need to fuck you right now,” 

You’re head spins, however you’re sure it’s caused by him and him only. He tugs at your hair but instead of pulling away, you keep the tip of his cock between your lips and suck as you flutter your eyelashes at him. With a small smile, you tilt your head and slide your mouth sideways down his length. He’s so warm. 

“You want me?” you whisper, the air ghosting across his sensitive, wet skin him shiver. 

“I do– I do, I do– It’s been so long– Need to bury myself in the heat of your pussy right now or I’m gonna cum all over that pretty face of yours,” 

He sounds desperate, you believe him when he says it’s been a while. You lay a kiss at the head, grinning as you look up to him. 

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” you say, crawling into his lap. You roll the skirt of your dress all the way up to your waist, his hand grips your ass, squeezing anxiously. “I like the idea of you making a mess of me,” 

“You really shouldn’t say stuff like that to me, birdie,” Ezra breathes out through his nostrils. It feels like it takes him forever to speak again. “I’m not one to just fuck you full of my cum to turn around and fall asleep– If it’s a mess you want I’ll give it to you. I’ll cum deep inside this cunt, I’ll cum all over your face, tits, ass– Do you really think I’ll be satisfied by only coming once?”

You might cum from his words alone. Without even realizing, you began to touch yourself, rubbing your aching clit from over your panties. His eyes follow, a mischievous grin spreading across his lips. He pushes himself off of the wall, crashing his lips into you as he forces you down to his cock with one hand. He guides the sloppy roll of your hips, swallows your moans as the damp patch grows across the cloth. He smiles into the kiss. 

“Where on earth did you come from?” he whispers against your lips. “Am I imagining this? Are you actually here?”

“I am,” your voice is silent, all the confidence sucked out of you. You lay your hands on both sides of his face, holding his head tenderly between your palms. “But are you?”

There’s something freeing about fucking outiside. You feel hot and cold at the same time. The wind that caresses your skin forcing out goosebumps. Ezra draws a stiff nipple into his mouth, sucking eagerly as he slams his cock deeper inside. You look up to the sky, relishing in the feeling of him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing more of your abused tit into his mouth, he growls, eyes fluttering closed; he opens his mouth wider, teeth nipping the sensitive skin.

You’re not sure how loud your moans are, or if the party downstairs is over or not– The only thing you’re sure of is that you don’t want this to end. The pleasure, the sadness, the conversations that don't make a lick of sense. You don’t want to give up the buzz in your veins, the pleasant feeling of relaxation tickling your muscles– But you know you have to. The night will end and morning will come, taking him with it. 

Tears bite the corner of your eyes. Your chest feels tight and heavy. It’s going to end– 

“Hey hey,” 

Ezra looks up to you, eyes moving across your face and lingering on where you’re biting into your bottom lip. It’s already swollen. He hooks his thumb into your mouth, pulling you down so that his lips meet yours. He cups your cheek, grinding his hips up deep into your cunt. Your insides squeezes him tight, fluttering around the girth of him. He moves away, chest heaving, Ezra lays his forehead against yours, it’s damp with sweat. 

“Focus on me. Don’t think. You said that before, right? That I think too much– Don’t be like me, birdie– Just feel– Not everything needs to be a story with a start and finish,” 

You don’t remember saying that but you trust him. It’s eerie how he can see right through you. 

His thumb draws rough circles around your clit, your head falls back at the pleasure. You’re slicker. The sound of the way your bodies connect bleeds into the foreign city. Somewhere in your mind you take notice how silent it became, you soon forget it. Ezra’s head lays between your breasts, kissing every patch of skin his mouth finds, hips canting up into yours at a brutal pace. You feel as if you’re free falling. Scared, yet twitching with excitement. Your chest swells, desire building, forcibly tensing your lower abdomen. Absent-mindedly, you realize that he’s muttering into your skin, the words barely reaching your ears. 

“That’s it…you’re taking my cock so well out in the open like this, letting people know who you belong to– fuck– FUCK– how are you here– how are you–” 

Ezra grunts when you tighten around his cock, his balls feel tight and heavy, ready to burst. He’s ignoring the ghost of an ache his missing arm causes. He only wants you. He doesn’t want to think about how his dreams are buried seven feet under, how he’s been all alone with only Cee checking in on him– How he can’t even play fucking twinkle twinkle little star– He only wants to think of you. He only sees you. The way your back arches so beautifully, the way your tits bounce with the force of his thrusts, they way small hairs spread across the softness of your stomach– Ezra reaches out and squeezes the tender muscle, your lips part with a gasp, the way you move on top of his cock is uncoordinated, luckily he’s there to help. He crowds your personal space, whatever was left of it anyway, and mouths the underside of your jaw. 

“You wanted me to make a mess–” he says between pants, voice trembling. “Did you actually mean that little bird? If you didn’t you need to tell me now before I fill this tight pussy up,” 

“I-I meant it,” your thighs tremble, a needy moan escaping your lips. “Cum inside– I need you Ezra,” 

He’s not sure how many thrusts it took, might’ve been one might’ve been a hundred, but before he knows it  he’s spilling into you, pelvis flush against the curve of your ass. Ezra starts to play with your clit again, murmuring how he wants to feel you cum around his cock. You do as you’re told while he continues to pour into you. Your moans collide, making the most beautiful symphony he’s ever heard. Your body tenses, then coils down into him; your bodies pressed against one another as you both try to capture your breaths. 

The ache he always feels in his arm is back. He wants to hold you properly, press your head into the crook of his neck as his other arms snakes around your waist, but he can’t. Instead he compromises by just doing the first one, you purse your lips against his skin, kissing it gently while the harsh waves of your orgasm slowly fades. He softens inside of you, but both of you refuse to move away from the other. 

“I don’t want to go back down there,” you finally break the silence, murmuring into his neck. “I like it here.” 

“Hmm, sadly, little bird, I don’t think we can stay in this balcony half naked forever. However tempting that might be,” he feels you smile, an airy chuckle leaves his own chapped lips. “Besides, I’m sure your friends are wondering about you,” 

You pull away to shake your head, he raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s kind of like a work party. If that makes sense. I have one friend here but she’s used to me wandering away from crowded places so she won’t be worried. She’ll be fine as long as I shoot her a quick text,” 

Ezra grins at the way you, for some reason, sound so proud of your friend. He wonders what kind of people you’re friends with, wonders about your life outside of this balcony. He imagines that it’s beautiful, just like you. 

He parts his lips to speak but you beat him to it. 

“You want to walk around?” your body feels heated, you begin to stammer, the loose tongue the weed provided must be wearing off. “I-I know it’s kinda late so I understand if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be fun to walk around the streets when it’s not super hot and empty,” 

“That sounds great, birdie,” 

Ezra closes the distance, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss. This time you both melt into each other, emotions running high as he swipes his tongue across your lips. 

Desk, bed, lamp, television, door, chair.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, door, chair.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, door, chair.

On days where you’re feeling particularly bored you list the things you can see. Unfortunately for you, your surroundings rarely change. Of course you could change that, if you asked him for something he’d give it to you, anything you wanted. Unless of course it was something he thought you could hurt yourself with or contact the outside world with. 

You didn’t often ask. 

Whenever you can have a conversation with him he always says the same thing. 

“If you stopped being so stubborn you might actually be happy.” 

“I would do anything for you.” “Then let me out.” “Anything but that.” 

“It’s not as terrible as you make it out to be. It isn’t an actual cage, it isn’t so bad.” 

So you don’t talk to him unless you have to. 

But some days you’re just so painfully, agonizingly, bored and you can’t help yourself. So you scream at him, or you pound on the unyielding plexiglass, or you hold your hand up against it, hoping he’ll touch the other side and you can briefly imagine yourself having physical contact with another human being. 

Sometimes you’ll even play his games. 

You’ll read the scripts he slides through the small square opening in the cage that can’t be more than a foot wide, and act out scenes with him simply because it gives you something to do and for fucks sake you’re desperate for something to do. It’s so easy to get caught up in him, if it wasn’t so easy you’d probably let yourself do it more often, thankfully, it’s so fucking scary. If you spend too much time in the box you’re worried that eventually you’ll forget that you aren’t a doll and you'll grow to like your box. So you do your damndest to maintain a wall between the two of you, but when that wall is glass it is destined to break eventually. So you scream and you fight until you get tired, and then you let the walls down as you rest, before returning to your struggle. And everytime you let the walls down they take longer to put back up. 

At the end of the day it never matters how you treat him, he loves you all the same. 

Even on days where you scream your throat raw and throw your furniture against the walls, if you ask him to get you takeout from your favorite restaurant, or watch a movie with you, he always will. You asked him about it once. Why didn't he just make you do what he wanted? Why didn’t he just make you obey? He had looked genuinely offended, as if he couldn’t believe you thought him capable of such a thing. 

And he told you that he loved you.

More than anything. 

That you were his most prized possession. 

That he would never do anything to hurt you, it would be like if he were angry and he threw a priceless vase, the only person it would hurt is himself. 

You had nodded as if he was making any sense and you’d turned back to the movie he’d picked out. 

You were a vase. 

You were a collectible. 

A priceless, collectable. He kept you in perfect condition and never took you out of the box. Not even to play with you himself. A small, rather demented part of you, is starting to wish that he would. Of course you don’t want him to force himself upon you, you aren’t that far gone. (Yet.) But it’s been so long since you’ve touched another person. You would give your left arm just to be held. If your calendar serves you well, it’s been just over two years since you last saw someone who wasn’t Javi. 

And Javi wouldn’t touch you. 

Not ever. You were too perfect to be defiled in such a way. He would sometimes hold his hand against the glass when you held up your own, he even kissed you through it once. (Although it had been rather awkward and neither one of you ever talked about it again.) But he never touched you. 

Sometimes you can’t help but wonder what would have happened if you’d met Javi in a social setting. He is rather handsome, and though you hate to admit it, when he isn’t leering he’s almost charming. 

Almost.

Everyday you slip further into the fantasy where Javi does something to break up the monotony. Is that his goal? To make you so desperate for human connection that you eventually snap and beg him to touch you? You shudder as you wonder how long that would take. After the first year you stopped wondering what would happen when he got bored of you. You know deep down that that will never happen. If anything his devotion  for you only continues to grow with each passing day. If it’s possible he probably loves you more now then he did at the start of your stay here. Despite everything he takes care of you, in his own strange sort of way. 

Like how he tracks your cycle, always making sure you have anything you need on those days. Sometimes he even knows it’s starting before you do, he’ll bring you baskets with blankets and candy and any other little trinket or gift he saw that made him think of you. 

Jewelry, little plush toys, and books. Anything to try and make you feel anything other than the misery that constantly loomed over you as you waited for his next visit. He never goes more than a few days without seeing you and he always apologizes when he does. He returns with your favorite shampoo or lotion to make it up to you, but it never really changes how you feel about him. It’s nice to fantasize a world in which you enjoy your only source of company but you’re careful to never let that fantasy bleed into reality. 

If he were actually your partner you’d have locked him down ages ago. A part of you knows that he doesn’t want that kind of relationship with you though. He doesn’t want a girlfriend, you’re much more than that. You’re more like a goddess in a cage to him than an actual human being. A beloved pet bird. It’s clear he feels something more than simple love for you. It’s a devotion, a conscious effort to worship you. 

You are to be kept in pristine condition. 

Of course that doesn’t mean he can’t look. 

Two and a half years. 

That’s how long it took for the looking to escalate into something more. You were watching a movie. 

50 First Dates

You had picked it out, Javi liked action movies but would never complain when you wanted to watch a rom-com. You were on your bed, curled up under the blankets in a hoodie and sweatpants. You haven’t worn makeup since he took you, you rarely brushed your hair, you never put much thought into your appearance, and Javi wouldn’t give you a mirror. 

You had one, a long time ago. Within the first week you’d smashed it, threatening to slit your own throat if he didn’t let you out. All that resulted in was you no longer being allowed to have breakables. Plastic cutlery and paper plates were wordlessly passed to you from that point forward.

You had been watching in silence, he sat on the couch outside the cage like he always did and it wasn’t until you heard a shuddering groan that you turned around to see him kneeling beside the cage, one hand pressed up against the glass, steadying himself, the other wrapped around his cock.  

You were frozen in place. 

What are you supposed to do in that situation? 

You watched, slack jawed as he took his time. His gaze made you feel naked, like he could see through the layers of blankets and baggy clothing. 

He had looked you in the eye when he finished. Briefly staring wide eyed before his eyes squeezed shut and with a long, drawn out moan and a strained cry of your name. His cum painted the glass and before you could form any sort of response he was already stuffing himself back into his pants and standing. You want to say something, anything. Something to hold him accountable for what he just did, but you can’t think of anything, and he’s already leaving. 

Before you can even blink he’s gone, without so much as a glance in your direction. And you’re left alone, in the lamp light, unable to escape the sight of his filth on the glass. Covering your head with a blanket as you waited for it to be late enough for the power to cut out and leave you in a safe, and comfortable darkness. 

A part of you hoped that the white speckles would be gone when you woke up but you weren’t that lucky. 

You faced away from that wall, with your head buried in a book until you looked at the clock and knew it was almost time to face him again. When he returned he had an aura of shame around himself, his arms were full of grocery bags and his eyes were red rimmed and teary. 

“I’m so sorry- I just- I love you so much, I don’t know what came over me.” If this was a normal relationship and the two of you had maybe gotten into an argument or something you would have forgiven him. After all he looked genuinely remorseful as he stared at you, going through the bags before setting down several takeout containers with labels you recognized. He had gone out and gotten all your favorites. Your favorite fast food place, as well as a high end chinese restaurant you loved for special occasions, and a clear plastic case with a slice of your favorite flavored cake from a small bakery near your apartment that you frequented. (You’d never asked him to get you anything from there before, you’d never even mentioned the place to him.) 

Through his mumbled apologies he set down your favorite bubble tea flavor and a water bottle. 

He had passed everything to you through the opening in the cage with trembling hands as he sniffled. Once you had everything he sprayed the drying remnants of his release with Windex, pulling several paper towels off the roll and wiping it until it was as if it never happened. By the time he was finished his cheeks were red and big tears rolled down his face. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Before you can stop yourself you’re comforting him, as if he’s the victim in this situation. 

“It’s not okay, I don’t want you to think that that’s why you’re here.” He mumbles sadly, letting his forehead hit the glass. Through your disgust for your own words you sense something else.

Opportunity. 

The only chance you’re going to get for escape involves him unlocking the door. Something he hasn’t done since he put you in here in the first place. You’ve tried in the past. Not often, there weren’t very many chances, you had everything you needed here, running water and a bathroom, any other sustenance was provided by him through the little opening. There was so rarely an opportunity, and when there were he always anticipated your plans before you got to put them into motion. But you’ve never tried deception. You think you would have, considering you’re an actress but it had never crossed your mind until just now. You can’t half ass this though. If you decide to do this you will get one chance to do it right. 

Go big or go home. 

“No really, it’s okay. It’s sort of… flattering.” His face drops the second you say it and regret starts creeping in. You’re going to die here. He’s going to keep you here until the day you die and no one will ever know what happened to you. A young starlight, taken out in her prime. 

“It’s not, it’s disgusting.” He tosses the paper towels away, sniffling to himself as he stands with his hands clasped in front of him, swaying anxiously back and forth. You take a seat on your bed across from him, fighting the urge to put your hand on the glass. You don’t want to lay it on too thick, he’ll see right through that. 

“It’s fine, it’s- it’s natural.” You’re struggling to find the right words that make it feel real. At one point you were a rather talented actress but you’re out of practice. “Seriously. Especially from you. It’s really sweet.” Fuck, are you doing too much?

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he chews his lip as he stares at you, you can tell he’s skeptical. He should be. You so rarely speak to him and when you do it’s never to be kind. 

“Actions speak louder than words.” 

Someone said that in a movie Javi picked, you had sat and let him read the scene to you afterwards. 

He wants an actress, you can give him that. You can perform, as long as that’s all it is. If it’s a performance you can keep your wall up. You stumble off the bed, your legs feeling like jelly as you pull open the drawer on your nightstand. 

This plan feels stupider by the minute but you need to commit.

He didn’t gift you sex toys the way he did with other little things to make you happier. But they were always just sort of there. In their original packaging, shoved in your nightstand drawer with a few batteries he’d left as well, they’d been here when you woke up in the cage. You doubt you’ll be able to relax enough to do this without a little help, and you have to be convincing. If you aren’t believable he’s unlikely to trust you in the future. If you fuck this up now you’ll never get another chance. 

It’s a pale pink rabbit. You’d probably never buy something like it for yourself, it looks… expensive. The silicone is smooth against your fingers as you rip open the packaging, twisting the base open to pop in two batteries. Rushing in an attempt to not lose your nerve. When you gather your courage you risk a glance up at him, just fast enough to watch his tongue dart out and wet his lips.

So he does want this. 

Good. 

Pressing the button on the toy makes it buzz to life.  

Okay. 

This isn’t so bad. It’s just masturbating, if you do this for him you can take advantage of the obvious attraction he has for you. Even if it doesn’t work immediately, eventually this ends with him letting you out, or at the very least letting himself in, which is all you need. 

So you get back into bed, and you lean on a stack of pillows before really focusing on him. 

And you ask him the question he didn’t bother to ask you.

“Is this okay?” You hope the trembling in your voice comes off as endearing. 

His throat bobs as he nods. Maybe he doesn’t mind that you’ve been laying it on a little thick. Maybe you’ve denied him your affections for so long that he doesn’t want to risk rejecting any advance from you. No matter how out of the blue it seems/.

You push your sweats down to your ankles before kicking them off the bed. No time for embarrassment or regret now, if he senses hesitation none of this will be worth it. He’s moved to be sitting on the couch directly outside the cage now. His knees pressed together as he sits with his hands in his lap, looking almost comically polite. 

No sense putting off the inevitable. 

It’s been a while, there’s a camera in the corner of the cage so you don’t masturbate often, and when you do it’s late at night, once the lights are off and you can hide under your blanket. You can’t do that now though, that would defeat the purpose. 

You leave the toy off as you shove it down the front of your panties. Pressing the soft head of it against your slit, finding it surprisingly easy to tease your entrance with it. 

Are you wet? 

It’s been a while, that’s why. 

Javi certainly hasn’t wasted any time. If he were sitting any closer he’d be fogging up the glass, his hand is shoved down his pants, his face already flushed red. His usual rigid posture is lost as he leans back into the couch cushions, refusing to tear his eyes off of you. Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth you push the toy into you, holding back a gasp as you swallow. At least it feels sort of good. Good enough to make you wish you’d swallowed your pride and used this before today. 

Your body moves instinctually as your free hand reaches forward to push your panties down and turn the vibe on in one motion, the silicone attachment pressing against your clit as you press the toy deeper into your pussy. It’s a little too easy to relax suddenly. Javi now slowly strokes himself, his cock in his hand, looking painfully hard as he squeezes the base of his shaft, almost as if he’s scared of blowing his load too soon. 

Good. 

The less time it takes the better. 

At least that’s what you tell yourself as you angle the toy, letting the tip of it brush against your g-spot and drawing an authentic moan from you. Fighting the urge to cover your mouth in surprise, you repeat the motion. The combination of sensations making your toes curl and your back arch into the mattress. 

“Fuck-” Your voice catches in your throat, your fingers twitch against the button to turn the vibrations up a level. 

Once you find your rhythm it’s easy to forget about the nerves and what’s at stake. It’s easy to get lost in the sensation and the sight of Javi shuddering as he gasps. It’s easy to focus on the attractive parts of him for a brief moment, to make things easier. And it’s easy to wonder if his cock would feel better than the toy that hums and makes your body tense up deliciously. 

It’s actually terrifying how easy it is. 

It’s enough to make you horrified for just a split second. He wasn’t lying when he said you could be happy if you stopped fighting. Twisted into the pleasure you’re feeling is something else. Relief. Relief for the peace you find when you stop fighting him. You could feel this good all the time if you wanted, you and Javi could have your favorite food for dinner, you could watch your favorite movies, and act out your favorite scenes. 

You could feel good. 

You could have nights like these where you watch him jerk off his pretty, thick cock and know that someone loves you enough to take care of you like this. You could let him buy you pretty things and toys that make you feel so so so good. 

And that thought terrifies you. 

If you stayed in this cage you would eventually become entirely complacent. 

It might not be tomorrow, or next week, or next year, but eventually.

You will be happy to flutter about your cage once you’ve forgotten how to fly. 

His pretty little bird. 

It’s your orgasm that snaps you out of that living nightmare. You hadn’t even realized you’d still been fucking the toy, pleasuring yourself to that little daydream. This wasn’t a good idea and you shouldn’t have done it but it’s too late for that now especially when you’re groaning out his name as you remove the still buzzing toy, now slick with your wetness. Javi’s eyes are wide as he clearly can’t hold back any longer as he dirties his shirt and pants with his own release. 

As you quickly reach for the toy, turning it off, you pull your panties up in a hurry. Maybe you should push your luck and ask him to come into the cage now. A sense of dread is settling in your stomach as you realize that you can’t be here much longer, who knows how quickly you’ll crumble if you keep letting yourself do this. It’s best to make this a swift process where you don’t have any more time to sink into the hell that is acceptance of these four glass walls. 

You’re about to do it. About to tell him that he should join you, that it would feel better for the both of you if he was in the cage as well but you don’t get a chance to as he zips his pants back up.

“Go to bed, when you’re asleep I’m gonna leave you a gift.” He stands abruptly, giving you a reassuring smile before pressing his hand up to the glass. You don’t hesitate to crawl up the length of the bed and press your own to his, it’s brief but you can feel the connection here. 

This is just the beginning. 

After today you’ll put more effort in. You’ll make it happen and you’ll make it happen fast. You can put the time and effort in, it’s not like you have anything better to do. You’ll convince him that it’s real before you lose yourself entirely and when the day finally comes where he opens the door you won’t waste the opportunity. 

You’ll leave your room. 

You can figure out the logistics of it later but for now you take the sleeping pill he slides through the opening every night he visits. You don’t usually take it but you need sleep and this will be easier if he thinks you’re compliant. With a sip of your drink the little pill goes down and your eyes close. 

And you dream that you’re a bird, flying through a blue sky.  

You sleep better than you ever have before in the cage. 

Until you wake, the lamp being on is the only indicator you have that it’s daytime. Your hair stands on end as you sit up. He was here. Things have been moved, little things, noticeable things. Your empty drink is tossed in the bin and it smells of cleaning supplies. He doesn’t ever come inside the cage, that goes against everything he tells you. Your head is spinning as you try to figure out what’s different. How long were you out? The pills have never made you feel this fuzzy before on the rare occasions that you’ve taken them, you do your best to focus but it’s difficult when everything’s so muddled. So you do the one thing you know will clear your head and you list the things you see. 

Desk, bed, lamp, television, chair.

Something’s wrong, different. 

He said he was going to give you a gift. What the fuck did he do? Did he leave it in here? Was it too big to fit through the opening? Is that why he came into the cage? 

You don’t catch it immediately, but there is a note taped to the inside of the glass. 

I knew you’d learn to be happy : ) 

See you tonight.

Love, Javi 

You look back around the room, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, chair.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, chair.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, chair.

Oh. 

You, Javi Gutierrez, and Ezra. A perfectly imperfect trinity, each finding completeness in the others.

First came the desire, the undeniable chemistry you discovered by chance. The Fates intervening, guiding your paths to cross...

Still slightly new to the area, opting to park and wander a few random avenues to take in your local surroundings. Rounding a corner instead of waiting to cross at what felt like a stupidly long traffic light. Pausing mid-stride to bend down and tie a shoelace. Drawn to enter a café to your right by the enticing aromas of coffee and fresh baked goods wafting by you as the door was held open. The forced proximity of the crowded room offering furtive glances, half-hidden smiles, an offer of an extra seat at their table.  

You knew they weren’t just visitors – the manager and a couple of servers had happily greeted them during their stay, occasionally stopping by the table to make a bit of small talk when they could. Locals. It provided an extra layer of comfort in the situation.

Javi was the bubblier of the two. Everything about him felt like summer – golden skin, a crown of sun-kissed chestnut waves adorning his head. The warmth of his bright eyes, his dimpled, coy smile (especially when beaming at his partner), the gentle heat radiating from his palm as it enveloped yours upon your introduction.

And then there was Ezra…a seemingly polar opposite, at least in appearance and mannerisms. Fairer skin, a platinum comet-like streak flaring across his close-cropped ebony tresses. An aquiline nose, framed by slightly sharpened cheekbones. A calmer demeanor, with a more intense, probing gaze - dark and deep, save for a sparkle amidst the black when he smiled.

You were drawn into their orbit immediately. Ezra’s loquaciousness and the rhythmic timbre in his low drawl, in tandem with the almost musical inflection in Javi’s voice when he responded to your curious questions and cheeky banter. Both as rich and sumptuous as the coffee you savored and pastries you shared.

For a chance encounter with two complete strangers, you felt curiously grounded. Gravity pulled you in, kept you transfixed as the evening went on. Your conversations waxed and waned over a myriad of subjects, sharing stories and little jokes as though your souls had known each other long before you’d even met in this place.

It was the jangling of bells as the last patron (other than yourselves) had left through the front door, and the jostle and thud of surrounding chairs being stacked atop tables, that finally brought the three of you back to earth.

You blinked a few times and – shocked but, strangely, not surprised – you took note of the delicate touch of Javi’s fingers lazily brushing over your knuckles, the gentle weight of Ezra’s ankle crossed over yours, a cool strip of skin beneath the cuff of his trousers pressed against you. The three of you still huddled closely, long after the crowds had dissipated. The idea of personal space long forgotten, pointless.

How much time had passed with you sat like this, so unabashedly entwined…no matter.

They were open with their intentions, gentle and respectful with their request. Ezra gave voice to their proposition, with Javi’s earnest, hopeful gaze fanning the flames that had already begun to ignite beneath your skin.

“Seems the three of us are rather reluctant to leave each other’s company, starling. If you feel so inclined, may we continue this delightful…social intercourse elsewhere? Our apartment is just a short walk from here. The choice, of course, is yours. Say the word, and we’ll merry part, to perhaps merry meet again.”

You knew it – felt it in your very marrow – there was no declining their offer.

Your conversations flowed as you traveled the lamplit blocks towards their home, your steps falling together into a casual rhythm. Javi’s and Ezra’s fingers laced, their palms warm and reassuring against the small of your back as you strolled.

You came to a stop in front of a cozy looking, two-story alabaster painted brick building. The front steps and entrance were illuminated by copper gas lamp sconces flanking the matte black double doors. A soft amber glow peeked through the black steel framed windows of the second floor – their home.

Javi’s hand moved from your back to brush along your arm. Soft, chocolate-warmed eyes gazing at you as he spoke while Ezra fished for his keys to enter the building. “I know all of this may seem hasty. There are no assumptions here, no expectations. We just want to spend more time with you…however you’d like.”

The honeyed tone of his voice soothed your soul, warming you from within. Grasping at his fingers as his trailing hand reached yours, you felt bold enough to draw him closer. You leaned in, mouths temptingly close. “Let’s see where the night takes us, then.”

Ezra couldn’t help but stare as he stood in the open entryway, a pleased smile on his lips. This sort of thrill winding its way through him – so new, and yet familiar at the same time. The same pleasure and anticipation he felt upon first meeting his Javi. He outstretched his hand, beckoning you forward. “May I?”

Hand still clasped with Javi’s, you turned towards the doorway, your free hand slipping into Ezra’s welcoming grasp. “Lead the way.”

Their apartment was stylish yet comfortable - as inviting as the men themselves. The pair offered you an unhurried tour of the space, making every effort to make you feel welcome.

A buttery leather couch in rich toffee sprawled across the floor of the living room, a matching easy chair and footrest sitting catty-corner. A cream-colored fabric ottoman/coffee table sat in front of the couch, complementing the oversized throw pillows laying back against the armrests.

Tall, weathered oak bookcases lined the wall alongside the couch, the top only reached by a black wooden ladder connected to a matching steel frame spanning the full length. Multicolored rows of books nestled amongst the shelves, along with small trinkets and treasures the two had collected.  

Smiling images of Ezra and Javi in simple matted frames adorned the bookcases and nearby wall. Travels, celebrations, casual embraces, a stolen kiss or two captured on film – a visual chronicle of the life they’d built together.

The three of you settled into the couch, falling back into the same bubble of comfort you’d felt back at the café – only here, the air felt tinged with electricity. The quiet moments – no longer offset by the background noises of your earlier setting – now held something unspoken among you, as though suspended in midair.

You lounged sideways into the cushiony seating. Personal space once again bore no weight among you, with Ezra’s legs draped across your lap while he reclined, an offered resting place for your idle hands. Javi curled around Ezra’s back behind him, his upper body propped up by one of the plush throw pillows. You couldn’t help your thoughts beginning to drift while catching Javi’s finger gliding along the side of Ezra’s neck, rewarding him with an almost imperceptible sigh in response.

You’d never taken any chances such as this before – going home with two strangers, let alone one. An uncharacteristically daring choice, for sure.

With Javi and Ezra, you’d never felt more relaxed. At home.

None of you could pinpoint who made the first move. What you could recall, in delectable detail, was the passionate indulgence that followed as the night went on.

Gentle overtures as you edged closer, curling together into the couch cushions. Murmurs of “stay”, “our bed”, “yes” buried into the crook of his neck, brushed against the shell of your ear, pressed into the strong cadence of his pulse point.

The slow parade down the dimly lit hallway towards their master bedroom – bright laughter mingled with breathy sighs while you took turns locked in heated kisses. Exploring the dips and curves of inviting mouths - the gentleness in a flick of tongue against a cupid’s bow, the insistence in the grazing of teeth over pliant, yielding lips.

Fingers caressing warm skin as clothes were slipped, tugged, strewn about – a telltale trail of what awaited once you crossed the threshold at the end of the hall.

Crawling onto the comfort of their shared bed, happily falling into one another against the luxurious sheets. Taking the time to learn each other’s bodies, savoring the tang and salt on your tongues, committing to memory every gasp and moan elicited with a stroke, a caress.

Ezra’s body, solid and warm while you lay back against him. His usually clipped drawl more languid, syrupy with damp, wicked prose breathed against the back of your neck - just loud enough for Javi to hear with his head buried between your spread legs. Heated palms clutching, indents pressed into the meat of your thighs, holding you wide open for his partner to feast on you, ravenously lapping up every drop your pussy offered.

Javi’s body, a bit softer than Ezra but sturdy and broad, his full weight blanketing you. Pressing in with each slow thrust, a symphony of whimpers and gasps with the sweet sensation of Javi’s thick cock filling you. His head dipping down towards your throat, your chest. Lips latching onto your nipple, already budded by Ezra’s thick, teasing fingers. Your nails – and Ezra’s - grazing Javi’s scalp as the pace quickened, entwined fingers tugging at his luscious, damp curls. Javi’s mouth covering yours, drowning out your moans, bodies shuddering with your sweet release.

Your body, languorously stretched out beside such beautiful men – your beautiful men, at least for the night. Eyes transfixed on Javi’s slicked lips as they stretched around Ezra’s weeping cock, giving him proper attention after the two of you had your fill of each other. Back arching, the guttural groan escaping Ezra’s throat sent shivers straight through you. You let your hand wander, fingers dancing along Ezra’s collarbone, over his Adam’s apple. Gently pinching his chin between thumb and finger, drawing his gaze downward, all eyes on Javi as Ezra’s body tensed, shuddering, luxuriating in the sight of his cock spilling into Javi’s throat. 

Draped alongside you, Ezra’s head rested against your chest, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin as it caressed your thigh. Your fingers lazily stroked his damp hair, while Javi traced gentle whorls along Ezra’s spine as he lay on his side. A deep purr from Ezra rumbled against your body in response, his body stretching almost catlike into your collective touch.

Javi chuckled softly and pressed his lips to Ezra’s shoulder, hints of drowsiness in his voice. “I feel there’s a joke here, but it might be somewhat inappropriate with our present company.”

You raised your head slightly to catch Javi’s eye, grinning. “No worries, I appreciate a good pussy joke now and then.”

Javi’s lips flattened into a straight line in a valiant attempt to hold back a laugh. Failing quickly, he buried his face between Ezra’s shoulders, a loud snort-giggle bursting forth. The three of you collapsed into a fit of laughter, drawing your circle closer around each other in a pile of tangled limbs and giddy spirits.

Slowly settling into the comfort of the bed and the warmth of each other’s bodies, the three of you chatted quietly into the darkness. Each of you shared pieces of yourselves without hesitation, or shame. You kept to the agreement suggested earlier in your day together: no asking questions you wouldn’t be willing to answer yourself, and anyone had the right to decline if something felt too personal in that moment.

You’d been feeling a bit lost at your current point in life. You weren’t very close with your family, not your biological one at least. Your very small circle of friends – your found family – weren’t too far away, but just enough to be considered “a short distance”. Even though you found a promising job and a nice enough place to live, you still felt adrift, like you were searching for something indefinable. A stray puzzle piece.

Ezra and Javi had only felt the desire to invite another person into their bed on two other occasions – rare indulgences over the course of their five-year relationship. They certainly enjoyed those nights, and the willing partners they brought into their bed. But they admitted that those were perhaps more reckless choices, fleeting moments in their lives. Neither of those lovers stayed the night.

Javi’s voice was quiet, confession in his tone. “We had taken them to our bed, but we didn’t…”

“…We didn’t bring them home.” Ezra punctuated the last word with a squeeze to Javi’s thigh, a brush of fingers against your hand.

Grasping at Ezra’s blindly searching fingers, you tucked your arm under his, leaning over and reaching across to lay them both in contact with Javi’s tender belly. His broad palm laid over your joined hands. You worried your lower lip with your teeth, holding back a brimming tear as you felt the click of the last piece fitting into place before sleep finally claimed you.

The same energy and rhythm felt in bed followed everyone down the hall the next morning. They accepted your offer to help make breakfast, the three of you in a quirky slow dance about the kitchen. You giggled seeing Ezra peek over Javi’s shoulder as he prepared a delicious omelet, the teasing scrunch of Ezra’s nose when Javi swatted his hand away as he attempted to add more cheese.

Moments of comfortable silence fell while you enjoyed your morning meal. An occasional glance, a crookedly shy grin between bites. Idle chat of your plans for the rest of the day, a sly joke here and there.

Still…it felt as though too much was being left unsaid.

Ezra and Javi graciously offered use of their shower, giving you privacy so you could freshen up. Even though you accepted, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge in your chest. Withholding the selfish thought that you wanted their scent to linger on your skin, just a bit more. Inviting them to join you would have to suffice…

For the first time in the nearly 24 hours you’d spent together, things suddenly felt awkward. Nothing was promised beyond this. And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder…and secretly hope…

A heaviness settled among you as you said your goodbyes – time standing still with each full-bodied embrace. Gentle, lingering kisses. Hesitation evident in your slow pulling away from one another.

It was Ezra that finally decided to take the leap, as you turned towards their front door. Cool, silver-tongued Ezra, who suddenly found himself flustered, struggling to find the right words. “Starling…”

Halting mid-step, your hand stilled as you grasped the door handle. Keys and purse gripped in your slowly white-knuckled other hand. You remained motionless, not quite ready to turn and meet their eyes.

“You don’t…What I mean to say is, this doesn’t…” A slight crack in Ezra’s voice as his words came to a halt.

Heartbeat pounding in your ears, nearly drowning out Javi finishing his partner’s thought.

“This doesn’t have to be goodbye. Not if you don’t want it to.”

Your momentary pause felt like an eternity, until you quickly pivoted on your toes, tossing your possessions to the floor and striding into Ezra’s and Javi’s open arms.

You made time for each other, not just in your bedrooms. The three of you went on date nights - sometimes in pairs, others all together. A shared romance, with nothing hidden or held back from one another. You made sure to respect each other’s space when needed, but along the way, your hearts and lives became inseparable – entwined as the burgeoning ivy climbing along the outside wall of Javi and Ezra’s building.

You found yourselves deeply in love.

None of you believed it was possible at first. Each member of this trio had brought his or her own baggage, of varying size and weight. Those lingering not-so-resolved issues around trust and communication, the internalized shame of what others might call what you had “unconventional”, “nontraditional” – or worse. Yet, together you managed to make peace with your respective pasts, and were more than willing to do the work to make your relationship thrive.

Your image joined Javi and Ezra’s in the collection of photographs displayed in their home. It seemed a natural progression that you yourself would join them, permanently.

Spaces once carved out for two, now shared by three…toothbrushes on the bathroom counter. Gifted books and collectibles mingling on shelves in the living room. “Heated” negotiations over rearranging closet space. Choosing colors and patterns for new bedding. Getting used to new schedules and sleeping patterns, navigating quirks, habits and annoyances…

It wasn’t a seamless transition, but it was a happily – mutually – made decision. One that none of you felt any doubt or regret making.

Before you knew it, your first anniversary was approaching. You had wanted to travel together, to find a special vacation spot that would delight the three of you. Some ideas and destinations were discussed at length, others brought up and quickly voted down.

“At least there’s three of us so there’s no risk of a stalemate,” you quipped with a grin after the fifth – and sixth – possibilities were crossed off your combined wish list.

After a brief lull in the conversation, one word from Javi made you and Ezra look up in surprise.

“Iceland.”

Ezra raised a brow with a smirk. “Why, Javi…our bronze god is suggesting a frosty getaway?” You couldn’t help but giggle at his gentle poke, but laid your hand on Ezra’s knee and squeezed. “Let’s hear him out, I’m intrigued by the idea.”

Javi kissed your cheek in gratitude, and offered more details. “Imagine…witnessing the magnificence of the Northern Lights, while relaxing in the warmth and comfort of our own secluded hideaway. Here.” He grabbed his nearby laptop and placed it on the table, you and Ezra flanking him for a full view of the screen. “I did a little research, and bookmarked a website which seemed to promise just about everything we could need or want.”

The welcome section greeted you with a stunning full-page image of Iceland’s midnight sky, teeming with stars. The photo gallery that followed offered glimpses of the scenic landscape at various times of day, from outside and inside their various cabins.

You’d only seen photos of those scenic wonders – glorious illuminated hues of gold and green, blue and purple, ribboned across the night sky. To be able to see it up close, take in the beauty of it all in person…

You beamed, curling your arm around Javi’s bicep. “I love it. I’m in if you’re in.” You glanced over at Ezra, already knowing his answer. “What about you?”

Ezra’s lightly teasing stance softened, and his smile grew as he looked over at the screen, then to the pleased look on his partner’s face. “I have to say, pretty, you certainly did your homework. I’m beginning to see your vision.”

Javi’s cheeks flushed slightly. “It’s actually been a longtime desire of mine to go there. It’s just so fascinating, so uniquely beautiful.”

The vote was unanimous.

The next step was to decide on the accommodations. All of you pored through the options, looking for a location along the coast. Ezra declared that “Seclusion is paramount. No need for the hindrance of prying eyes of possible neighbors.”

As he continued to scroll through the website, you caught Javi’s eye, nodding your head towards Ezra and mouthing the words “naked time” with a wink.

There had been several lodges to choose from, each of them offering its own stunning views. Each of their names were chosen from Norse mythology. Just when you felt your eyes on the brink of bleariness from scouring the photos and reviews on the site, your collective gaze was drawn to the same listing: Freyja – named after the Norse goddess of love, beauty, sex and magic.

Javi could barely hold back his excitement. “Everything we would want for our trip - how could we not choose Freyja?”

“It does seem apropos for our little clan, doesn’t it?” Ezra touched a finger to Javi’s cheek, a gentle pressure twisting Javi’s head to face him.  “I’d swear there’s a glimmer in those doe eyes of yours, pretty.”

You chuckled at the pair. “Don’t flatter yourself, it must be from the glow of the laptop screen.” Ezra grinned, never looking away from Javi while his free hand managed to sneak its way to your seat. You yelped with a jump from the sudden sting as Ezra pinched your inner thigh.

After a long but mercifully uneventful flight and subsequent car ride, sighs of relief followed you into your home for the next few days, as the three of you dropped your luggage by the door of the cabin.

“We’ll be using that outdoor jacuzzi for sure, it’s worth a few seconds in the cold,” you noted, nodding back towards the door, “but I think we should set up our goods in the kitchen and tour the place first.”

It was cozy, just enough space for all of you to move about comfortably. Rustic and modern elements beautifully married - rich hardwood blended with hexagonal matte ceramic tiles that lined the floor in the kitchen and crept up the wall to make the backsplash. Sleek leather chairs surrounded the cozy round dining table. Earth-toned custom tiling in contrasting textures decorated the walls of your master bath.

Towards the front of the cabin, sleek lighting embedded in the floor illuminated your bed, the spacious mattress cradled by a beautifully crafted live-edge base and headboard. Ezra couldn’t help himself, stating how he longed to “test the comfort of the mattress” later that evening. You reached for one of the downy pillows as you passed, playfully whacking Ezra square on his gorgeous ass. “Plenty of time for that. And in front of this stunning sight – take a look!”

Standing side-by-side at the foot of the bed, you peered through the surrounding tall glass panels, silently taking in the panoramic views of the snow-dusted landscape – a rippling river cutting through the hills and valleys of the countryside, vast mountains on the far horizon. The sun high in the sky, making everything beneath it shimmer.

Javi marveled at the beauty before him, a contented smile on his face as he gazed through the glass towards the glorious outdoors. His soft observation cut through the silence. “And to think, soon we’ll get to experience the Northern Lights up close.”

There was a note of wonder in his voice, and you felt a tear to your eye, knowing how much he’d been looking forward to this – and to celebrate it with Ezra and you, together. Ezra pressed his lips to Javi’s temple and turned his gaze back to the windows. You grasped their hands, warm palms flush against each other’s, fingers tightly intertwined.

Not wanting to waste another minute, your slightly tired but excited trio decided to take a leisurely stroll along the nearby trails. It was invigorating to breathe deeply and enjoy the crisp air.

You traversed the rocky paths connecting the network of cabins, all of which were spaced well enough to offer privacy during your stay. You filled your phones with dozens of photos, wanting to capture as much of the stunning scenery nature provided. Javi took great care in framing his shots just so, using his keen eye for cinematography to create memories the three of you could peruse together, maybe add a few more framed treasures to your growing collection at home.

As evening fell, the excitement felt among you softened, became more relaxed and indulgent. Ezra insisted you and Javi go freshen up a bit. The two of you were “forbidden” to enter the kitchen area while he prepared the evening meal. “It’ll only be a short while, go occupy yourselves while I whip up some succulent delights for us to share.”

Javi couldn’t resist slipping behind Ezra while he worked, hand snaking around his waist and dipping between Ezra’s thighs. Javi pursed his lips and kissed behind Ezra’s ear, murmuring before stealing away, “Not to worry, love. We won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”

Both you and Javi fell onto the bed laughing with Ezra’s teasing reply. “Well, I’m afraid you’ve a bit of a wait, and that is an awfully short list.”

Lying back against the soft pillows, your leg crossed over Javi’s at the ankle, you began scrolling through each other’s camera rolls, pointing and admiring the moments you had captured so far in your travels. Before long, the sun had kissed the horizon goodnight, and the lights dimmed, save for the recessed floor lights beside the bed and along the nearby hall. Ezra’s melodious “Supper’s ready!” had the two of you laying your phones on the nearby nightstand and rolling off the bed to head towards the dining table.

Your eyes were greeted by the soft glow of candlelight, and an assortment of delicious fruits, cheeses, smoked fish and other shareable noshes carefully arranged on platters. The neck of a wine bottle peeked out from a chilled bucket, tiny droplets of condensation already forming on the outside.

Both you and Javi greeted Ezra once more with a tender kiss as a thank you. He responded in kind, humming into each press of lips. “Happy to spoil my favorites, especially for our anniversary.”

Javi’s brow raised while he pulled your chair out for you. “Favorites, hm?”

Ezra waited until Javi was settled beside his seat, giving his thigh a gentle squeeze, then yours. “My ones and only.” He reached over to the wine bucket, retrieving the bottle and pulling the cork with a soft pop.

“May I?” Ezra glanced at each of you, gesturing towards your long-stemmed wine glasses. You both nodded, and Ezra poured enough for each of you to savor with your meal. Raising his glass, he asked if you would do the honors of giving a toast.

You pondered for a moment, your heart swelling as the words came to you. “To the Fates. For pulling and spinning the threads that have woven our lives together.”

As supper wound down late into the evening, you peeled off the rest of the day’s garments and wrapped yourselves in lush cotton robes, making your way outside to the hot tub. Its bubbly warmth like a siren’s call, urging you to quickly shed your robes and step into its open embrace.

Comfortably seated and leaned back, you luxuriated in the generously sized jacuzzi, allowing the jets to soothe your muscles. Plumes of steam danced across the water as it met the colder night air.

Your bodies submerged into the heated water, heady with the rich decadence of the food and wine you had enjoyed. Eyes turned towards the sky, reveling in the multicolored auroras as they continued their cosmic dance above you. A canopy of stars glittered behind, making the ethereal lights even more vibrant.

With Javi and you reclined and leaning against him at either side, Ezra was in his glory. A soft moan escaped his lips, just this side of obscene. Javi chuckled, letting his fingers dance across Ezra’s chest. “Feeling good, love?”

Ezra’s lips pressed together in a satisfied hum, eyes fluttering closed as the back of his head met the headrest. “Resplendent.”

You relaxed in a comfortable silence for a short while, cherishing the wonder and beauty of your surroundings, and the dazzling display above you. Even if you only captured a few photos of the Lights, the memories would be emblazoned in your hearts for years to come.

Soon you found yourselves melting into one another, each kiss and caress stoking the fire among you, intensifying the heat already permeating your skin from the jacuzzi. Javi suggested the three of you head back inside, to the warmer confines of your bed.

Ezra chose to indulge in the steamy bath just a bit longer, still relishing nature’s light show. You and Javi each touched your lips against Ezra’s before stepping out of the hot tub. Ezra’s eyes followed your divinely naked figures as you emerged from the water, calling out as you grabbed your robes and hurried to escape the chill of the nighttime air. “As much as I hate to see you go….I rather enjoy watching you leave.”

Feeling refreshed, and thankfully not waterlogged from the extra time in the hot tub, Ezra shivered as he returned indoors, quickly shutting the door behind him to banish the cold. Tiny whorls of steam arose from his shoulders as he padded across the entryway towards the bed, bare feet leaving slightly damp prints in his path.  

He stopped in his tracks, stunned to silence - a rare moment from such an effusive man as Ezra. He was doing his best not to disturb the exquisite scenery before him – both outdoors and inside. Eyes drawn from the airbrushed waves of emerald shimmering in the evening sky, to an even more celestial sight….

Javi and you, tangled together in your lavish, inviting bed facing the windows. Your naked, writhing bodies, dappled in green-gold as the last vestiges of the Northern Lights outside danced with the aureate glow of the electric fireplace in your chambers.

Your leg was lazily draped over Javi’s thigh, his thick fingers gliding over the curve of your ass, pressing into the supple flesh. Hips grinding together, soft moans permeating the silence of the room as Javi’s mouth hungrily sought yours.

The warmth from the hot tub dissipated, replaced by a more intense heat beginning to seep into Ezra’s skin. He untied the belt of his bathrobe, letting it fall to the floor. He gave his hair a final swipe with the towel draped around his neck, adding it to the pool of terrycloth behind his heels.

The shock of platinum lay nestled in the damp wisps gracing Ezra’s forehead. Gooseflesh emerging as the heat from the fireplace licked at his still-dewy spine and shoulders. His plush lower lip caught in his teeth, biting back a low hiss while his hand wandered at the sight of the two of you, down to his now aching cock.

Caught up in each other, neither you nor Javi seemed to take note of Ezra’s return. Spurred on by the debauched display, Ezra pondered for a moment whether he would rather appease himself by watching, or if he should heighten his ecstasy by joining you in bed.

His faraway thoughts were interrupted by a low murmur from across the room. Javi’s dulcet tone, rich and caramel-thick. Ezra’s eyes latched onto Javi’s deep pools as they peered over your bare shoulder.

“As enjoyable a view as this is…” Javi’s gaze dropped lower, lingering on Ezra’s hand between his thighs, enjoying the sight of his fully engorged cock. He offered a teasing grin, eyes raised once more to meet Ezra’s darkened pupils. “I think he’d be warmer and much more comfortable over here with us.” Javi nuzzled your throat, pressing a tender kiss. “Wouldn’t you agree, love?”

Your head turned slightly, your beautiful profile in full view, skin aglow from the shimmering outdoors and from the pleasure of Javi’s tender caresses. A beckoning grin on those sinful lips.

“I do agree. Wholeheartedly.”

Javi gave Ezra a playful wink, and stopped your giggling with another searing kiss. Ezra couldn’t help but chuckle at the two of you, shaking his head. He still could not fathom how lucky he was to have found these two incredible – and incredibly sexy – partners to spend his life with.

Ezra made his way over to the closest side of the bed, relishing the view of your back being caressed by Javi’s broad palm, your hips and ass rocking gently against Javi’s body. He sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching down to let his fingers trail first over Javi’s hand, dancing over his fingertips, then up along your spine. You groaned into Javi’s kiss, your back arching with Ezra’s lingering touch.

His fingers brushed over your bare shoulder, up along your hairline, blunt nails grazing the nape of your neck. He heard you sigh openly as Javi’s mouth parted from yours. Javi smiled against your lips as he teased, “Seems neither one of us can keep our hands off our girl….can we?”

Ezra’s gaze met Javi’s once more. “It does seem that way, pretty.” Their eyes locked, Javi’s hips canted forward once more, as Ezra’s hand cradled the back of your head, catching just enough hair in his grasp to give a slow tug.

The dual sensations sent a jolt through you, and your body responded in kind – hands wrapped tightly around Javi’s shoulders, pulling him even closer. Your pussy clenching around Javi’s cock, drawing a moan from his kiss-swollen lips.

Maintaining his hold, Ezra carefully positioned his body so it laid flush with your back. Your ass pressed against him, and his hips lurched forward, chasing the delicious friction of his thick, weeping cock sliding between the cleft of those plush cheeks.

He gently stroked your scalp, pressing delicate kisses to your hairline and neck. His breath was warm, damp against the shell of your ear.

“Can’t have you holding back now, starling. You know I love how sweetly you both sing for me.” His eyes roamed, catching Javi’s blown-black gaze. “How exquisite.”

Ezra swept his free hand over your hip, reaching across to stroke Javi’s cheek. He grinned at the flush that spread over Javi’s face and throat with the gentle caress. Javi’s mouth parted slightly as two fingers brushed over the plump bottom lip, the tip of his tongue flicking against Ezra’s fingertips.

A hoarse whisper against your ear – Ezra’s words forming a question, but his tone more a gentle command directed at your other gorgeous partner.

“May I?”

You watched breathlessly as Ezra’s fingers slowly disappeared into Javi’s inviting mouth, lips wrapping around them with a muffled groan. Your pussy clenched at the gorgeous sight, fluttering around Javi’s cock still buried deep inside you.

Ezra sighed with pleasure, his cock slick and hot against your cheeks with a thrust of his hips. The ache deep within him growing, he slid his fingers from Javi’s lips with a sinful, wet pop.

Both you and Javi felt Ezra’s hand slip between you, his palm splayed over your mound. Warm skin meeting heated flesh as Javi’s hips began to roll once more against yours.

Ezra’s hand slid lower. His spit-slicked fingers tented, spread wider to draw your puffed lips open further, Javi’s stiff cock gliding between the parted digits as he fucked you.

Javi buried his face in the crook of your neck, panting breaths against your already damp skin sending a shiver down your spine.

Your cries gained volume with each thrust, adding to the debauched symphony of skin slapping against skin, the slick sounds of your pussy taking every inch of Javi’s cock. The wicked touch of Ezra’s fingers between your bodies, teasing both you and Javi simultaneously – losing yourselves in such absolute pleasure.

Your fingers tugged at Javi’s dampened curls, feeling both your bodies hurtling towards the edge. Ezra felt your body tensing - he knew you were close. He could feel his own body winding up, the sweet ache low in his belly. Music in his ears and gravel in his throat.

“That’s it, pretty. Make our girl sing.”

Slow, gentle swirls against your clit, Ezra’s finger dancing to the sinful rhythm of Javi sinking his cock deep inside you.

Javi’s mouth latched onto your shoulder, his hips giving a final deep thrust. He bit down as his body shuddered, coming with a low groan.

The pain-pleasure coursing through you with his teeth sinking into your flesh, your body soon joined Javi’s in ecstasy. Your pussy clenched tightly, throbbing with pleasure around his pulsating cock. A broken moan escaped your throat. Your free hand reached back instinctively, clawing at Ezra’s thigh and hip.

Ezra grunted with the sharp contact of your nails, and continued to rut his slicked cock against you. His voice was rough, needy as he talked you through your orgasm while chasing his own. “That’s it…so fucking beautiful…”

Biting back a whimper as his spent cock slipped from deep inside you, Javi leaned in close. His lips covered yours, greedily licking his way into your mouth. You sighed into the kiss, your body sinking into the languid haze of pleasure.

Your teeth grazed Javi’s plump lower lip as you pulled back, breaking your kiss. Catching his eye, you winked with a grin, and began to pivot your body to turn and face Ezra. He uttered a broken whimper with the momentary loss of contact with your body.

His whimpering ceased as Javi pulled him closer once you were comfortably settled between them. Javi reached his hand up, stroking along Ezra’s cheek and jaw, relishing the friction of his patched beard dragging across his knuckles.

Pressing open-mouthed kisses along Ezra’s chest and shoulder, you whispered against his skin. “Your turn to sing for us, love.” You carefully snaked your hand in between the two of you, stroking the coarse thatch of hair below his hips. You were rewarded with a full-throated groan as your hand made contact with his weeping cock, feeling it twitch with the brush of fingertips over the head, the curling of your now slicked fingers around the shaft.

Javi curled his arm around the both of you in a full embrace. His fingers brushed along Ezra’s hip and ass, dancing over his fiery skin. The caressing suddenly stopped, with Javi raising his hand once more, touching two fingers to your mouth.

Javi’s eyes bore into Ezra’s, smiling wickedly as he borrowed a familiar phrase.

“May we?”

Ezra nodded, breathlessly panting in anticipation. “Fuck, yes….please…” He canted forward instinctively in a desperate need to be touched.

A gentle tap against your lower lip, and Javi’s fingers slid into your warm, wet mouth, coating them completely. You hummed around them as they slipped back out, while gently squeezing Ezra’s aching cock.

His eyes fluttered shut, his head tilting back to expose his elongated neck. Ezra's mouth formed a plump, perfect O as your tongue flicked against his throat, relishing the salt drawn from his skin. You pumped your open fist over his cock, stroking the full length of his shaft. You could feel him slowly coming apart, his hips stuttering with uneven thrusts.

Ezra could feel Javi’s damp fingers trailing over the curve of his ass, down into the crease between his cheeks. Dipping lower, the pads of his fingertips gently rubbed against the tight ring of muscle, and just beneath.

Ezra was overwhelmed with the sensation, giving up a strangled cry as he came. His cock pulsated, milky ropes of cum streaking Ezra's belly, coating your hand as you slowly guided him through the exquisite aftershocks.

Beneath the glow of the Nordic sky, the three of you lay tangled in sweaty, sticky, breathless bliss. Ezra turned to each of you, taking turns raising Javi’s and then your palm to his lips, a warm kiss imprinted into your skin. “I’m not one to believe much in an afterlife, but I’d say this is as close to heaven as I could get.”

“Happy anniversary, my loves.” Javi snuggled closer, gliding his nose along your shoulder and neck as you lay between your partners. You kissed the top of Javi’s head, responding softly against his sweat-slicked curls. “The first of many.”

“And there’s still more to discover and enjoy here for us…but first – ” Ezra’s statement was interrupted by a drowsy yawn. “We indulge in the beauty of sleeping in.”

You chuckled, suddenly pulling yourself up to a seated position and crawling over outstretched legs off the edge of the mattress to stand. “First -” You held out your hand towards Ezra, giving both of them a warm smile. “We indulge in a long, soothing shower. Then we fall asleep beneath the stars.”

Ezra took your hand and pulled himself upright, giving Javi’s ass a playful smack as he left the bed. “How could we refuse an offer so tempting?”

Hollywood could never prepare you for this. Not the countless auditions, not the sleepless nights memorizing scripts, not even the years spent navigating an industry that thrived on chaos and excess. Because standing between Dieter Bravo and Javi Gutierrez, two men so wildly different yet equally magnetic, made you feel like you had been thrown into a whole new kind of storm.

Javi, ever the passionate filmmaker, had poured his heart and soul into this movie, an intimate, raw, R-rated drama that demanded every ounce of vulnerability and desire from its cast.

Dieter, of course, was Dieter. Unpredictable, talented, impossible to ignore. He had waltzed onto set with his usual brand of careless charm, sunglasses perched on his nose, still half-drunk from the night before.

And then there was you. The actress caught between them.

The one Javi watched with fascination, his dark eyes burning with artistic vision every time the camera rolled.

The one Dieter touched without hesitation, his hands always lingering longer than necessary, his voice a low murmur in your ear between takes.

And now here you are on set, under the bright, unrelenting lights, with the cameras rolling as you stand between your leading man. The scene called for tension. Desire. A tender love brimming with longing and temptation. But the way Dieter's fingers traced along your bare shoulder? The way Javi's gaze darkened as he watched behind the cameras?

This wasn’t just acting anymore.

"Cut!" Javi’s voice rang out, sharp and decisive. But instead of calling for adjustments, he simply leaned forward, studying you with quiet intensity.

"That was…" He exhaled slowly. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."

"Told you, man. We’ve got chemistry." Dieter grinned, his hand sliding down to your waist as he pulled you closer.  You rolled your eyes but you didn’t move away.

"Let’s run it again." Javi announces after a pause with his lips curled into a slow, knowing smile as he watches the two of you. 

And just like that, take two began.

The set was silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t really silent at all because underneath it, there was something buzzing in the air.

Something unspoken.

Something charged.

You stood in the dimly lit bedroom set, the silk sheets cool beneath your fingertips as you sat on the edge of the bed, staring across the room at Dieter Bravo. He was watching you. Of course, he was watching you. His dark hooded eyes dragged over your body slowly, drinking you in like he had all the time in the world.

And then there was Javi. Seated just beyond the camera, behind the monitors, hands folded neatly over his lap, pretending to be unaffected. But you saw the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. You saw the way his fingers twitched and gripped the arms of his chair.

"Alright." Javi’s voice was smooth and calm but you could hear the slight strain beneath it. "We’ll take this slow. Natural. No pressure."

Easy for him to say. Because right now, all you could focus on was Dieter. On the way he licked his lips. On the way he took a single step closer before reaching for the buttons of your blouse. The script had called for this. The scene was supposed to be slow, tense and sensual.

Dieter’s hands hovered over your buttons and waited. "You okay, sweetheart?" His voice was low and intimate meant for you and you alone. You nodded and now barely breathing at all. And then ever so carefully, he undid the first button. Then another. And another. You felt the cool air against your skin as the fabric slipped off your shoulders, revealing the lace beneath. The moment stretched, heavy and intoxicating. 

And when your eyes flickered toward Javi, you nearly smirked. Because he was staring at you unblinking. His jaw tight, his fingers clenching like he was forcing himself to remain professional. "Cut." The word barely registered in your ears. Because the way Dieter was still looking at you? The way Javi’s breath had gone shallow? None of this was just acting anymore.

-----

The bedroom set was bathed in warm, dim lighting. The kind that casts soft shadows over your skin, making everything feel more intimate, more real than it should. Tonight’s scene was different. Tonight, it was just you. No scene partner. No Dieter hovering over you, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. No hands gripping your hips, no shared breath, no carefully choreographed movements between two lovers.

No, tonight, it was just you and the camera.

And them.

You could feel both of their eyes on you. Javi, sitting behind the monitor, silent but tense. Dieter, lounging in a chair nearby, arms folded and watching you with undisguised interest. They were trying to keep things professional. They were failing miserably.

"Alright.." Javi’s voice was smooth, steady and forced. "We’ll go for one take. Just follow your instincts."

Follow your instincts. That was dangerous. Because right now, your instincts were screaming at you to tease. To push. To see just how far you could make them unravel. You exhaled slowly, sinking into the bed, letting your robe slip from your shoulders. The silk pooled at your sides, leaving only your lace slip behind. You stretched out on the mattress, arching just slightly, enough to make a show of it. And then, you let your hands wander.

Soft, slow touches. Fingertips gliding over your own skin, tracing the outline of your curves. You didn’t even have to look at them to know. To know that Dieter’s jaw had gone tight, his grip on the armrest turning white-knuckled. To know that Javi, despite his best efforts, had stopped breathing altogether.

"Good…" Javi’s voice was strained, tight. "Keep going."

Oh you were going to keep going. You let your fingers dip lower, ghosting over your thighs and parting them just enough. Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering closed but not before sneaking a glance at them. Dieter was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees and his mouth slightly open. Javi had one hand on his lap, the other gripping the edge of the monitor like his life depended on it. You smirked in satisfaction. They were so easy.

"Cut." Javi blurted out suddenly, far too soon.

The silence was deafening. And then, Dieter chuckled lowly, darkly and amused. "You’re evil, sweetheart." His voice was like velvet, roughened at the edges. "Fucking evil."

Javi swallowed thickly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Let's…let’s take five."

Oh, you are having fun now. The moment he called for a break, you didn’t hesitate. Didn’t wait. Didn’t give either of them time to recover. You simply rose from the bed, pulled the robe loosely around you, not bothering to tie it and walked straight up to them. Dieter, still lounging in his chair, grinning like the bastard he was. Javi, still gripping the edge of the monitor, clearly trying to compose himself. “My trailer now.” You leaned in between them, voice dripping with amusement. 

“What?” Javi blinked, clearly startled. 

“Well, you don’t have to tell me twice, sweetheart.” Dieter, on the other hand, was already up. 

You gave Javi a challenging look. He hesitated but only for a second. And then he followed behind her and Dieter.

The moment the trailer door shut behind them, you turned and struck. Dieter barely had time to breathe before you had him pressed against the door, your hands on his chest and body flush against his. His smirk faltered just for a second.

Just long enough for you to drag your fingers down his stomach, slow, teasing, deliberate. "Jesus…" He murmured, eyes locked on you. "You don't play fair, do you?"

"Did I ever say I did?" You tilted your head, feigning innocence. Behind you, Javi cleared his throat, still feeling nervous and watching both of you. You turned, catching the way he was standing there tense and uncertain. Oh, he wanted to join. He just needed a little push. So, you gave it to him.

"What’s wrong, Javi?" You took a slow step toward him, letting your robe slip just a little. "Cat got your tongue?" His eyes darkened.

"Yeah, Javi. Cat got your tongue?" Dieter chuckled behind you. 

Javi shot him a glare but it didn’t last. Not when you reached out, running your fingers over the collar of his shirt and tracing the bare skin just beneath. "You liked watching, didn’t you?" You whispered. "Both of you did."

Javi exhaled sharply, jaw clenching.

Dieter, still leaning against the door, grinned.

"Oh, sweetheart." Javi murmured. "You have no idea." He barely had time to process before your hands were on him, pulling him in.

"Come here, Javi." You murmured, your voice sultry, teasing. His breath hitched. His eyes flickered between your half-parted lips and the way your thighs framed his waist as he instinctively stepped forward. Behind you, Dieter was already grinning.

"Don’t be shy, hermano." Dieter drawled lazily, watching as you pulled Javi even closer until his chest was flush against yours. "She doesn’t bite."

"Much." You added, smirking as you tilted your head back and turning to Dieter. And that’s when you kissed him.

Dieter groaned into your mouth, more than eager to indulge. His hands immediately found your waist, pulling you back against him, deepening the kiss. His lips were firm, demanding, his fingers gripping you tight. Javi watched completely mesmerized. His hands twitched at his sides as his gaze flickered between the way Dieter’s mouth moved against yours and the way your fingers tangled in his curls.

"Javi…" You whispered, voice breathless as you broke away just enough to glance at him, pulling him in closer. "I want you too."

"You heard her, buddy." Dieter chuckled against your skin. 

Javi swallowed hard, his breath shaky as he let his hands slowly rest on your thighs, feeling the heat of your skin beneath his fingers. And when you tugged him down, guiding him between your thighs, he didn’t resist. He had been watching, aching, his dark eyes drinking in every detail, your bare skin, the way you moaned when Dieter kissed your throat, the heat radiating off you.

And now, he is finally here. Between your thighs. You let out a breathless gasp as Javi eagerly indulged, his mouth hot and desperate, worshipping you. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as if you might disappear if he let go.

"Jesus, Javi…" Dieter drawled from where he lounged beside you, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. "You look like a man dying of thirst."

Javi barely acknowledged him, too lost in the moment.

"Slow down, man. She’s not goin’ anywhere." Dieter huffed a laugh, shaking his head. 

But Javi didn’t slow down. If anything, he doubled down. His tongue flicked against your most sensitive spot and you cried out, your fingers burying in his soft curls to pull him closer. "Fuck… Javi." You whimpered so prettily.

"Guess he really wanted a taste, huh?" Dieter grinned. 

Javi finally pulled away just enough to shoot him a glare. His lips were glistening, his breathing ragged, his pupils blown wide. "Callate…" He muttered breathlessly. "I’m busy."

"Yeah, yeah, I can see that, buddy." Dieter chuckled. But then, he turned back to you, his smirk softening. His fingers trailed down your body, teasing, before gripping your chin and tilting your head toward him.

"Guess I’ll just keep her mouth occupied while you have your fun." And with that, Dieter kissed you deep and hungry while Javi continued his feast.

And boy was Javi relentless. His hands gripped your thighs like a man possessed, his mouth eager and devoted to drawing out every sound he could from you. He had been waiting for this moment for too long, and now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go.

But Dieter had other plans. "Alright, alright, share the wealth, man." He drawled, reaching down to tug at Javi’s shoulder. "You’re hogging her."

Javi growled. Actually growled. You let out a breathless giggle between your moans, watching as Javi refused to budge. His grip on your thighs tightened, his mouth still working you over as if he hadn’t even heard Dieter.

"Dude, seriously?" Dieter blinked, then scowled. 

But Javi merely ignored him.

"Oh, you little…" Dieter huffed before trying again, this time physically prying Javi off you.

Javi clung to you, refusing to let go. His face was drenched, his lips swollen and red, and he looked downright feral. "Get your own." He rasped, glowering up at Dieter.

"She’s right fucking here, man! We’re supposed to be sharing!" Dieter scoffed, incredulous. 

Javi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chest heaving. "I was here first." He muttered stubbornly.

You bit your lip, amused, but also aching for more. Your body trembled, still needy and desperate. You reached down and tangled your fingers in Dieter’s curls, pulling him toward you with a teasing smirk. "You both can have me." You purred. "No need to fight, boys."

"Hear that, Javi? Play nice, or I’ll make you watch." Dieter smirked, shooting Javi a smug look. 

Javi cursed under his breath but finally relented, grumbling as he pulled back. "Fine…" He muttered. "But if he’s bad at it, I’m taking over again."

Dieter mischievously grinned. "Oh, sweetheart…" He murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "Let’s show him how it’s really done."

"Mierda..." Javi cursed under his breath, his dark eyes fixated on the way Dieter spread you open with greedy hands, devouring you like a man starved. Dieter groaned against your heat, his tongue lazily swirling before flattening against you, dragging a drawn-out moan from your lips. He had no shame, taking his sweet time, sloppy and thorough, as if tasting you was his new favorite pastime.

Javi, on the other hand, was restless. He wanted more. No, he needed more. His hands slid up your trembling thighs before one dipped between them, his fingers ghosting over where Dieter was currently feasting.

"Dios mío..." Javi muttered, his fingers testing the way you clenched around nothing. "So wet... she’s dripping, Dieter."

"Yeah? Maybe if you stop staring and actually do something, she’ll thank you for it." Dieter chuckled darkly against you, sending vibrations through your body.  Javi’s breath hitched at the challenge.

You gasped as his fingers teased you, barely pressing in at first, just enough to make you squirm. But then, he pushed inside. Your head fell back against the pillows with a shuddering moan, your body clenching around Javi’s fingers as he curled them perfectly.

"Joder..." Javi groaned, his other hand gripping your thigh for support. "She’s so... tight. Feels like she’s pulling me in." Dieter hummed in agreement, his tongue flicking faster while Javi’s fingers stroked deeper. Your hands gripped the sheets, your body overwhelmed by their combined effort.

"You like that, sweetheart?" Dieter mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled by how deeply he was buried between your thighs. You couldn’t speak. Just moaned.

Javi’s fingers pumped harder, faster, his movements matching the intensity of Dieter’s mouth. "She’s gonna come." Javi murmured, his voice awed, breathless.

The night that everything had changed in his life had left profound effects on his body. He hadn’t noticed at first. Oakland had already taken his wife, nearly taken his baby, and the strange electrical storm that had hovered over the city had somehow changed him as well. 

He didn’t notice because he was busy trying to raise his little girl, mourn his wife and cope with the loss of his job. He didn’t mind losing the job, he was planning on retiring from beating the shit out of people anyway, but he had to figure out some other way to earn a paycheck. 

He didn’t realize something had changed until you blew into his life and into his bed. The first time it happened, you screamed in shock and surprise. It was a literal shock, a small bolt of electricity shooting out of his fingers as he had rubbed your clit. You both had assumed that it had been static. Some kind of strange discharge from the fresh sheets he had put on the bed before you had come over. 

You both had giggled about it and moved on to the very satisfyingly fun part of the night. The sex had been incredible and you had tried to be understanding and patient with him when he was quiet after. The guilt that he had still has weighing on him so you don’t push for more. He hadn’t even known that when he had cum, his eyes had been glowing. 

You toss your head back and moan loudly, rolling your hips as you bounce on his cock. Clint is thick and he feels like he’s in your guts, pressing  up against something incredible inside you as you ride him. His hands are hard on your hips, even if he doesn’t squeeze you. He’s a hard man, violent, but he’s also soft. He is incredibly gentle with his baby girl, with you. With the little old lady that lives across the street and struggles with her trash can every week. You had noticed that he times his own chores with the trash can to coincide with hers. Never saying a word about it, but you watch from the kitchen window as he walks across the road and helps her, claiming it was no problem. You always watch as you wash the dishes for the dinners you make. 

Clint groans your name, pushing his feet against the bed and rocks up into you while he watches your tits bounce. Loving how wild you are, how unrestrained you ride him. Your walls clench around him and squeeze him like fucking glove. 

“Fuck baby, you feel so good.” You gasp out, eyes rolling back and you moan out again when he twitches inside you. “Rub my clit.” You order, wanting to fall apart for him. Clint said that never wanted to leave you unsatisfied, so you are to tell him what you need. Whenever you need it. 

His jaw clenches and loves  how you tell him what you want. He feels a shiver rush down his spine, his mind blanking out as he slides his hand down from your hip to the neatly trimmed bush above your pussy. 

You tilt your head down, wanting to watch as he touches you when it happens. You feel the shock but you also see it. The lightning bolt that shoots out of the tips of his fingers and to your cunt. 

“Oh shit!” It doesn’t hurt, not really. Your eyes widen and you look up at his face in shock. His own eyes are wide, unsure of what the fuck just happened. 

Clint freezes, gaze darting from your face to his fingers and then to your pussy, back to your face again. “I don’t-” 

“What was that?” You demand, reaching for his hand and he shivers again before another shot of lightning travels from the tips of his fingers to clit. It wasn’t a fluke, it wasn’t static electricity. It came from Clint and it had just happened twice. 

He tries to pull his hand back but you don’t let him, a choked sound of surprise comes out of his  mouth as it happens again, and this time you moan. Clint’s eyes widen again when he hears that, not expecting a moan to come out of your mouth. He pulls his hand back this time and stares at his fingertips in awe and horror. 

You clench down around him, unsure of what the hell just happened but wanting more. “That-”

“I don’t know-” 

“Is amazing.” You gush, making him freeze again and stare up at you in shock. You smirk slightly and reach for his hand again. “Can you do that on command?” You ask, biting your lip. “It feels better than vibrator I could buy.” 

Clint snorts and feels himself relax, grateful that you aren’t hoping off his cock and screaming about him being a freak. “I don’t know.” He admits, looking at you and groaning when you clench around him again. “Do you-”

You are already pulling his hand towards your pussy again and he feels the shiver. Now recognizing it as a precursor to the bolt. “It’s-”

You squeal in pleasure when another bolt of electricity pulses against your clit and you giggle after the sensations wear off. Rolling your hips again. “I don’t know how you do that, but I love it.” You promise breathlessly, reaching for his hand again. This time it moves to your tit and you groan in disappointment when you discover that his powers don’t work on your tits. “And I love my tits being played with.” You pout teasingly, making him frown slightly. 

You giggle again at his concern that he’s not giving you what you want. Pressing your hands against his chest as you start to gallop on his cock. Riding him hard and fast as you swivel your hips. Wanting to cum as he starts to feel a little more comfortable with the apparent new powers he possesses. 

He touches your clit again and again. Listening to you squeal and feeling you clench down around him. Getting closer to cumming as you ride him like you are trying to bust a bronc. His toes curl and his eyes slide shut for a moment before he opens them again. Making you gasp. 

It was early morning, but there was enough light to see them clearly — Javi's digits around Joel's throat, Joel's hand squeezing the back of Javi's neck to keep him pressed against his lips. They were grinding against each other, naked, obviously trying not to make too much noise, unaware that you were awake. You slipped your hand between your thighs, collected some cum on the tip of your finger and rubbed your clit lazily. A moan immediately escaped your lips. 

“I think we have an audience,” Javi smiled against Joel’s mouth and they both looked at you splayed on the bed next to them, touching yourself slowly while watching them. 

Your friend crawled towards you like a wild animal, agile and silent, a smirk on his face, his cock hard as steel and leaking precum on the sheets. The vision made you shiver and your bud throbbed under your finger. Joel lay on his side, bent his arm and propped his head on his hand, settling comfortably to watch the two of you. You glanced at his cock - it was hard, too.

“Good morning, baby,” Javi said, his playful gaze fixed on you then lingering on your body until it reached your crotch. He settled between your thighs, pushed on them with his shoulders and lapped at your cunt, swallowing the sperm flowing from it, running his tongue flat against your folds up to your clit. You jolted with overstimulation.

Javi pressed a soft kiss on your mound and climbed up your body, peppering your belly with kisses on his way, his hands cupping your breasts. You moaned when he brought his mouth to them and nibbled at your tits, your hands lost in his hair. 

“You’re needy, baby, aren’t you?” he smiled while sucking at one then released it with a pop. He raised your arm to kiss your side and armpit, up to your neck and finally reached your lips. 

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and pulled him a little closer to you, your tongues mingling.

You loved feeling his moustache on your skin, how soft it was. Kissing Javi was always hot, always enough to turn your panties into a sticky mess, but it was even hotter now, knowing he was making out with your ex boyfriend moments ago. He rubbed his cock against you, probably just to make you feel how hard he was, and smirked when your breathing quickened. He licked at your lips and slid his hand between your two bodies, brushed your folds up to your clit, and you shivered again.

“Your little pussy’s sensitive, baby?” he asked, straightening up. With his hands by either side of your head, arms outstretched, he was taking in the full view of your disheveled hair and features drawn by the delicious fatigue after the short night.

You also had the most delightful view of his gaze set on you, his sinful and gorgeous face, his teeth nibbling at his lip. You stroked his taut triceps, so round and firm beneath your fingers.

“I guess. But it’s not like I can’t take it anymore,” you smiled, and Javi brushed his lip with his tongue, as if he was ready to devour every inch of your body.

“Wanna check if our girl can go for another round, Joel?” Javi asked, and Joel sat up to take Javi’s place between your legs, mumbling a “yeah, lemme see,” that made you drool while Javi laid next to you and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Pussy’s so wet, Jesus…” Joel said when he pushed his fat cock in, sliding in easily. “Not just from our cum. I’m gonna put it back in, d’ya want that, sweetheart?”

“Fuck… yeah…” you whined, feeling his shaft filling your core so perfectly, the thought of him thrusting in both their seed making you arch your back and groan.

“So sensitive, baby… so fucking sweet and needy, Javi’s right,” he growled, gripping your hips, kneeled between your thighs, watching his thick cock slide in and out. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Javi start to jack off slowly, clearly enjoying this sharing vibe between the three of you. You smiled at him, before looking back at Joel.

“Balls soaked by you two, damn…” he hissed, thrusting in harder, then paused to spit on his cock and fucked it back in.

“Oh my god, Joel…” you whimpered.

“Yeah? Bet you’ll come when I touch your clit right now, won’t you, sweetheart?”

Javi leaned over, as if he wanted both of them to make you come, and pressing his head against Joel's crotch, circled your clit with his lips and sucked on it. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, pussy full of Joel’s cock brushing your spongy spot, Javi’s lips around your bud, and you came quickly on Joel's shaft. Joel’s and your fingers intertwined in Javi's messy hair.

“Squeezing me so goddamn hard, fuck…”

He pulled out and gripped the base to stop himself from coming as Javi manhandled you to lie down on him, your back against his chest. He slid his tip into your cunt, his fingers pressing on his shaft to keep it in, and you tightened around him.

“Fuck, she's still cuming,” he groaned.

He grabbed the back of your thighs and spread them wide, keeping you open for Joel’s sight. Hunger darkened his eyes as he watched your glistening pussy dripping cum and clenching around Javi’s tip.

Joel growled as he lay down, his large hands keeping you wide open, and you nearly fainted when you realized he was sliding his tongue from Javi's length to your clit. 

“Mierda,” (shit) Javi whimpered, before kissing your neck, just below your ear, knowing full well how much you loved being kissed here.

Joel's fingers brushed against your folds down to your friend’s tip, then he wrapped them around Javi's girth, licking pussy and cock, pulling it out lightly to slide his tongue from your friend’s crown to your folds. He licked up and down, again and again, his moustache and nose brushing against your clit.

“Oh fuck… the two of you are gonna kill me,” you whined, feeling a new climax already rising in your core. 

“Shit, I’m gonna come,” Javi growled, cupping your sweaty breasts in his hands and nibbling at your earlobe, then you heard him moan louder in the hollow of your ear and his cum spurted against your folds. Joel took him in his mouth, sucking on the tip, and you felt Javi shudder beneath you.

Joel sucked him clean, his eyes fixed on you, looking hotter than ever. Once done, he knelt back between your thighs, wiping his beard and mustache, and caressed your belly softly. 

“Gonna be right here in a minute, sweetheart. This is all for you,” he said, and you nodded. You couldn’t wait to feel him again. To feel him push in you, spreading your folds on his way. 

He took his time, feeling your stomach move up and down under his touch, then grasped your hip with one hand and lined his cock at your entrance, brushing against Javi's softened dick before pushing in.

“That's it,” he murmured, looking at your cunt swallowing him, clenching on him. “Taking me so well. Right, baby?”

You nodded, mind blank, unable to speak, watching drops of sweat beading at his hairline.

“You’re perfect, baby. Making us come, over and over,” Javi said, your back against his chest, his cock folded under Joel’s, the three of you a mess covered in cum and wetness.

“Your little pussy’s all swollen and aching, sweetheart… We’ll kiss it better soon. She’s so fucking pretty around my cock, covered in our cum,” Joel said, his eyes roaming over your spent body. He was so gorgeous, his muscles all tensed while rolling inside you, watching the way you were breathing and biting your lip.

Javi slid his fingers down to your clit and started rubbing it with his digit.

“You’re doing so good for us baby. So gorgeous, all spread out.”

“Are you gonna get wet tomorrow at work, sweetheart? Just thinking about how good we fucked?” Joel smirked, holding your hips firmly, pounding into you harder, chasing his orgasm, mubbling “god you're so fucking pretty” his cock slamming into your drooling cunt, while Javi’s pad was still on your clit, and you felt your climax rising, stronger and stronger under their touch, thrusts and words.

“You're taking him so well,” Javi whispered, playing with your hair and kissing your neck. “Doing so good, always so fucking good…” he added, his praise going right into your cunt.

“Fuck. Fuck! I’m gonna come. Fill me, Joel.”

“Yeah? Want me to shoot my load, keep you full of us? ‘M gonna give it to you. Just come on it, and I’ll fill you” he said, eyes locked into yours until you started coming, mouth wide open in a cry.

“That’s it baby, come on his cock. Keep taking it, just like that. Yeah, there you go,” Javi said, your legs shaking, inner thighs covered in cum and your slick. 

“Gonna fill you up. Now, look at me. Fuck… Look at me, sweetheart. Yeah, just like that. You feel so fucking good, yeah that’s it….” Joel groaned then whimpered when he started sending hot spurs of cum inside you, his hands squeezing your hips.

He stayed buried deep inside you, cock throbbing, until your cunt milked him dry, Javi murmuring “you’re perfect, you’re so perfect, baby,” against your skin, your body and mind so full of emotions and sensations that you were afraid you might cry.

Once his cock stopped twitching, Joel leaned forward and kissed you, his tongue sliding between your lips. You cupped his cheeks, your tongue teasing his.

He then pulled back and his thumb gently brushed your cheek.

“This was… amazing, sweetheart. So fucking good,” he said, his soft gaze locked with yours, then he looked at Javi and nodded.

He withdrew, his cum dripping from your pussy onto Javi’s cock and Joel went to get a towel to clean you both up.

“We need a shower,” Javi laughed.

“Yeah, come on. It’s big enough for the three of us,” Joel said, helping you up.

The hot water felt amazing against your bodies. Javi and Joel washed you, their four hands roaming over your body, sharing kisses here and there, with you or each other. You washed them too, taking the time to feel their skin and muscles under the tips of your fingers, your eyes moving from one man to the other, grateful for this moment full of sharing, full of trust, where everyone just wanted to make the others feel good. 

Javi knelt in front of you to wash your thighs and pressed soft kisses on your belly then your mound. You trembled. 

“I know, baby. I know. She’s sensitive. I just couldn’t resist, she’s so pretty. Like every inch of you,” he smiled at you before getting up.

“Are you going soft, Javi?” you asked mischievously.

“With you? Always,” he added, looking so pretty and tender that you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pressed yourself against him and kissed him while Joel was peppering kisses over your shoulder.

You had breakfast at Joel’s place, and they smiled, watching you devour every bite. 

“What?” you asked, mouth full. “You drained all my energy, I gotta get it back!”

“You’re not wrong,” Joel chuckled.

“So,” you started to say. “This was… unexpected,” you were twirling your fork between your fingers. “And maybe I’m still high from it, but… I’ll be honest, I hope this isn’t just a one-time thing. What do you guys think?” you asked, looking at them.

“You already know my answer, baby. I’m all in,” Javi replied. You smiled at him, then looked at Joel, unsure what he’d say about that.

He took his time, watching the two of you. Even grabbed a bite, then put down his fork.

“‘course I’m all in. I’d be a fool to say no to this pussy. And this cock,” he added, looking at Javi, who leaned back against his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. He clasped his hands behind his head, full of self-confidence. So… Javi, right now. Your gorgeous, amazing best friend.

“Yeah, you’d be a fool, for sure,” he smirked and gave you a wink.

More Javi x reader x Joel: Blackmail series (different AU)

Thank you for reading 🙏

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️

Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

npt: tagging those who showed interest in the wip wednesday posts ❤️ @hanahleah @arcane-fox @iknowisoundcrazy @gutter-noise

“This is the Kid,” Din explains. “Or, that’s what I’ve been calling him at least.” 

He pulls you to his side, ducking to press a gentle kiss to the slope of your neck. His lips linger in place for a moment, and when he pulls back, you take in how tired he looks. Weariness etched into his face, he lowers his voice so the boy won’t hear. “He won’t tell me his name yet.”

Your mouth pops open with more questions, and he gives your hip a quick squeeze with a subtle shake of his head. “I’ll tell you more upstairs.”

Leaving you with the child, the two of you watch as he approaches the madam at the end of the bar. She’s been watching him with narrowed eyes ever since he walked in, and though the noise in the room covers most of their conversation, you can tell from their expressions they’re arguing. 

Well, from her expression. She looks outraged, while he stays firm, the picture of unyielding. Biting the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling, you watch as he wears her down. 

“This is no place for a child, Din,” you hear her chide, and to this, he simply responds by placing a sizable sum of money into her hand, closing her fist around it. 

Both you and the child raise your eyebrows, glancing at each other. 

The madam gives Din a long, stubborn look – and then snaps her fan open, signaling to a couple girls in the corner. 

At this, you lead the boy over. 

“He needs dinner,” Din instructs the women, busy enveloping the boy in their embrace. “And a bath.”

They wave away his words, cooing over how handsome he is, clearly overjoyed to be tasked with babysitting for the night versus any other obligations.

They lead him away, and Din takes your hand in his. 

“Come on, girl,” he sighs. “Let's go upstairs.” 

–

In the bath, he’s quiet. Perched on his lap, you stay silent, unsure if he’s waiting for Gracie or if he is savoring the moment of peace. With the way he lets his head tip forward to rest against your sternum, you think it’s the latter. 

Slipping your fingers into the soft hair at the base of his neck, you feel him melt against you, the stiff set of his shoulder relaxing at your touch. He sighs, the weight of his worries ghosting along your skin and his hands splay over your hips, as if seeking an anchor in your soft warmth. 

“Everything okay?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he squeezes you tighter.

His mouth brushes warm and delicate over the swell of your breast, an action that pulls at a thread of longing from deep within you. His handling of you is so much more tender than you’re used to, so much more reverential – but before you question the emotions it brings forth, Gracie lets herself into the room with a bright and eager smile. She’s always loved a good story.

“I heard you have a little friend with you,” she greets Din, sitting down on the edge of the tub. Bracing herself on the rim, she leans down with an offer of a kiss. Water trickles as he lifts his hand to cradle her jaw, attempting to turn the kiss into more, but she slips from his grasp.

“Not –,” another peck on his lips, “before–,” she sighs, letting his mouth slide down to taste the hinge of her jaw, “ – you tell me where he came from.”

Letting himself sink back into the warm water, he does. 

–

Tracking a bounty about a hundred miles south of a nearby town, it had taken Din a week to get there. Just like the landscape, every person along his path had been rough and unyielding. Every lead had been hard won, every piece of information paid for in coin or with muscle – and even then, the search was half luck. 

Luck that had clearly run out, resulting in a dead end.

Frustrated in his failure, he had doubled back to the last tavern he visited to see if he could drum up any more information. 

He had been riding for about an hour when he heard a loud shot echo across a field. Narrowing his eyes under the brim of his hat, he spotted a small house on the horizon, a barn tucked behind it. Between hunting and farm life, it wasn’t unusual to hear a gunshot, and he continued for a moment before another shot rang out.

At this one, he pulled his horse to a stop. 

The sound of it felt wrong to him, off somehow. Acting on instinct, he rode over to find the front door hanging open on its hinges, the front window broken out. Grunts and thumps of a struggle came from within the house, and drawing his pistol from the holster, he carefully rounded the doorway. 

Inside, he found the dead bodies of a man and a woman, slumped over a wooden floor pooled with blood. 

He also found the man he was searching for. 

The man held a boy in his grip, the two of them locked in a fight. The child‘s small body frantically kicked and squirmed, trying everything in his power to get away while the man struggled to hang on tight, his other hand reaching for his gun that was lying on the floor. 

Then, several things happened at once: Din stepped forward, and the man snatched up the pistol. The quarry reflexively cocked the hammer with his thumb, aiming his gun straight at the boy's temple – and without hesitation, Din aimed his own pistol at the man and pulled the trigger. 

The quarry slumped over, dead. 

With fear-flooded eyes, the child scrambled up and bolted from the house. 

Letting the boy run, Din stepped over his quarry’s body with a sigh. All that work for nothing – the flyer in his saddle said “Alive”, not “Dead”. 

He salvaged what he could: the pistol on the floor, a knife in the man’s boot. Then, he set to work gathering supplies for the child. He rifled through the bureau in the corner, stuffing some clothing in a sack. He grabbed what little food he could from the kitchen. He took a pair of shoes for the kid, a spare blanket from the closet, and at the last minute, the sole picture on the mantel. 

Leaving three dead bodies behind him, he went in search of the kid. 

He found him hiding in the hay loft, his tear streaked face appearing over the edge when Din walked through the barn doors. Understanding that sudden movements and sharp orders were the last thing that were going to work, Din was patient and soothing, with a stillness to him that eventually won the child out. 

Knowing there was nothing left for the boy there, Din lifted him onto his saddle and climbed up behind him. 

With a spur of his heels, they left the house behind. 

–

“He wouldn’t leave my side at the sheriff’s office,” he finishes. “They said there was a place for him with the nuns, but he won’t go.” Kneading the soft flesh on your hips, he slides his hand up. The plump side of your breast fits within his palm, and he runs his thumb over your nipple, making it swell under his touch. 

“I don’t blame him,” he adds. “The nuns are a little too prim for me.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, and he winks. 

“Well, what are you going to do?” Gracie asks, worried. “You can’t just keep him, can you?”

“If he won’t go with the nuns and if his parents are gone, I guess he stays with me,” he shrugs. “Traveling with me is no life for a kid…but I don’t know what else to do. I guess from now on, wherever I go, he goes.”

With both parents dead and almost getting killed himself, you can’t imagine what that child has gone through. Even more, what else he’s going to be exposed to trailing around with Din. Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession – a hard life full of violence and struggle, constantly nomadic, never stable. Frowning at the thought, you’re pulled from your reverie when Din cups your jaw, bringing your attention back to him. 

“Hey now,” he soothes, the lilt of a tease in his tone. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take good care of him.”

Your head tips to the side with silent skepticism, an objection he answers with a press of his mouth against yours. Firm and sure, his kiss silences your worries, distracting you with a slow, lush slide of his tongue against yours. You deepen it, and his hips shift restlessly beneath your straddle, the heft of his stiffening cock pressing along the inside of your thigh. 

“I know what will cheer you ladies up,” he says lowly, capturing your bottom lip with a tug of his teeth before soothing the swollen skin with a kiss. He pulls back, just enough for you to see a glint of dark lust in his eyes. “Let’s play a game.”

–

With Din, you have come to learn, a game could mean different things depending on his mood.

Sometimes, it meant an actual game, like the time he challenged the two of you to strip poker. Extreme in his confidence, he forgot that you and Gracie watch men play poker all day long. In no time at all, the two of you had him down to his drawers, an outcome that had him protesting that you must be cheating. His claim was that you had spare cards hidden under your (nearly transparent) clothes, so you answered by taking them off. Gowns tossed onto the floor, you both climbed onto his lap, and with a straddle over his firm thighs, the game was quickly forgotten. 

Tonight however, you can tell he doesn’t mean that kind of game. 

He means one of his games, the kind he makes the rules for.

Out of the bath and dried off, he explains the rules. 

“Gracie is the bounty hunter,” he says, deftly securing his heavy belt across her naked hips. It sags low on her body with weight, and he checks to see that it’s fastened tight by dipping his fingers beneath the band of leather. They brush through the sparse curls that cover her cunt, and when he looks up from his crouched position, her thighs squeeze together to quell her visible need. 

Satisfied, he presses a kiss to the soft slope of her belly before standing up straight. Turning, he rests his dark eyes on you. “And you, girl. You’re our quarry.” 

He winds a length of rope around the width of his hand, your breath catching at the sight. Everything about his movements scream predatory: slow steps forward, his eyes raking over your body. Unbearably erotic too, given his stark nakedness. The width of his shoulders and the competence in his hands only serves to make him feel even more intimidating, and the want on his face paired with the implication of his words is so blatant. 

Flushed with your own need by the time he comes to a stop in front of you, he teases the rope just under your belly button, and your cunt clenches, the cradle of your hips tight with anticipation.  

His eyes stay fixed on yours when he gives his order. “Hands out.”

Deft and quick, he binds your wrists together. When he’s done, he gives the rope a sharp tug to test its strength, pulling you toward him. 

“You look good like this,” he praises, drinking you in. His nose skims along the column of your neck, goosebumps following its path. 

Taking a breath, you try to steady your thrumming heart. 

“You ready?” he murmurs. 

Swallowing hard, you nod. 

Stepping back, he drags a chair to the middle of the room with a scrape across the floor, sitting down to openly admire your positioning. The two of you to play with, his to do with what he wants. His posture exudes arrogance: slouched low in the chair, feet planted on the floor, legs spread wide. Tension fills the small, warmly lit space and arousal pulls up inside you, slick and wet between your legs. He looks gorgeous in this light: his skin a golden brown, his hair dark with dampness, his eyes almost black. 

Your gaze lingering on the broadness of his shoulders and the trail of hair that collects along his belly to run down towards his lap, you hear Gracie sharply inhale when he brazenly palms his stiff cock, taking himself in hand. His forearm flexes as he gives himself a leisurely squeeze, stroking from base to tip. 

“Okay, girl,” he prompts. “Beg.”

You do. You put your whole heart into it, knowing he likes the show. There is something about the struggle, something about seeing you bound and at his mercy that makes his cock harden, makes his stomach cinch as he sits up straight to get closer.

“Please,” you beg, tugging against the ropes. “You’ve got the wrong person. I swear. I’ll do anything.”

He tilts his head, a smirk gracing his lips. “You can do better than that. What do you think, Gracie?”

“That was nothing,” she plays along. 

He raises his eyebrows in challenge, and you try again. “Please, please. Please, just let me go, I promise– “

The door opens, and the three of you turn your heads at the sound. 

“Is everything okay in–,” the madam starts, her words caught in her open mouth at the sight in front of her. 

Gracie, a heavy belt low on her hips. You, bound and begging for your freedom. Din, lording over it all. Every one of you without a stitch of clothing on. She’s seen all manner of requests, but even this is a new one for her. She blinks, and another girl walks behind her through the hallway, doing a double take.

Making no effort to explain, Din lifts his chin in command. 

“Close the door.”

Without a word, she does – and he’s out of his chair just as fast. 

“This one is gonna get us in trouble. I think we need to gag her.”

You give him a wary, mischievous look, taking a step back for every one he takes towards you and you stop when you bump into the soft warmth of Gracie. She wraps her arms around you, her breasts tight against your back, her small hand curling at the base of your throat to hold you in place. 

“You got something to stuff in her mouth?” she teases, and you can’t help your smile. 

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “That’s so – oh fuck.”

The heat of Din’s body crowds you close to her, his hand finding a home between your thighs. His thumb swirls a slick circle over your clit, and he watches your face as you falter, your expression softening into arousal. He keeps going, enjoying the way you struggle to stay upright and Gracie’s delicate touch skims down over your hip, sliding down the inside of your thigh to hold you open for him. 

“What was that?” he asks, his voice like gravel. “What were you saying?”

Sliding his touch through your slick cunt, he teases your aching entrance before filling you swiftly with two thick fingers. His thumb stays on your clit, and he works his touch in tandem: his fingers sliding out to sink back in, his thumb working, working, working. They curl, drawing out heady arousal, your body trapped captive between them. 

You sag into Gracie, and she mouths a kiss to your shoulder. 

“Please,” you whine, your hips canting forward, chasing the fill of his fingers. “I want more.”

His body is so warm and firm, his masculine scent going straight to your head. Paired with the silky touch of Gracie, you close your eyes, letting everything inside you build higher and higher. Your nipples tighten, and her lush mouth presses sweet kisses along your shoulder while you feel the humid skate of Din’s breath over your sensitive skin. 

“Yea?” he asks, bending to take your nipple in his mouth. Your eyes open at his first hard pull, a moan breaking free when he sucks on the peak, toying at it with the tip of his tongue. “You want more?”

“Please.”

Obeying, he slides his slick fingers deeper, working his thumb faster, opening his mouth wider to taste more of your flesh with a savoring pull. He groans against your skin, his other hand skimming up your side with a weighty drag, and Gracie tugs at your other nipple with a delightful pluck. They work as a team, one playing off the other, and Din’s hand cups your chin, just as the other abruptly stops its slick glide. 

You whimper, and he grips your chin tight, leaning in to murmur his words directly under your ear. 

“Too bad we don’t bargain with quarries.”

–

It’s a lot after that. 

Shoving you down on the bed, looping your bound wrists over the bedpost so you can’t escape. Stretching out on the bed beside you, making Gracie ride him. Forcing you to watch while she fucks him hard and fast, his grip tucked under the leather belt to guide her hips forward and back with sharp tugs. He’s filthy and base, feral in his sounds and in his need and slick warmth coats the inside of your thighs, the sheets underneath you damp with arousal. You’re so turned on it hurts, and he watches you struggle against your ropes – a sight that only seems to spur him on. 

Gracie comes with a high cry, collapsing down to the mattress to catch her breath, and before you can even make room for her, he’s shouldering your thighs open, spreading them wide. His hot mouth drags against the skin on your inner thighs, teasing a wet path upwards before giving your clit an open mouthed kiss. Neglected and aching, your hips jerk forward at the sensation, and he bands his thick forearm across them, keeping you in place. Forcing you to take every lick, every lave, every suck and pull and kiss – all the while, paying attention to every detail your body gives away. 

Clenching around his tongue, your hips grind needy and restless against his mouth, the pitch of your moans more and more breathless as you get closer to your peak. “Oh fuck. Din. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He forces you closer and closer to the edge, dangling you over it until you’re babbling and pleading–and then he stops. 

You let out a sob, pulling at your restraints. “No. No, please.”

Again and again he does it, dragging you to the top of your peak without letting you come. 

Sweat beads along your hairline, your skin slick with moisture. Your muscles ache and his hold tightens. His mouth gets messier, hungrier, and Gracie kisses you through it all, alternating between swallowing your cries and worshiping your tight, aching breasts. 

Only when your voice is raw with real begging does he let you come.  

The force of it pulls you under, upending you. Your back bows against the mattress, your thighs clenching so hard they cramp. Soaked, your arousal smears on the sheets and is slick on your skin and glistens on the lower half of his face – everything sticky and slick and wet. Pliant and limp, you lay there with your arms suspended above you as he shoves up onto his knees, making a space for himself between your trembling thighs. You let out a soft whine when you see him grasping his cock to line himself up. 

As tired as you are, you want it. He teases your clit with the tip of his cock, tapping the weight of it against the sensitive bundle of nerves and you crave the thick fill of it, the satisfying stretch only he can provide. He always fucks so thorough and so deep, and you need him to fill you up, to finally give you relief.  

Your hips squirm on the bed, and he pinches the inside of your knee with a teasing tweak. “Hold still, or I’ll have Gracie sit on your face.”

Your face collapses into a frown of pleasure, and Gracie giggles breathlessly beside you. 

Bracing himself heavily on your hips, he pins you in place as he leans his weight into the hold, rocking his hips forward to slide into you with a smooth, full stroke. Your breath hitches it feels so good, even more so when he pulls out to glide back in again. He bottoms out, breaking you open again and again, and tears gather along your lashes, your shoulders sore with the effort of being tied up. 

Dropping forward to rest on his forearms, he guides your legs high around his waist as his strokes get deeper, harder.  “I’m not gonna let you go until I’ve had my fill,” he threatens, and you know he’s telling the truth. 

Your eyes fluttering shut, you give into your body being a vessel for him to use. Sensation fills you from the inside out: his hot skin pressed against yours, his bruising grip, the filling weight of his cock. His sharp thrusts, his humid gusts of breath that skim across your feverish skin. He kisses you, a thick, all consuming thing that steals the breath from your lungs and you chase the heat of his mouth when Gracie tugs his face to hers, pulling him in for a kiss. You whine, desperate and rhythmic to match every heavy thrust he gives you, and she swallows his corresponding groan of pleasure as it reverberates between his chest and yours. 

Another release gathers inside you, every kiss of his hips building it higher. Your hips cant up to meet him thrust for thrust, seeking the sharp edge of relief, but he grips your hip and holds it to the mattress, giving you no choice but to just take it. His hands splay and reach, his grip sliding down from your hip to your ass as he pulls at the skin there with a burn. Mouthing at the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, he pants harshly in your ear, his grunts of effort forcing you towards a bright, blissful edge. When he sinks his teeth into your skin, you come. 

Barely a voice left, the moan that pours out of you is a breathless, raw thing. Your jaw clenches around the sound, your cunt sucking him deeper inside you. He groans against your collarbone, palming your breast with a desperate squeeze as he freezes above you, holding his cock in place, letting you wring every last wave of your release out. 

“You feel so fucking good, girl. So good,” he groans tightly, grinding forward before he growls, forcing himself to pull out. He flips you into your stomach, his hands wrapping around your hips to tug them off the mattress, forcing the ropes to pull even tighter. Shoving his cock back inside your slick soaked heat, his strokes are fast and harsh, his hips pounding against your ass with rhythmic slaps, his white-knuckled grip tight on your flesh. He indulges in a frantic half dozen hard strokes and then, with a groan pouring out of his outstretched throat, he thickens, spilling inside you. 

Everything is hazy and decadent in your half-asleep state; his hips rocking into yours, languid and smooth. Every slide is syrupy and slick, almost soothing and when he slips out of you, you feel the wet spill of his spend trickle down the inside of your thighs. 

Sliding into sleep, you can feel his fingers loosen the knot of your ropes. Gracie slips your wrists out, massaging the tender skin and you hear them murmuring to each other, their words skating on the edge of your consciousness. The sound of his belt dropping to the floor, the feel of his calloused hands as they guide your arms down, his soothing touch as he massages your sore muscles. The mattress shifts and the light clicks out, just as Gracie lifts the blanket up and over. 

She curls into the space behind you, tucking her body against yours with a squeeze, and with the last of your energy, you roll, draping your arm over Din’s chest. Grabbing your hand, he nuzzles your palm, his lips brushing over the indented marks wound around the delicate skin on your wrists. 

“You did so good for me,” he praises, soft and low. “You always play my games so well.” He follows the line of marks, kissing a soothing path over the tender skin. “You're my girl,” he whispers. “Made just for me.”

–

Dawn breaks, and he is achingly gentle.

Knowing that you’re sore from the night before, he wakes you with murmured promises. 

“‘I’m going to use my tongue, okay? I just want to kiss it better.”

You let him: his tongue coated and dripping with saliva, soft, wide licks into your cunt as he parts it with his fingers. Never pushing into you, he keeps a steady, soothing pace as he glides his tongue over your clit, the motion just as sweet as it is filthy. Your hands splay through his thick hair, your nails gently dragging over his scalp as he works. 

He’ll be leaving soon, and your logic clouded with sleep, you ache for him to stay. 

“Come up here,” you beg softly; fuzzy, delicate light seeping into the room. 

Pressing a kiss just over your entrance, he crawls upwards, his mouth worshiping every curve on the way. When his lips find yours, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Decadent and rich, slow and careful, he kisses you until you reach for his cock, fitting just the tip inside you. The thick crown is enough – more than your sore body can take – but you can’t let him leave without getting closer to him. 

He holds himself back, his touch joining your own as you stroke him together. His forehead rests in the crook of your neck, his strained breaths coating your skin. Your thighs bracket his hips and your lips kiss his shoulder, and you stroke together until you feel his body grow tight with his release. Bringing his mouth to yours, you use the first pulse of his spend to ease him into you with a smooth, thick slide. His cum eases the passage, everything thick and wet, finally as close as you need him to be. 

Resting his head on your chest, you lay together, your fingers carding through his hair. He hums, pushing his arms under your back to hold you tight. When he speaks, the words are slow with sleep. “I’m gonna miss you.” He presses a lingering kiss to your sternum, his eyes closed. “I miss this when I’m gone.”

A heavy weight settles in your chest, soothed by the comforting weight of his body on top of yours. You’ll miss him too, though you’d never say it out loud. You can’t. 

At your silence, he lifts his head, his eyes searching yours. When you don’t answer, he slides his body up just enough to capture your mouth with his. 

Everything you want to admit, you put into your kiss. Everything you want to say, everything you feel. It’s wrong, it’s the first rule of the brothel – and yet you can’t help letting your emotions seep into your touch, hoping that he knows just how much you’ll miss him too. He sinks into you, molding your body against his, and you try to memorize the way it feels, so you can recall it when he’s gone. 

He kisses you until you sigh underneath him. Until your hold sways from a tight grip to a loose embrace. Until you’re on the edge of sleep, soothed in his presence. 

Waiting until your eyes flutter shut and stay shut – only then does he pull away. 

“Are you going to miss me?” he whispers. 

More asleep than not, you softly nod.

Smiling, he slides his nose along the lobe of your ear, breathing you in. 

“Wait. What do you mean, “his appetite”?” you question, turning back to the madam, but she’s already gone, cooing over someone else playing cards nearby. 

Giving one last glance at the door of the room he went into, you plaster on a smile and make your way towards the crowded tables. 

--

The next time he comes into town, the madam tells him you’ve been asking about him.

The settling of quarries, the payment of services, the collection of flyers among other useful pieces of information – he’s fresh from the sheriff’s office, his sparse patience running even thinner. His replies have become near one word responses while he drops a few coins towards the barkeep, in payment for a hot plate of whatever is available.  

“Is that so,” he asks, tipping his hat in thanks when the plate is set in front of him. A glass of  whiskey is poured next, followed by a tin cup of water. 

“Well,” she asks, leaning on his shoulder. “What do you think of her?”

Spearing a bite of food, he chews while his dark eyes study you from across the bar. Chatting with another girl, your face breaks into a smile at something she says. 

The madam’s head tilted in appraisal, her tone is thick with the sweetness of someone trying to sell their wares. “All the men love how sweet she is.”

“Sweet?” he questions, skeptical. Swallowing his whiskey in one go, he sets his glass down on the bar, giving her a side-long look. “I don’t think sweet –”

“Oh, hush,” the madam replies, swatting his shoulder with a fan. “Besides, the girls you had last time moved on. It’s been a while since you’ve been around.” She nods in your direction. “Give her a try. I think you might like her.”

–

He has a routine, the madam tells you. 

“Always two girls, always a bath first.” Opening the door to your room, she strides in, gesturing to a table in the corner. 

A girl of twelve scurries behind her, a maid. Placing clean towels down and laying a fresh bar of soap on top, she gets to work on filling the copper tub. The madam straightens the blanket on your bed, and you inwardly laugh. Like that thing stays straight. 

“Always the whole night, and the next day,” she continues. 

“The next day?” Gracie asks, her brows raised. “He keeps going?”

You laugh at the impressed look on Gracie’s face, and she gives you a wink.

“Most men only get an hour,” she muses. “He must be really generous if he gets the whole night.”

“The next day isn’t for him,” the madam replies. “It’s for you, so you can rest.”

Scooting the girl out of the room with an affectionate swat on her behind, your face sobers, and it’s Gracie’s turn to laugh. 

“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes. “They’d all like to think themselves so good.”

The madam gives her a knowing look. “You’ll see.” She starts towards the door, then turns around. “He’s one of our best customers. Make sure you give him what he wants.” With those final words, she shuts the door behind her. 

You immediately turn to Gracie.

“Think we bit off more than we can chew?” you tease, trying to hide the sudden nerves in your stomach. 

She waves your worries away. “We would have heard about him sooner if he was a rough one.”

That’s true. There are rough ones, and they are well known among the girls. 

One of the most popular girls since her start at the brothel, Gracie has been by your side since you started. Up for anything, she wasn’t fool enough to think she had actual agency in this world, but the little she did have, she used to the full extent. She knew she could reduce these men to nothing with the roll of her hips on theirs, with the whisper of her sweet words – and so she did. She didn’t take anything too seriously, and you loved her for it, especially in contrast to your natural inward nature. 

“I’ve only ever seen him that one other time,” you reply, testing the water with your hand. “Have you seen him before?”

“No. I would have remembered one like that. He is a handsome thing,” she replies, fixing her hair in the mirror. “He’s got tall, dark and mysterious written all over him. A bit dirty,” she shrugs, “but do at least he’s asking for a bath. More than most before they crawl into bed.”

Scrunching your nose, you agree. 

“I’m going to get ready,” she says. “Get him in the tub, and I’ll be back. Try not to have all the fun without me.”

Blowing you a kiss, she slips out of the room. 

Without the distraction of others, you fuss with the tub until it’s filled with hot water, steam curling above the surface. Shampoo, pitcher, basin. Towel draped to the side, and a sack for him to put his clothes in. The inn ran a laundry service that overnight visitors took advantage of, and you weren’t sure if he was the type to trust others with the clothes off his back, but you prepared for it just in case. 

Everything ready, you slip into a silk shift that skims your curves, and try to recall the anticipation and bravery you felt when you called dibs. The warning the madam gave has rattled you, and you wish Gracie were here to help distract. She’d help you shake the nerves free, crack jokes to help clear the tension from the room. 

Finding yourself fiddling with the edge of the blanket, you huff a laugh at yourself before a sharp knock has you straightening. 

He enters, and your greeting is automatic. 

“Hey there,” you smile with practiced sweetness. “Come on in.”

He tips his head in acknowledgment, and all bravado you had when you called dibs disappears, slowly replaced with hesitation. 

He’s so much bigger in your small room than he seemed downstairs in the main room, especially with the door closed. So much more intimating, his silence making it even more so. The amount of weapons on him doesn’t help. Hip holsters with two pistols, ammo slung low across his hips and attached to one of his boots. 

He looks dangerous – until he lifts his hat from his head, uncovering rumpled, dark brown curls. Dirty from weeks in the saddle, the sight of them is surprisingly vulnerable and helps take the edge off his appearance. He looks softer with them, even while working his holster open next, placing the heavy weight of his guns over the back of your chair. 

His silence is unusual. Most men are vocal, demanding, crass. They come in and take what they want, knowing full well they only have an hour to get it – though most of them only need about ten minutes. They are full of boasting pride, of rushed lust, or in the worst instances, poorly disguised condescension. They paid for the hour, which means they paid for you. It comes with a natural assumption that your body is theirs to do as they please, and it often brings loud-mouthed attitudes with it.

Piquing your interest, the man in front of you says nothing, continuing to get undressed. 

Maybe he wants seduction. Come on, you scold yourself. Give him what he paid for.

You stand, the thin strap of your shift slipping down off your shoulder. “Want some help?”

Stepping closer, you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. 

It’s unforgiving, but not unkind. Bold, unashamed, assessing. His eyes are a deep brown, almost black in the dim, romantic light of your room. Fringed with thick lashes, creased at the edges from the sun, showing evidence of living life in the saddle. A strong nose, a pouty mouth, a dark mustache with scruff that covers his cheeks. 

Handsome. Definitely handsome. 

He continues to look, curious, with a slight lift of his chin like he’s testing you. A natural arrogance, you assume, from having to navigate the rough world outside. There is a thrum of tension between your bodies, one you don’t usually feel with customers. Unsure if it’s his quiet confidence, or just his handsomeness you’re drawn to, you use it to bolster your own forwardness. 

Standing on your toes and bracing yourself on his chest, you lean in, whispering just under his ear. “I heard you like to get clean…so you can get me all dirty.”

Pulling back with a mischievous twinkle in your eye, you let your touch slip down the front of his shirt. “That true?” 

He waits a beat before answering, his darkening eyes rovering over your face as his expression relaxes slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. Like you’ve passed his own silent test. 

“It is,” he answers, in a rough baritone. 

“Well then,” you reply. “Let’s get these clothes off.” 

Keeping your eyes on his, you start with his vest, working the buttons free one at a time.

–

He waits in the bath, watching as you undress. His arms stretch wide along the edge of the tub, his broad chest and shoulders taking up space. Admiring the quiet strength held in the way he holds himself, you smile at the naked hunger clear on his face as you climb into the tub, lowering yourself onto his lap. 

“So,” you make conversation, “What do you do?”

“I’m a bounty hunter.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Sounds dangerous.”

“For some.” The reply reeks of confidence, of the implication that he isn’t one of the people he’s referring to. Relaxing, he sinks lower into the tub, closing his eyes. 

“How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”

A low sigh of relief slips out of him, his voice low. “Too long.”

Lathering the soap, you start with his hand, slipping your fingers between his. You work each finger, comparing the size of your reach against his. His palms are rough and calloused, worn from handling rope. Massaging as you go, you work your way up – over his thick forearms, up along the muscles in his arms. Your fingers dig into the firm rounds of his shoulders, and he lets out a grunt of appreciation. 

Sneaking a peek at his face, you’re startled to find him openly looking back at you. His dark eyes rake over your face and shoulders, dipping low and sweeping back up. His expressions – lust, blended with curiosity – aren't guarded at all, like he’s not used to hiding them, and you suppose his job has made him this way. The sensation is unfamiliar, and unmooring. Most don’t care enough to look as much as he has. None have ever studied you the way he has, that’s certain.

You swallow, reaching for the soap again. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

The bar in your hands, his blunt words make you look up, meeting his eyes. He is earnest, sincere. His statements have been blunt and to the point since he’s walked into the room, with right now being no exception. And somehow, that lets you know he’s telling the truth. 

Your own practiced expression slips before you can catch it, open vulnerability displayed on your face before you quickly reel it back in. 

“I know,” you reply, though you don’t – and he knows it. 

His head tilts to the side, waiting. Patient, letting you come to your own decision. After a beat, you dip your chin in acknowledgement. 

Confirmation at your reassurance, he closes his eyes and leans back, letting you continue. 

The tension broken, you resume. The quiet makes the situation seem so much more intimate than usual; the trickling of water, the soft sweep of your touch over his skin. Your thumbs work the base of his throat, your palms sliding over his firm chest. The sparse collection of hair along his sternum catches suds, and you soap under his arms, and along his ribs; his body releasing tension with every smooth glide of your hands. 

You can feel him harden underneath you, but he does absolutely nothing about it…and for some reason, that makes you relax around him even more. You can feel the evidence of how much he wants it, have heard from the madam how demanding he can be…but yet he waits, savoring this part. You suppose weeks without a bath will do that to a person, and you’re determined to reward him for the wait. 

Pouring shampoo into your palm, you lean forward to start on his hair. Pressing your bare front against his own, the sensation gives you your first real reaction since he’s entered the room – a low hum of appreciation, deep from within his chest. Lifting the corner of your mouth with a smile, you become bolder, and let yourself slide down, dragging the pressed weight of your slick breasts over his skin. 

He lets out a shaky breath, and dropping his hands from the edges of the tub, they find the meat of your hips under the water with a squeeze. Lifting onto your knees, you lean your weight into him again, lining your front with his. Breast to chest, stomach to stomach, hip to hip – the sensation of his firm, warm, wet skin pressed against your own has you distracted for a moment before you slide your fingers up through the curls at his nape, working the shampoo into his hair. Your nails drag across his scalp, your fingers twist in his curls, and he simultaneously melts underneath your touch while tightly bundled tension rises between you. 

“Feel good?”

“Yes.” His answer is immediate, low with desire. His hands squeeze your hips, hard, and he kneads your skin under the surface, his touch becoming bolder. Stretching his arms to reach your ass, he grabs greedy palmfuls, tugging you against his lap. 

The warm weight of desire fills the cradle of your hips, and reaching for a jug to rinse the shampoo from his hair, you yelp when he surprises you by gripping your waist to hold you in place and sliding down to submerge himself underwater. Suds float to the surface as he quickly scrubs the soap from his hair, and when he sits back up, you’re laughing – a sound that brings the first smile you’ve seen on his face. It’s quick, yet no less devastating, with two deep dimples in his cheeks that make you want to press your thumbs into the divots. 

A smile that makes you want to kiss him. 

Wiping the water from his face with a broad sweep of his palm, he slicks his dark strands off his face and the effect is startling. Still handsome – so handsome – but the vulnerability of the rumpled curls is gone, replaced with dominance. The hunger in his hooded eyes darkens, and feeding off the tension gathering between your bodies and greedy for another groan or smile, you grab the soap. 

Arching your back, you put on a show as you reach behind and slide your soapy touch up the length of his legs. Over his shins, behind his knees, up the top of his thighs. Stopping short right before his groin, you straighten again and reach the soap, but he plucks it from your hands. 

“Hey!” you protest, biting a grin. 

Keeping his eyes on your face, you watch as he slowly lathers it between his large hands and lets it drop into the water before splaying his hand across your sternum. Whether it’s the hold itself or the way he’s looking at you, you sense the shift of power in the small space as it transfers to him. Sliding his hand to the side with an appreciative hum, he palms your breasts, covering them with soap. He cups the weight of them, smearing his thumbs over your nipples with a slippery glide until they pucker under the suds, teasing them with exploring, needy touches that have you arching your back, leaning into his touch. 

Desire trickles down from the tight peaks along your spine, settling between your hips. Slick and warm, you begin a slow roll over his lap and dip your hand beneath the water in search of his cock.  When you find it with a firm grip, he sucks in a sharp breath. 

“You ready to get out yet?” you breathe, your hand stroking him root to tip. He’s thick, a heft to his cock that is more than most and your cunt clenches with anticipation. The space between you is filled with steam, with the slick warmth of the water, with the weighty charge of electricity. He swallows hard, the bob of his tanned throat calling for your lips and leaning forward, you press your mouth to his skin. Warm and wet and fragrant under the press of your mouth, you open up wider, your tongue slipping out for a taste.

The sound he lets out is delicious.

A rough scrape of need, a low growl as his touch grows needier, his hands scooping up your breasts with a squeeze. The soap aids in a slide of his touch down to your hip, his other hand curling around the nape of your neck as he guides you back, and your neglected chest heaves; your hand still working under the water. 

You want him. A rare feeling with clients, always fleeting on the rare occasion it happens, you can taste the edge of your arousal, the spark of it burning bright. He’s handsome, but there is also something about his patience and his attentiveness that has you feeling more comfortable than you have in ages. Usually, at this point, you’d be faking your interest just to get the hour over with. Right now, you’re surprised by how much you want it. 

“You just gonna stare at my mouth, or —“ Your words cut off with a gasp when he drags his thumb over your bottom lip, your question finishing in a whisper. “Or are you gonna kiss me?” 

Pulling you in, he does. Fuck, he does. 

The first press of your mouths together is sure and firm, his need leading your mouth. He tastes you like he’s been dying for it, like you’re an oasis in the middle of the desert. Fitting your mouth against his, he devours the whimper that you let out, drinking it down. His hands splay in their hold around your waist, sliding up over the smooth skin of your back and abandoning his cock to scoot closer, you wind your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. 

Grinding down against his lap, the steamed air above the bath fills with the sound of ragged breath, of low groans, of the gentle lap of water as your mouths taste and part, only to seal again. He meets your need with his own – savoring, full sweeps of his tongue over yours, kisses that are lazy until they’re not. Breaking the kiss to taste your neck, his teeth scrape over the delicate skin before he sucks, groaning against your throat. His tongue smears over your skin, and you reach for the soap, wrapping your arms around him to wash his back. 

“Stop, he groans, his lips brushing against your skin, and you pause.  

“You don’t want me to wash you?”

He growls low in his throat, cupping your jaw with his hand. He slides his thumb over your lips again, pushing against their plush softness and when you suck on the pad, his eyes fixate on the sight. He shakes his head slowly, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip. 

“I want you to get on that bed, girl.”

Girl. 

The word should be demeaning, but it’s not. It slips through your torso, shivers along your spine, the weight of it curling low between your hips. The word is like the man – forcing you to yield. He’s been lying in wait this whole time, letting you believe you have the advantage until you get comfortable, letting you come to him…just like you assume he does with his quarries. You fell for the trap, and you don’t even care. 

Scrambling out of the tub, he follows you — and that’s when Gracie walks in. 

“Oh,” she breathes, openly appreciating the size and breadth of his nude body. Her eyes drag down and back up again, a pleased smile playing at the edge of her lips. “Aren’t you a sight.”

He jerks his head towards the bed. “Get in here.”

“Whose in charge here, mister?” she teases, and he replies without hesitation. 

“I am.” 

“Yes, sir,” she coos with a little shimmy, shutting the door behind her. 

–

That night, you learned who he was. 

Not only his name – Din Djarin – which was exchanged in the middle of the night, with your body draped over his, but who he was, as a man. Blunt, straight forward, used to being in charge. Your bodies sore, spent and sated – he had spent hours putting you through your paces, and your eyelids were as heavy as your limbs as you relaxed into the warmth his bare skin radiated. 

Gracie curled into his other side, the reasoning behind two women became evident after that first night: he was touch-starved, with the desire to be immersed in skin to skin, buried underneath someone or within them. Two women at once allowed him this luxury, while also providing him ample resources to expend his excess...energy. 

You also learned that he seemed to care about your pleasure. Needed it, in fact. Demanded it from you, pulled it from your body even when you thought you couldn’t give him any more. He pushed and pushed and pushed you, and that night, you understood the madam's earlier comments. 

He didn’t seem satisfied until you were just as wrung out as he was, and afterwards, he left you sated and sore, thoroughly used – and thoroughly asleep. 

He had spoken to the madam before he left the next morning. 

“I always want that one. Make sure of it.”

–

Since that first night, he’s shown up a few times. 

Always weeks apart: saddle weary and dusty, worn around the edges and ready for a softness that only you could provide. 

Tonight, when he gets to your room, you’re already in the bath with Gracie perched on the side, soap and rag in hand. You take turns with him: you, washing his body from your seat on his lap, Gracie leaning over to offer her mouth. His kisses are demanding and deep, his hands reaching to hold her in place while his mouth tastes everything she gifts him. When you interrupt to wash his hair, he shifts to you, cupping your breasts to latch that same hungry mouth onto the peaks. The swirl of his skillful tongue is distracting, decadent, and a hum pours from your throat when his nose brushes along the length of your neck, his mouth sampling the hollow under your ear. His hand travels down your back and over your hip, his thick fingers pressing between your legs. 

“I’ve been dreaming of that cunt of yours,” he confesses, his voice like gravel. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his middle fingers parting you under the water, sliding through the slick wetness he’s pulled from you already. “Let me taste it.” 

It doesn’t take long until he stands, pulling you from the water and guiding you backwards onto your bed with a push. 

“You’re going to get my bed all wet – oh my god,” you moan, arching into the wet heat of his mouth. From the bath to his knees, he’s found his way between your thighs with a rough jerk of your body to the edge of the mattress. His shoulders spread you wide, his mouth devouring your cunt in a wet, decadent kiss. Gripping behind your knee, he shoves it up to open you up wider, and his tongue smears and licks across your spread center as he groans, savoring the taste.

Kneeling on the floor next to him, Gracie wraps her hand around his thick cock with a stroke, an action that has him pressing his face closer. He’s messy, open mouthed and hungry, like he’s starved for it and you roll your hips against his greedy mouth, losing yourself in the sensation.

She strokes him harder, faster and breaking his kiss to your cunt, he circles the nape of her neck, tugging her in for a kiss. You watch, his glistening mouth meeting hers, his other hand still splayed with a grip on the inside of your thigh to hold you in place. Slipping your fingers down across your soft belly, you find your clit and swirl a practiced circle over it – until his hand swats yours away. 

“It’s mine,” he orders. “That cunt belongs to me.”

“Then take care of it like it’s yours,” you challenge. Your tone is sweet and soft, but the lift of your chin tells him it’s an order.

He likes the way you push against him, you’ve come to find out. His need to make you submit is only satisfying if you push back, if you play at fighting against it. It needs to feel hard won for him, but not in a way most men like to win. Not with harsh, demeaning words and cruel orders. No – he needs to overpower with pleasure, needs to make you succumb because you can’t fight it anymore. Begging, pulling against restraints, pushing against the weight of his body as he forces you to take it – those are the ways he likes it. 

Giving you a look that pins you in place, he spreads you wide as his hands grip and pinch. He bends, his mouth sucking and biting at the soft skin of your thighs, soothing it with wide sweeps of his tongue. Your head tips back, a moan pouring out of your throat towards the ceiling and you feel the bed dip beside you as Gracie crawls onto it. Reaching over to you, she tips your chin towards her and pulls you in for a kiss. 

She’s so much softer than the man at your feet: her lips lush and pliant, her breath sweet. Her hand cups your breast with a gentle squeeze, toying with the peak while taut pleasure fills the cradle of your hips. His eyes on your face, you can feel his possessiveness in the way his mouth devours, and the combination of her sweetness mixed with his intensity pushes you closer and closer to the edge. The attention is all consuming, your thighs trembling with the release he’s building deep inside you. Breaking away from Gracie, you beg him for relief. 

“Fuck – Din,” you moan, threading your fingers through his dark curls with a tug. Letting yourself drop back into the plush mattress, you reach for Gracie as he moans into your spread cunt, and she holds your hand while your back arches, your heels digging into the firm muscles of his back. “I’m – you’re going to make me cum.”

Your voice breaks when you do, a bright wave of taut warmth spreading from your core outwards. He licks you through it, sliding his tongue through the gush of wetness, focusing his efforts on your swollen clit. Your hips jerk and you whimper, a sound Gracie hushes with another kiss. 

Focused on her and still floating, you don’t notice he’s stood up until you feel his sure hold slide up over the top of your shins, guiding your knees back against your chest. He steps forward, and you can feel the thickness of his cock pressing against the slick dip of your entrance. 

“You ready, girl?” he asks, grinding his hips into you. His breathing is ragged, pent up, his chin glistening and wet. 

You can feel how soaked you are, his movement smearing your wetness into the curls at his base, over his thick shaft. He positions the weighty, blunt tip of his cock in place, groaning when he feels you clench against it. When he breaks you open, your lips catch against Gracie’s, your hot whine fanning over her mouth. 

He’s so much – so filling, so thick, the slide inside so satisfying it makes you want to cry. He reaches further than most, pushing forward with a grind and though Gracie has your mouth, he leans to focus your attention on him. Pulling out and sliding back in with a firm roll of his hips, he breaks your kiss with a grip of your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

“Look at me,” he commands, another slide out, another grind in. Another, another. Trying to match your rhythm with his, you can’t move your hips with how he has them pinned in place, forcing you to take it. 

“So –,” he hisses, pulling out to slide back in, “So fucking wet. So tight,” he groans, picking up pace. You bounce lightly with the motion; the muscles along his ribs rippling with the action. “Gracie, look at her gorgeous tits. They look neglected to me.”

The smile she gives him is affectionate and sweet, though the situation is anything but. Crawling to you, she bends and licks a wide stripe up the soft underside of your breast, before giving it a lingering kiss. 

“Din –,” you beg, arching into her wet mouth. He’s already building something low in your tummy, ratcheting it higher with every thrust of his hips, even higher with the unrelenting grip he’s using to pin you in place.  

Gracie switches breasts with a wet path from one to the other, nibbling at the stiff peak of your nipple. The two of them work in tandem: her sweet mouth with his unrelenting pace, her softness paired with his strength. 

She pulls back and Din bends forward just enough to give you a rough, hungry kiss, one that has your knees pressing into your chest and then he’s fucking down into you, his hips pounding into your ass, your mouths hovering over each others as you drink down his panting, ragged breaths – 

“Gracie,” he tells her, a soft grunt between each word, “Show me your fingers. That’s right,” he praises her, as she dips them inside herself with a sigh. “Get yourself nice and wet for me – you’re next.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Gracie rolling her hips against her hand, her soft thighs spread wide, the silk nighty she’s wearing twisted around her torso while her eyes glaze over watching him fuck you.

You whine underneath him, earning yourself a quick, breathless kiss. “You can take it, girl. I know you can.” He gives a couple of particularly rough thrusts, groaning over your higher moan. “Go ahead, girl. Tell her how good it feels. Tell her –”

Before he can get the words out, you pull his head down to seal his mouth with yours, breaking again underneath him with a hoarse moan. Stronger and more intense than the last one, your cunt squeezes him so hard you feel him stutter a grunt against your mouth, trapped in place. Everything is so wet: your sore cunt, his lap, the sweat that clings to his lower back and along your hairline, the kiss you share with him, as you come down from your peak. 

Pausing to let you catch your breath, he’s tender with his touches, brushing your sweaty hair back from your face. “You did so good for me girl. So good,” he murmurs between kisses. Giving a final caress to your cheek, he gently eases himself out of you. “You stay there and rest – it’s Gracie's turn.”

So tender and soothing with you, his rigid cock betrays his yet unsatisfied need as he shifts his focus to her. She looks delighted at the sight – a desperate Din, his muscles rigid with tension, his stomach taut with effort. Limp and pliant, you lay still while he gently eases your thighs open with a sweep of his hands to look at your cunt. His expression clearly torn between tasting the sticky, slick mess you’ve made for him and leaving you be, he wets his bottom lip, before sliding two fingers through the mess, feeding it to Gracie. 

Radiating dominance and tightly wound need, he watches as she sucks on his fingers like it’s nourishment, scrambling up on her knees to pull him towards her. He jerks the neckline of her nighty down, palming her bare breasts with a squeeze and her hand reaches for his cock, eager for him to fill her. Pushing her backwards, the bed bounces with the weight of their bodies falling together and bracing himself on his forearm, he reaches down to slide into her in one, brutal stroke. One hand fisting into the bedding over her head and the other roughly massaging her breast, the flesh of it spills out between his fingers as he pounds into her, needing to be rough. 

It’s a lot, even for her — but you can tell she loves it. Worked up and waiting for her turn, her fingers dig into his ass, pulling him into her as her hips grind against his. Reaching for her wrist and pinning it into the mattress above her head, he presses his weight into the hold while his hips shove into hers, over and over. 

Everything about the way he fucks is so filthy and base. Almost feral, frantic with need. He demands so much from both of you, but also of himself. Edging himself until he’s exhausted. Seeing just how long he can go and how many times he can make you come before he allows himself the same pleasure. 

“What do you think, girl?,” he asks, looking over at you. “Can she take it?” 

Gracie moans loudly at a particularly rough thrust and he turns back to her, clamping his hand tight over her mouth while continuing to push her further. Her dazed eyes widen above his broad hand before rolling back, her brow bunching when they slide shut. 

Pressing a kiss over the top of his hand where her lips would be, he shushes her. “Shhh. It’s okay, filthy girl. I thought –” he groans, “ – I thought about making a mess of your pretty little cunt, but I – fuck – I think I want it in your mouth instead.”

At this, Gracie comes – her legs squeezing tight around his waist, her whines still muffled by his palm as her body arches underneath him. Digging her fingers into his bicep, he holds himself still as she sobs underneath him, trembling with her release. 

At the edge himself, he pulls out of her and quickly climbs up over her body, he pinching her cheeks together until her mouth opens up. Fisting his cock with an audible stroke, he rests the tip between her lips and cums, hard. 

There is so much of it. Coating her lips and tongue, his release pours into her mouth, dripping down her chin. She sits up, eager for more, swallowing him deeper and he hisses, his hips jerking forward to chase the wet heat. She looks up at him with a warmth of adoration, eager for praise, as his hands cradle her jaw while his hips roll lazily against her mouth. Staying there until he’s too sensitive, he slips out and slumps forward, catching himself on the bedframe. 

“Fuck me,” he pants, the tension in his muscles slowly ebbing away. Sluggish, he moves like he’s drugged and the two of you shift on the bed to make room for him. Him in the middle, he gathers you into his arms, while reaching back to ensure Gracie is tucked tight behind him. 

The first time he held you in his arms, you fell asleep immediately, exhausted from all he demanded from you. He slept like the dead as well, finally being able to let his guard down. Tonight, you resist the urge to close your eyes, savoring the warm weight of his arm curled around your waist, and the firm, solid tuck of his body behind yours. Delicately tracing his knuckles, you think about how no other man has ever held you like this. So used to them taking what they want and then leaving, you know you shouldn't get too attached or read too much into it…but it’s nice, the weight and comfort of his warmth. 

In the small hours of the morning, you wake to the sensation of his nose gliding up the nape of your neck, his lips peppering kisses along the top of your spine. The room is dark, before dawn, and rolling over to face him, you see Gracie curled up behind him, dead to the world. 

He’s achingly soft with his handling of you: sweeps of his palms over your soft skin, kisses that have you aching for more. It’s hard to see him in the darkness of the room, but that only makes every sensation more heightened. You focus on other senses: his low, rumbling hums, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth. His hand teases down the slope of your body, finding a home between your legs. Cupping your cunt, he preps you to take him again. 

Swirls over your clit, fingers slipping inside to draw out slick wetness. Bringing the digits to his mouth, he coats them thoroughly with his saliva before bringing them back down to your cunt, easing them into you. 

Half awake, everything feels like a dream, saturated with sensation. The weight of his body on yours, the filling push of him inside. His warm breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his mouth along your jaw. 

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, his forehead sliding against the soft skin on your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin. “You always take me so well. You make me feel so good.”

Your fingers thread through his curls, guiding his mouth to yours for a kiss. Deep, just like his achingly slow thrusts inside of you. Deep, like the aching feeling in your chest at his tenderness. 

Swallowing your moans, he breaks the seal of your mouths just long enough to make whispered promises in the dark: that he’s going to come back in a month, that some day he’s going to settle down in this town. That someday, he’s going to build a house and take you home with him, just to keep you all to himself.

At the last promise, you let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back into the pillow as he runs the bridge of his nose against your throat, nuzzling the soft skin. 

“They all say that,” you tease. 

You feel him smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Knowing that he’s going to have to leave soon, you shift your focus on giving him everything he asks for – your legs hitching high on his hips, your thighs squeezing him tight as he rocks into you, deeper, harder. With every grinding slide, he makes you repeat his words back to him, each statement sounding needier than the last: 

No one fucks me like you do. 

I can’t think about anything else when you’re deep inside me. 

I’m your girl. Only your girl. 

When you both come, he rests his head on your chest for a while, listening to the rapid thrumming of your heart as you stroke his soft hair away from his temple. The sun begins its ascent outside, the room slowly becoming hazy with dawn. 

With one last kiss for you, and a kiss placed on Gracie’s temple, he pulls himself from the bed. 

You watch as he searches for his clothes, his belt, his boots. 

The old man looked around the study with mild interest, taking in the desk, the shelves, the curtains, the faint trace of smoke from the unlit fireplace. “It’s been quite some time.”

Joel nodded. “It has. Do you want a drink?”

“At this hour? No.” Gideon lowered himself into the chair across from the desk with care, then placed his cane between his knees. “But I’ll watch you pretend not to need one.”

Joel moved to the sideboard anyway. Not for whiskey, but for water.

“How disappointing,” Gideon said dryly.

Joel poured two glasses. “I’ve been called worse.”

“By better men?”

“Not often.”

A smile softened the old man` s face for less than a second, enough to reveal the old affection beneath the discipline of him. Joel remembered being young and angry and too proud to show pain, remembered Gideon sitting across from him after his father’s death, saying very little and noticing everything. Some men comforted by touching a shoulder. Gideon had comforted by handing Joel a list of names and telling him which ones would betray him first.

Joel set one glass of water before him and returned to his own side of the desk.

“Why am I here, Joel?”

Joel sat back in his chair and looked at the man across from him. Gideon waited with both hands resting on the head of his cane, outwardly patient, almost gentle. A stranger might have mistaken the silence for politeness. Joel knew it was assessment.

“Victor Moretti,” he said.

Gideon’s expression did not change, though something sharpened behind his eyes. “That is a name. Not yet a reason.”

“He has become a problem I can’t leave standing.”

“Many men become problems. Most of them do not require an old man before noon.”

Joel glanced down at the glass on the desk, untouched, the water catching a thin line of morning light.

“He made a move against my house,” Joel said finally. “Not directly. He was careful enough for that. He used people already placed close to us. A man inside my own logistics. Information that should never have left my side of the line.”

Gideon listened with only the faintest lowering of his chin, as though he had begun arranging facts on a table neither of them could see.

Joel continued. “It led to an abduction.”

Gideon did not sit forward, did not curse, did not ask the obvious question too quickly. But the gentleness in his face became thinner, and what remained beneath it was much older and far less kind.

“Your wife,” he said.

Joel’s jaw worked once. “Yes.”

Gideon absorbed that. For a moment, the only sound in the study was the faint movement of the house beyond the closed door.

“She is alive,” Joel continued, because the silence seemed to require it. “She is recovering.”

“I am glad to hear that.” The words were quiet, formal, and not empty.

Joel looked away for a second, toward the window, toward the grounds beyond it. “Victor did not do it because he wanted her dead. He did it because he wanted access. He used her as a pressure point. A way to make me react with her in the middle of it.”

Gideon’s eyes remained on him. “He used his own daughter as an instrument?” 

Joel said nothing. Gideon let out a slow breath through his nose, not quite a sigh.

“I knew Victor was ambitious,” he finally said. “Cold, certainly. Vain, even. But using your own blood like that requires a particular kind of rot.”

“He has it.”

“Yes,” Gideon said, nodding. “I can guess the rest.”

Joel’s eyes returned to him before he continued. “If I answer him the usual way, he gets part of what he wants.”

“The usual way.”

The words were neither question nor judgment. Gideon’s face remained courteous.

“I need him dismantled, not buried.”

A faint shift crossed Gideon’s expression then. Interest, perhaps. Or approval.

“Those are different labors,” the old man said.

“I know.”

“Do you?” Gideon lifted his glass, held it without drinking. “Because killing a man is often quite simple. Making him irrelevant while he is still alive requires patience, discipline, and a willingness to let him breathe long enough to hate you for it.”

“He is her father,” Joel said.

“Yes.”

“That matters.”

“To her?”

Joel did not answer immediately. Outside the window, one of the guards crossed the edge of the drive and disappeared toward the east path. Beyond that, past the trimmed hedges and the first row of trees, the grounds stretched toward the stables. She would go there later if the day held clear. She had begun to do that now, almost daily. Joel thought of her in the library, head bent over a book she pretended to read. He thought of her asking very little from anyone. He thought of the bruises that had faded from her skin and the things that had not faded as easily.

“To her,” he said eventually. “And to me.”

Gideon’s gaze remained on him, steady and unreadable.

Joel let out a slow breath. “If I kill him, she lives with that. Whether she hates him or loves him or both, it becomes part of her life. Part of this house. Victor would be dead, and still I’d have given him a way to stand between us.”

That was the truth of it. Victor dead by Joel’s order would still have power. Different power, maybe, quieter, but still real. He would become a ghost with Joel’s hands around his throat. He would sit between them at breakfast. In the library. In any room where she looked at Joel and remembered what he had done because of her.

Gideon drank a small sip of water and set the glass back down.

“No,” Joel said. “I won’t give him that.”

For a while, Gideon said nothing. Then he leaned back very slightly, as if the conversation had finally reached the reason he had been summoned.

“So you need me,” Gideon continued, “because you want him alive, cornered, and stripped of power.”

“Yes.”

“Then you do not need a threat. You need proof. I always thought paper is less dramatic than a gun, which is why intelligent men have always feared it more.”

Joel reached for his glass at last. “I need something real enough to put in front of him. Not a rumor, or some old stories. I want records. Deeds. Transfers. Collateral. Anything he cannot smile away.”

Gideon’s fingers rested lightly against the head of his cane. His face had taken on an almost harmless stillness. An old man considering old documents. Nothing more.

“He has charitable cover,” Gideon said after a moment.

“The Moretti Foundation.”

“And more than that. Hospital boards, scholarships, restoration funds.”

Joel waited.

Gideon looked past him toward the shelves, not really seeing them.

“There was a property,” he said. “St. Agnes. It was years ago, before your father died.“ 

Joel sat forward slightly.

“It was not a clean purchase,” Gideon continued. “Not if memory serves. The original transfer came through a charitable trust with restricted use.”

“Political money?”

Gideon’s mouth pursed faintly. “Well, Victor has never been able to resist turning generosity into influence. I would be surprised if St. Agnes was the exception.”

Joel stood and moved to the window. Outside, the morning had sharpened. Sunlight touched the gravel, the hood of Gideon’s car, the dark line of the trees. Somewhere beyond the side of the house, Scout barked once, bright and impatient.

Joel looked toward the sound without meaning to. Gideon watched him from behind.

“You will need the original trust documents. Transfers. Any pledges made against the property. Banking records, if they exist.”

“Can you get them?”

Gideon looked at the water glass as if the answer might be floating there. “I may know where to look.”

Then he reached for his cane and stood slowly. Joel moved as if to help him, then stopped before the insult could become complete.

The old man adjusted his cuff. For a moment, he looked again like someone’s grandfather, courteous and faintly tired, a man who might spend the afternoon reading correspondence beside a window.

He walked to the door, cane touching the floor with a soft, measured sound. Joel followed him halfway. At the threshold, Gideon stopped and looked back.

“One more thing.”

Joel waited.

“A man cornered without blood is not the same as a man made harmless.”

“No.”

“Remember that.”

Joel did not answer. He thought of Victor’s face. The polished grief. The careful smiles.

“I will,” he said.

Gideon studied him for another second. Then the old man gave a small nod.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Five weeks had passed before you realized that Joel had kept his word.

Not with declarations, or apologies. But something between you had altered. He still left the house for meetings you were not invited to understand. Men still came and went at odd hours, speaking in lowered voices in the study or out by the cars, and there were still moments when a conversation changed shape because you had entered the room.

Joel had begun to tell you more, but never everything. He gave you pieces of his world carefully, as if he were placing knives on a table one by one and turning the blades away from you before he let you look.

But he did not speak of your father directly.

You knew that silence was deliberate. You felt it in the way Joel’s eyes shifted when your father’s name came too close to the edge of a conversation, in the way his hand stilled around a glass, in the careful restraint of a man who had already decided more than he was willing to say. Some part of you was grateful for that restraint, another part feared it. That discussion was waiting for you. You could feel it. But for now, there were other things.

Your shoulder healed first, losing its deep ache by degrees until the pain became something you noticed only when you reached too quickly or slept badly. The bruising faded. The headaches stopped. The strange, fogged distance left behind by the concussion cleared until your thoughts felt like your own again. By the third week, the doctor had stopped looking at your pupils with that assessing little frown, and Marta had stopped pretending not to watch how much you ate.

Physically, you were almost yourself. Almost. It was the rest of you that took longer.

Your body could cross a room without trembling now. It could climb the stairs, hold a cup, sleep for more than an hour at a time. But your mind still kept returning to small things without warning: a hand closing around your arm, the smell of the car, the sudden blank terror of not knowing where you were being taken. Some mornings, a door shutting too sharply somewhere down the hall was enough to make your breath catch.

Joel never made you feel foolish, though. He did not crowd you with concern. He did not lock you away and call it protection, though you knew enough now to understand that part of him wanted to. There were guards, always. At the gates, along the drive, near the terrace when you took your tea outside. Elias was never far from you, and another man was usually placed at a distance that allowed you to pretend you were not being followed.

But you had begun to recognize the care in the spacing. Joel had tried his best, it seemed, to arrange safety around you. He had learned, somehow, to leave openings. And every morning, when you went for a walk, Elias followed several paces behind, close enough to intervene, far enough not to make you feel handled.

Most mornings, Scout went ahead of you. He had learned the route before you had admitted you had chosen it. At first he had tugged toward every side path, toward the fountain, toward the kitchen garden, toward whatever scent seemed most urgent to his serious dog mind. But after a week of watching you drift, again and again, toward the same place beyond the orchard, he had decided the stables were the proper destination and carried himself accordingly.

The orchard was quiet at that hour, still damp from the night, the leaves silvering whenever the breeze moved through them. The fruit had begun to grow heavier on the branches, small green things becoming rounder and more certain with each passing week. You noticed details now because the walks gave you time to notice them. Moss at the base of the stone wall. A broken tile on the stable roof. Scout’s left ear turning before his right when he heard something in the grass.

That morning, the air was mild and clear, and the sky had the washed blue color it sometimes took after rain. You wore a pale blouse beneath a soft cardigan, the sleeves drawn over your wrists, and boots sturdy enough for the path. Marta had placed them by the back door days ago without comment and you had worn them every morning since.

Scout reached the stable yard first and turned back with a quiet huff, as if to say you were taking far too long.

“I’m coming,” you murmured. His tail swept once through the air.

Inside, the stables were dim and warm, holding the gentle smells of hay, leather, clean straw, and animals. The change from the bright yard to the shadowed aisle always made you pause for a moment. The horses shifted in their stalls, hooves dull against the floor, chains clinking softly, breath moving through the quiet.

Juniper knew you now. At least, you had decided she did.

Her stall was the fourth on the left, beneath a high window where the morning light fell slantwise across the door. She lifted her head before you reached her, ears angling toward the sound of your steps, dark eyes steady beneath her forelock. She was almost black in the shadows, with a small white star on her forehead that made her solemn face look unexpectedly delicate.

Tommy called her June. The stable hand called her Your Highness. You called her Juniper, because shortening her name still felt like a liberty you had not quite earned.

Scout lay down in the aisle with a sigh of martyrdom while you stepped closer to the stall. Juniper lowered her head, and you lifted your hand to the white mark between her eyes.

“Good morning,” you said softly.

She breathed warm air against your wrist. You did not know what it was about her that had kept you returning. She was not affectionate in any obvious way. She did not seek you out the way Scout did or press herself against you with shameless devotion. She accepted your presence with a guarded dignity, and perhaps that was precisely why you trusted it. Juniper did not flatter. She did not pretend. If she had disliked you, you suspected she would have made the fact known with absolute clarity.

Instead, she lowered her head for your touch. The first time she had done that, something in you had nearly broken from the gentleness of it.

You stood there, smoothing your fingers over the velvet-soft place above her nose, listening to the quiet life of the stable around you. A groom moved somewhere near the tack room. A horse at the far end shook its mane. Scout, already bored, rested his chin on his paws and watched you with patient resignation.

“You keep coming to see her.”

You turned, a little startled.

Tommy stood just inside the stable doors with one shoulder against the wooden frame, hat in one hand, his hair still damp as if he had come in from the yard. There was a trace of amusement in his face, but not the kind that demanded an answer from you.

You looked back at Juniper. “She doesn’t ask questions,” you said quietly.

Tommy came forward slowly, glancing down at Scout as he passed. “No,” he said. “She mostly judges in silence.”

He reached the stall and offered Juniper his hand. The mare inspected him with the air of a queen receiving a familiar but occasionally disappointing subject.

“She likes you,” Tommy said with a soft smile.

You stroked the white star on her forehead. “I think she tolerates me.”

“Well with June, that’s affection.”

The mare nudged his sleeve, searching for something he had not brought her. Tommy looked down at her with mock severity. 

“See? Mercenary. I warned you.”

This time the smile came before you could prevent it, small and brief. Tommy saw it but did not look too triumphant, which was kind of him.

Then he nodded toward the mare. “You ever think about getting on her?”

Your hand stilled. You looked at Juniper’s broad back, then at the ground.

“No,” you said. It was almost true.

Tommy’s mouth curved faintly, as if he had heard the word you had not spoken.

“No?”

Your eyes flicked to him. The amusement in his face remained gentle. You looked away again. 

“I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“That’s what riding lessons are for.”

“It seems like a great deal of trouble for everyone.”

“Not for everyone. Mostly for me.” He scratched Juniper beneath the jaw. “And I’ve been bored.”

Still, you hesitated. The thought of sitting on a horse felt both childish and enormous. It was not only fear of falling, though that was there. It was the exposure of trying something in front of others. Of being awkward while watched. Of wanting something frivolous, something with no use except that it might make the air move differently through your lungs.

Your father had never cared for such wants.

Tommy seemed to sense the exact shape of your hesitation, or enough of it. He leaned one arm against the stall and said, “We don’t have to go anywhere. We don’t even leave the ring. Ten minutes. I keep her on a lead, you sit there and decide whether you hate it.”

You looked at him uncertainly.

“And if you do hate it,” he added, “we blame the horse and never speak of it again.”

You glanced at Juniper. The mare blinked, unmoved by the possibility of slander. You touched Juniper’s forehead once more. She lowered into the contact, warm and steady, as if she knew nothing of the strange little war inside you and had no intention of involving herself.

“Only the ring,” you said at last.

Tommy did not smile too broadly. “Only the ring.”

“And very slowly.”

“Painfully slowly.”

You looked at him, unsure whether he was teasing. He softened at once. “I mean that. We’ll take our time.”

The preparation embarrassed you more than the decision. There were boots to change into, though yours would have done well enough for walking. Gloves, which Tommy insisted would help. A helmet you disliked immediately.

A groom brought Juniper out and saddled her in the aisle with quiet efficiency, and the mare stood as though all of this had been her idea from the beginning.

Outside, the morning had brightened. The riding ring lay just beyond the stable yard, bordered by white rails, the ground damp and neatly worked from the previous evening’s rain. Beyond it, the orchard sloped away in soft green and silver. The house was partly hidden from here. For a little while, the property seemed less like a guarded estate and more like land, trees, animals, sky.

Tommy led Juniper to the mounting block. The mare stood patient and enormous beside it, dark coat shining faintly in the morning light. Her reins hung loose in Tommy’s hand. She flicked one ear back toward you, waiting.

You looked at the saddle, the stirrup, the line of Juniper’s neck. Then at the ground.

“It looks farther from here,” you said, your voice smaller than you had intended.

“It is farther from here.”

You turned your head toward him. His expression remained perfectly calm, but there was warmth at the edge of his mouth. “I could lie, but I’m trying to build trust.”

Tommy stepped closer to the block. “Left foot goes in the stirrup. Hands here. Don’t pull on her mouth. I’ll hold her head.”

The first attempt proved him right. You put your foot in the stirrup, pushed up, hesitated halfway, and came back down with your dignity only mostly intact. Tommy lowered his eyes in a heroic attempt not to smile.

The second attempt worked. You pushed up, swung your right leg over, and found yourself in the saddle with a startled catch of breath. The world changed at once. The ground fell away and the fence seemed lower. Scout stared up with his ears lifted, as if you had betrayed a treaty between you. Then, Juniper shifted beneath you, and every muscle in your body tightened.

Tommy’s hand remained near the bridle. “There. Don’t worry about doing anything yet. Just sit.”

Just sit, as if sitting on something alive and large enough to have opinions was a simple matter. You looked down at your hands. The reins felt strange between your fingers.

“Look ahead,” Tommy said. “Between her ears.”

You did. Juniper’s ears flicked forward and back, listening.

He began walking, and Juniper moved beneath you. The first step startled you. The motion traveled through you in a way you had not expected, warm and rolling, unfamiliar enough that your spine tried to resist it.

“Don’t hold your breath. She’ll feel that.”

You had not realized you were holding it until he said so. And so you let the breath out slowly. Juniper walked on. The first circle around the ring felt longer than the entire path from the house. Your hands wanted to tighten. Your knees wanted to grip. 

Tommy walked beside her head, the lead rope loose but present in his hand.

“Let her walk under you,” he said assuringly. “You don’t have to manage every step.”

You looked down briefly at the dark line of Juniper’s mane. Tommy guided the mare through the corner nearest the orchard, then down the long side of the ring. The damp footing muffled the rhythm of her hooves. Somewhere beyond the stable yard, a bird moved loudly through the hedge.

On the second circle, something changed. Your shoulders lowered first. Then your breath. Then the motion beneath you began to feel less like something happening to you and more like something you could follow. Juniper’s walk had a rhythm. If you stopped bracing against it, your body could find it.

Tommy noticed, but he kept his voice quiet.

“There,” he said. “That’s it. Try asking her to keep the walk. Just close your leg. Let her know you’re there.”

You looked at him. He demonstrated lightly with his hand near the saddle, explaining without too many words. You did what he told you, or tried to. Your first attempt was barely an attempt at all, the question so quiet in your body that Juniper ignored it completely. You tried again. This time, clearer, and Juniper answered. There was a small shift, a willingness, a response that moved through the saddle and into your own body before you fully understood it.

Tommy looked up at you then, and his face changed with quiet satisfaction. The next few minutes passed almost gently. He showed you how to halt, and Juniper ignored your first attempt with calm superiority. The second worked better, though slowly enough that it felt more like a negotiation than a command.

Still, she stopped. You looked between her ears, surprised by the small, ridiculous pride blooming in your chest.

Tommy’s smile was softer now. “Very good.”

That was when Joel saw you.

You did not notice him at first. You were looking between Juniper’s ears, focused on the line of the fence ahead, the morning light warm against your face, Tommy’s voice low and steady near your knee. Then Scout gave one sharp bark, not alarmed but betrayed, and your head turned.

Joel stood at the edge of the ring.  For one strange second, you could not read his face.

He stood with one hand resting on the top rail of the fence, dark shirt open at the collar, jacket absent, his eyes fixed on you with such still attention that the smile slipped from your mouth before you could stop it.

Your first instinct was apology, and you tightened the reins without meaning to. Juniper slowed. Joel’s gaze moved from your face to your hands, then to Tommy, then to Elias standing beyond the ring.

Tommy looked from you to Joel and understood with the irritating ease of someone who had known his brother all his life.

“She’s doing fine,” he said before Joel could speak. His voice was casual, but there was reassurance beneath it. “June’s on the lead. We haven’t left the ring.”

“Tommy said it would only be for a few minutes,” you added. The words came out too quickly.

It sounded too much like an explanation, almost an apology. You heard that as soon as you said it, and the embarrassment of it made your face warm further. As if you had been caught taking something that had not been offered to you. 

Joel` s expression changed. The concern did not leave his face entirely, it was too deeply made in him for that. But it moved aside, just enough for something else to come through.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he said quietly. “I like seeing you up there.”

The words went through you with such unexpected force that you did not answer. Tommy looked away, suddenly deeply interested in Juniper’s bridle.

Joel’s gaze did not leave yours. “You look good on a horse,” he added, lower now. “Stay.”

Your throat tightened. You looked down at Juniper’s neck because you could not hold his gaze for too long without giving away more than you understood yourself.

Tommy gave the lead rope the smallest movement. “Again?” he asked you.

You hesitated. Joel was still watching. A month ago, you would have asked to get down. Even now, the instinct rose in you. To make yourself smaller because eyes had found you. To retreat before the pleasure became too visible. To turn what had happened into nothing before anyone else could take its measure.

But Joel had told you to stay. Not because he owned the moment, but because he had understood it was yours.

You looked ahead between Juniper’s ears and nodded, and Tommy began walking again.

Juniper stepped forward, and this time, though your breath still trembled, you did not brace as quickly. You let the movement come. The ring shifted around you once more, but now Joel stood at the rail, one hand resting on the white wood, his attention following every step. The protectiveness in him had not vanished. You could feel it. You imagined he had counted the distance between you and the ground, the exact place Tommy’s hand rested on the rope, the softness of the footing beneath Juniper’s hooves.

But he said nothing against it.

Tommy guided you through another slow circle. He spoke less now, only correcting the smallest things.

“Look ahead.”

“Hands soft.”

So you sat a little taller. You closed your legs as Tommy had taught you, gentle but clear, and felt the mare answer again. By the time Tommy brought Juniper back toward the mounting block, your legs had begun to ache in unfamiliar places and your hands trembled lightly against the reins. But it was not the old tremor. It was effort. Concentration. 

Tommy stopped beside the block and patted Juniper’s neck.

“That’s enough for today, I think,” he said.

You nodded in agreement. Then you looked down. And the ground seemed, once again, too far away.

Joel had already opened the gate. He entered the ring without haste, his shoes darkening slightly in the damp footing. Juniper turned her head toward him and breathed against his sleeve, recognizing him with a calm familiarity that made something in your chest tighten.

“Hey, girl,” he murmured, stroking her neck, as he came to stand beside you.

Tommy stepped back, giving him room without comment. Joel looked up at you, and for a moment neither of you spoke. From this height, you saw the silver threaded through his hair, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the tension that still lived around his mouth. He had come from some meeting you had not been told about, carrying whatever weight belonged to men like him, and yet all of his attention was here now.

On your hands. On Your face. The way you sat above him on a horse you had probably been afraid to touch properly weeks ago.

“You ready to come down?” he asked gently.

You glanced at the ground again, and finally nodded. 

Joel’s eyes stayed on yours. “Take your right foot out first.”

You followed his instruction. His hand rose toward your waist but paused a breath away, giving you the chance to refuse without making you say it. Then his hand settled against you, broad and steady through the borrowed jacket. The warmth of it reached you at once. His other hand came to your forearm, careful, practical, as if he had not noticed the sudden change in your breathing.

“Now swing your leg over,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

You moved slowly, awkwardly, your balance shifting the moment your leg cleared the saddle. For one suspended second, there was no ground beneath you and too much air, and then Joel’s hand tightened at your waist, not pulling, only holding you secure as you slid down.

Your boots touched the earth and you stood close beside him, the helmet still fastened beneath your chin, your pulse full of the ride and the dismount and the steady press of his hand. Juniper lowered her head and nosed at Joel’s shoulder as if impatient for attention, breaking the stillness before it became too much.

Joel stroked her absently, still looking at you.

“You did well,” he said finally, a small smile on his face.

You lowered your gaze, fingers worrying at the edge of your glove. “Tommy did most of it.”

“Tommy kept you safe,” Joel said. “But you rode her.” 

Tommy, perhaps sensing that anything more would make you retreat, took Juniper’s reins and nodded toward the stable. “I’ll get Her Majesty inside before she decides she earned half the orchard.”

Scout immediately pressed himself against your leg as though reestablishing his rightful claim. You bent to touch his head, grateful for the familiar shape of him beneath your hand.

Joel waited beside you. The ring felt different now that you were on the ground. Smaller, somehow, less impossible. You looked back at it once, at the curve of the rail and the hoofprints in the damp footing. You had been afraid. You had done it anyway. Joel followed your gaze.

“You should keep at it,” he said.

You slowly turned to him. There was caution in his face, of course there was. Joel would never look at you near a horse, near a gate, near anything that could hurt you, without calculating every risk. But the caution did not erase what came beneath it: He meant it.

“With Tommy, of course,” he added. “And not alone. But you should.”

You studied him, uncertain why his approval unsettled you so deeply. “You think so?”

“I do.” His voice was quiet, almost rough. 

You could not answer, so you looked down at Scout and smoothed your hand over his ears. The dog leaned into you, shameless and warm.

Joel reached toward the helmet strap beneath your chin. “May I?”

You nodded.

His fingers worked the buckle carefully. His knuckles brushed once along the underside of your jaw, barely enough to count as a touch, but your body noticed with humiliating precision. Joel’s eyes lifted briefly to yours, dark and searching. Then he removed the helmet and held it at his side.

A strand of hair had loosened against your cheek. Before you could reach for it, he tucked it back with a gesture so brief and thoughtless that it struck you harder than it should have.

He seemed to realize it only afterward. His hand fell away. Then his gaze turned toward the orchard path. 

“Walk with me?”

You nodded.

The two of you left the ring slowly, Scout trotting a few paces ahead, still disturbed by your temporary alliance with a horse. Elias followed behind at a distance. 

For a while, neither of you spoke. The path curved away from the stable yard, passing beneath trees that had begun to thicken with summer shade. Sunlight fell in pieces across the grass. Somewhere behind you, Tommy said something to one of the stable hands, and Juniper gave a low snort as if correcting him.

You should have felt lighter. A few minutes ago, you had been on horseback, smiling. And yet now the quiet beside him made your nerves gather again.

You looked at his hand. Simply there, at his side, controlled like the rest of him.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, almost timidly and more softly than you intended.

Joel glanced at you. “No,” he said.

You looked at him. His mouth shifted faintly, as though he had heard the insufficiency of the answer as soon as he gave it.

“No,” he repeated, gentler this time. “Nothing you need to be afraid of.”

That was not the same thing. You continued walking, eyes lowered to the path. Joel said nothing for several steps. Then he exhaled quietly.

“I had a visitor this morning. An old adviser. He was a friend of my father’s, once.”

You waited. Joel’s gaze stayed ahead. 

“I asked him to help me find leverage on your father.”

Your steps slowed, and Joel slowed with you.

“Leverage,” you repeated.

“Physical evidence,” he said. “Documents. Something real enough that Victor cannot dismiss it as rumor or insult.”

The name moved through you coldly. Your father had not been spoken of much in the house since the abduction. He existed in withheld conversations, in Joel’s silences, in the guards placed where they had not been before. Hearing his name in the open morning, with sunlight on the orchard and the smell of horses still clinging faintly to your clothes, felt wrong.

Joel watched you carefully.

“I’m going to meet him,” he said, and turned to face you fully. “Not today. Not without preparation. But yes, I’m going to confront him.”

Your fingers curled into the sleeve of your cardigan. Joel stepped a little closer, his voice remained low.

“I am not going there to start a war in the room,” he said softly. “That is not what this is.”

“What is it then?”

“A way to end his reach.”

You looked at him with big eyes. The phrase seemed deliberate.

Joel’s expression softened by a degree, as if he had mistaken the silence for the fear he expected. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt him.”

For a moment, you could not speak. He thought your fear had gone first to Victor, to blood. To the knowledge of your father dead by your husband’s order. And there was something in you that understood why he would think that. Perhaps it should have been the first place your mind went. 

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” you whispered.

Joel stilled. His eyes moved over your face. Searching. “Then what is it?” he asked.

The question was gentle. You looked down. Your heart had begun to beat too quickly, and the old embarrassment rose with it: the feeling that your fear was inconvenient, that it asked too much, that speaking it aloud would make it larger and less defensible.

Joel misunderstood your silence.

“Tommy will stay with you,” he said. “I will not go alone, and I will not meet him anywhere he controls. It will be contained.”

You shook your head faintly. “I know,” you said, almost under your breath. “I know you’ll plan it.”

“I will.”

“I know there will be men.”

“Yes.”

“And cars. And exits. And whatever else you think of before anyone else has even realized there is something to think of.”

The corner of his mouth might have moved if your voice had not been so unsteady.

You looked up at him then. “But my father is not a fair man,” you said, your voice a little shaky. “He only needs one moment to become ugly.”

You hated that your eyes had begun to burn.

“I don’t want to make this harder for you,” you added quickly.

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No.”

You looked away.

Joel’s voice softened. “Tell me.”

For a second, the words simply would not come. They pressed against your throat, too intimate, too revealing, too close to something you had not yet admitted even to yourself. Then you drew in a breath.

“I’m worried he’ll hurt you.”

Joel’s face changed. The guardedness in him, the careful control, the part of him that had been arranging plans and contingencies and consequences, all of it went still. You realized too late what you had given him.

What you had given away.

“I didn’t mean—” you began, heat rising to your face. “I know you can take care of yourself. I know it isn’t my place to—”

“Sweetheart.”

The word stopped you. Not because he had never said it before, but because of how quietly he said it. 

Joel reached for your hand slowly enough that you could have stepped back. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, and the world narrowed again the way it had when he lifted you down from Juniper. But this time there was no saddle, no Tommy, no awkwardness to hide inside.

Only his hand holding yours on the orchard path. Only the fear you had spoken. Joel looked down at your joined hands for a moment before he looked back at you.

“He won’t take me from you,” he said.

Your fingers tightened around his before you could stop them.

“You can’t promise that,” you said. Your voice was barely there.

Joel’s thumb moved once over your knuckles.

“No,” he said. “I can promise I won’t give him the man he wants. I won’t walk into that room angry. I won’t stay because pride tells me to. And I won’t make winning more important than coming back to you.”

Your throat closed. “I don’t want to be afraid for you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I hate that he can do that. Even from far away.”

Joel’s hand tightened gently around yours.

“He does not get to own what you feel. He does not get to make your fear shameful,” Joel said. “And he does not get to make me careless with it.”

For a while, neither of you moved. Scout had wandered a few feet ahead and now stood watching the two of you with grave uncertainty, as if deciding whether human hand-holding required intervention. Elias remained at the edge of the path, turned slightly away, giving you the dignity of not being observed too closely. Behind you, in the stable yard, Tommy laughed at something someone said.

The ordinary sound reached you strangely.

Joel looked toward the stables, then back at you.

“Marta made lemon cake,” he suddenly said, as if the statement had occurred to him naturally and not as an escape from the sudden quiet between you.

You blinked. “Lemon cake?”

He looked toward the path, but not quickly enough to hide the faint shift in his expression. “She said you liked it.”

You looked at him, bewildered. It had been weeks ago, that conversation. Barely a confession. A foolish little thing offered to him, when you had told him you preferred lemon cake to chocolate. You had assumed he had forgotten.

“You told her,” you whispered.

Joel’s mouth softened at one corner. “I may have mentioned it.”

You looked down, but the smile came anyway, small and private. His face warmed in response. 

Your hand remained in his as the two of you turned back toward the house. Neither of you spoke for a while, as there did not seem to be much left that could be said safely. But his hand stayed around yours on the path, and when the trees opened toward the lawn and the house came into view, Joel did not let go, not until he had to.

And even then, his fingers left yours slowly, as if the promise had not gone with them.

The envelope stayed in Joel’s inside pocket all the way to the Moretti house.

It was plain, cream-colored, and thin enough that he could almost forget it was there until the car turned, or his jacket shifted, or Elias glanced at him from the passenger seat and looked once toward the place where it rested.

Gideon had given it to him that morning. An envelope that had laid flat on the desk between them. Gideon had gone through the contents once, not slowly, but precisely: an old deed, a trust agreement, minutes from a foundation meeting, copies of pledge documents and banking correspondence with names marked in his careful hand.

St. Agnes had never been Victor’s to use freely. That was the center of it. The property had been transferred years ago into charitable stewardship, tied to the Moretti Foundation under conditions that were clear enough when read beside the right papers. Civic use. No private collateral. No political financing. No transfer into development without approval from the original trustees.

Victor had not ignored those limits outright. He had done what men like Victor did: He had moved beside them, around them, under them. He had let other men sign what he preferred not to sign himself. He had allowed the foundation’s respectability to support private debt and development interests.

Gideon had looked at Joel. “It is enough to make everyone near him consider his distance.”

That was what Joel carried now. Proof, or near enough to proof that the men around Victor would begin protecting themselves the moment they understood their names could be pulled into daylight.

Joel had asked for this meeting. Victor had agreed to receive him at the Moretti house, which Joel had expected. Men like Victor preferred their own rooms. They liked familiar furniture, familiar exits, portraits arranged to remind visitors who had lasted longest. It was meant to place Joel at a disadvantage.

Joel let him have it. There were other kinds of advantage.

The car passed through the front gate and continued up the long drive. The Moretti house appeared gradually beyond clipped hedges and pale gravel, a severe stone building with black shutters and windows that reflected the afternoon sky without giving anything back.

Joel looked at it and thought, briefly, of her. Not for long, he could not afford to walk into Victor’s house with tenderness loose in him. But the thought came anyway. He wondered what it had been like for a quiet child to grow up in a place where everything seemed arranged to be observed. The trimmed grounds, the polished steps, the kind of silence that did not feel peaceful so much as controlled.

He thought of her learning to move through that. Learning not to ask for too much. Learning which moods in her father were safest to disappear from.

The car stopped before the entrance.  Elias nodded once.

Outside, two of Victor’s men waited near the steps. Another stood farther back by the side of the house, pretending not to watch the drive. Joel saw the shape of the jacket, the placement of the feet, the slight delay before the man looked away.

He stepped out of the car. The air smelled faintly of boxwood and stone warmed by sun. A man opened the front door before Joel reached it.

“Mr. Miller.”

Joel gave him no answer beyond a look and entered. The foyer was cool and pale, marble underfoot, a large arrangement of white flowers on the center table. The scent was faint, expensive, and clean. Above the staircase hung a portrait of a woman in a pale dress, seated with one hand resting on the arm of a chair.

Joel did not stop, but he looked. Cecilia Moretti, he assumed. There was enough of her daughter in the shape of the mouth to make the assumption feel certain. Not a full resemblance, it was something smaller. A restraint around the expression. 

Joel looked away. Still, the image stayed with him as they crossed the foyer. He wondered whether she had looked up at that portrait as a girl. Whether it had comforted her or made the house feel emptier. Whether Victor had kept it there out of grief, vanity, or possession.

Likely all three.

“Mr. Moretti is in the west study,” the man said.

Joel followed him down a corridor lined with framed photographs. Dinners. Dedications. Charity boards. Victor shaking hands with priests, trustees, councilmen, men in dark suits who would deny knowing too much if Gideon’s documents ever reached them. Respectability, arranged in sequence.

At the end of the corridor, the man opened a pair of dark wooden doors and stepped aside.

Victor was waiting inside. The west study was large, formal, and colder than the rest of the house with dark shelves and heavy curtains. A long table set before the fireplace with two glasses of water, neither touched. The books looked chosen for their spines rather than their contents.

Victor stood at the far end of the room with one hand on the back of a chair.

He wore a dark suit and a silver tie. His hair was neat, his expression composed, and the smile he gave Joel was controlled enough to pass for courtesy if one had never seen courtesy before.

Two men stood behind him. One older, one younger. Joel registered them both.

“Joel,” Victor said.

“Victor.”

Victor’s smile shifted slightly. “You asked for this meeting. I admit, curiosity persuaded me.”

Joel stepped farther into the room. “Then I won’t waste your time.”

“No,” Victor said mildly. “I never imagined you would.”

He gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Have a seat, please.”

Joel did not sit immediately. He took in the room once, the windows. The door behind him. The side entrance near the shelves. The younger man’s right hand resting near the opening of his jacket.

Then he sat. Elias moved to the wall at Joel’s right, where he could see Victor and both men behind him. Victor noticed the placement.

“Only one guard?” Victor asked dryly.

“You received me in your home,” Joel said. “I assumed we were being civil.”

Victor’s smile stayed in place. “How is my daughter?”

It was placed almost gently, as if concern had any right to sit between them. Joel rested one hand on the table.

“She is not why I’m here.”

Victor’s eyes cooled by a fraction. “She is the reason we are connected at all.”

“She is the reason I have not chosen a simpler answer.”

Victor did not react quickly. He was too practiced for that. He only lowered himself into his chair, adjusted one cuff, and looked at Joel with renewed attention.

“I see,” he said. “So what brings you here.”

 “Business.” Joel reached inside his jacket and removed the envelope.

Victor’s gaze dropped to it as Joel placed it on the table between them. The room became quieter.

“This,” Joel said, “is why I asked to come.”

Victor looked at the envelope for a long moment. A small one, almost invisible. Victor Moretti was not a man who liked unexpected objects placed on his table. Especially not in his own house.

“What is this?” Victor asked.

“Open it.”

Victor’s eyes lifted from the envelope to Joel’s face. For a moment, he seemed almost amused. He settled back in his chair and folded his hands loosely before him.

“You asked to come into my house,” he said, “and now you give instructions.”

There was enough light in the room to show the faint lines at the corners of Victor’s eyes, the disciplined stillness of his mouth, the smooth, polished surface. Joel pushed the envelope a little closer. Victor looked down again. This time he took it. 

The paper opened softly beneath his fingers. Joel watched him remove the documents, watched the first page come free, then the second. Victor read the first page with no visible reaction. The second more slowly. But he understood. Joel saw it in the faint pause of his hand over one line. In the small loss of rhythm as he turned a page. In the way his gaze returned to a signature circled in Gideon’s careful hand.

When he looked up, his expression was still composed, but his color was not. It had drained by degrees, enough to make the skin around his mouth appear suddenly thin.

“Old papers,” Victor said dismissively.

“Yes.”

“Copied papers.”

“Yes.”

Victor placed the first sheet down. “You disappoint me. I expected something more substantial.”

Joel leaned back slightly. 

“St. Agnes was transferred into charitable stewardship with conditions attached. You knew that. The trustees knew that. The men whose names are on those pledges knew enough not to ask questions they did not want answered. You used the foundation to support private debt. You let development money lean against an asset you did not own cleanly enough to pledge. You moved favors through charitable rooms and trusted that respectability would do what muscle could not.”

Victor watched him in silence. Then he set the pages down with great care.

“You should avoid speaking like a prosecutor in another man’s home.”

“I’m not prosecuting you.”

“No. I suppose that would require law, and you Miller men have never been sentimental about that.”

Joel let the insult pass. Victor’s eyes lifted to him, colder now, but still wearing the mask of injured civility.

“Why are you doing this?” The question was almost soft. “For money? For territory? For pride? Or is this some performance of concern for my daughter?”

Joel’s jaw tightened once. Victor leaned back slightly, as if he had found the place to press. 

“I admit,” Victor continued, “our arrangement was not romantic. These things rarely are. But it gave her security. Position. A house. A husband strong enough to keep her from being swallowed by the very world you pretend now to resent.” His mouth curved faintly. “And now you sit here in my home and threaten to exile her father. Tell me, how do you imagine she will thank you for that?”

Joel looked at him for a long moment.

When he answered, his voice was quiet. “You don’t get to use her as your defense.”

“You speak very confidently for a man who has known her a matter of weeks.”

“And yet I know enough.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed.

Joel leaned forward, just slightly. “I know she flinches before she asks for things. I know she apologizes when she has done nothing wrong. I know she listens for moods in a room before she trusts the words spoken in it. I know she learned that somewhere.”

“She is my child, Joel. Whatever you have convinced yourself of, whatever story makes this easier for you to carry, that does not change. I raised her. I buried her mother. I protected her name long before yours was ever attached to it.”

The words entered the room with all the careful polish of a lie rehearsed until it could pass for grief.

Joel did not look away. “I know about the abduction. You were careful enough not to put your own hand on the door. I’ll give you that.”

Joel’s voice lowered. “But careful is not innocent.”

A muscle moved in Victor’s jaw as Joel sat back.

“So do not sit there and ask me why I am doing this as if you are an innocent man being punished by a son-in-law with poor manners.”

Victor’s face had gone cold now, all wounded civility gone from it.

Joel held his gaze. “You know exactly why I am here.”

Then he reached for the folded sheet beside the envelope.

“And now I am giving you terms.”

Victor’s expression altered, almost imperceptibly. He leaned back. 

“Terms. From you.”

“Yes.”

“To me.”

“Yes.”

The quiet stretched. Victor tapped one finger once against the stack of documents.

“And what, exactly, do you believe these scraps entitle you to demand?”

Joel looked at him for a moment. He thought, briefly, of her on Juniper’s back that morning. Her hands too careful on the reins. The smile she had not remembered to hide. The way she had looked at him afterward, fear in her face not for the father whose name stood between them, but for him.

He had told her he would not walk into this room angry. So he did not.

“You will step down from the Moretti Foundation,” Joel said. “Immediately. Publicly, you will call it health, age, reflection, a desire to spend time abroad. Choose whichever lie keeps your vanity intact.”

Victor did not blink.

“You will surrender all control over the St. Agnes trust structure and withdraw from every development partnership tied to it. Your interests transfer into neutral management until the trustees decide how far they want this cleaned. If they are smart, they will want it cleaned quickly and without your name attached to another meeting.”

One of Victor’s hands had closed slowly on the arm of his chair. Joel went on.

“You will begin divesting from the businesses you use to move pressure through this city. You will leave the country before the end of the month, and you will not return without my permission.”

Victor’s mouth changed then, into a thin, hard line.

“Your permission.”

Joel held his gaze.

“You will not contact my wife. You will not send priests, cousins, old friends, doctors, lawyers, gifts, letters, drivers, or messages. You will not come near my house. You will not even speak her name.”

The silence afterward was long.

Victor looked at him as if Joel had said something obscene. Then he laughed once, under his breath.  It was a quiet sound, almost intimate in its contempt.

“You sit in my house,” he said, “and tell me I need your permission to return to my own city.”

“No,” Joel said. “I’m telling you the city will become inconvenient if you refuse.”

Victor’s voice came softly. “You are threatening me.”

“I am informing you of sequence.”

The pale control of Victor`s face broke for one second, and something raw moved underneath: Humiliation. Joel had not come to bargain. He had come to manage Victor’s disappearance.

His eyes lowered to the papers again. For the first time, he did not seem to see documents. He seemed to see men. Trustees. Donors. Lenders. A councilman with too much to lose. Lawyers asking careful questions. Friends becoming unavailable. Smiles cooling across tables. Invitations drying up. The slow, social violence of men protecting themselves. Joel watched the understanding reach him.

“You are overestimating yourself,” Victor` s mouth curved. “And my daughter? Does she know you came to exile her father? Does she know you speak for her now? Or is that how you justify yourself?”

Joel felt the anger. It rose with clean, familiar heat, offering itself easily. Victor knew exactly where to put his hand. He was good at that. Perhaps he had always been good at that. Perhaps that was what she had grown up learning to survive.

Joel let the anger pass through him without giving it his mouth.

“She knows enough,” he said.

Victor’s eyes sharpened. “And if she asks for me?”

Joel leaned forward slightly. “She won`t.”

Victor looked openly displeased.

“You speak as if she is yours.”

“I speak as if she is not yours to use.”

Victor lowered his gaze to the papers, not because he needed to read them again, but because he needed a moment in which his face was not required to obey him. When he looked up, some color had returned to him. It sat high along the cheekbones, controlled poorly.

Victor watched him with an icy stare as Joel took a folded sheet from his inside pocket and placed it beside the envelope.

Terms. Typed plainly.

“You have forty-eight hours to accept,” Joel said. “After that, copies go to the trustees first. Then the lender. Then the donors.”

Joel stepped back from the table.

“We’re done,” he said.

Elias moved as Joel did, peeling off the wall with quiet readiness. Victor’s younger man took half a step, then stopped when the older one gave the smallest shake of his head. 

Joel walked out.The corridor felt cooler after the study, the framed photographs watching him pass with their frozen smiles and polished benevolence. Elias walked beside him. They crossed the foyer without speaking. Joel did not look again at Cecilia Moretti’s portrait on the stairs. He had taken in enough of that house for one day.

Outside, the air felt different. The car door opened andJoel stepped in. Elias took the front seat, shut the door, and gave the driver a nod.

Joel looked out the window at the long gravel drive, the hedges, the iron gate waiting ahead. He touched the inside of his jacket where the envelope no longer rested. Copies remained elsewhere. Gideon had insisted on that. So had Tommy, less politely.

He thought of her hand in his. Her voice on the orchard path.

I’m worried he’ll hurt you.

He had walked into Victor’s house. He had placed the papers on the table. He had left without blood. 

The gates opened and the car passed through. Joel did not look back.

You chose the dress yourself. Maria had offered to help, of course. Now the dress hung from the wardrobe door in the soft evening light.

Pale yellow. The color of lemon flesh and summer mornings, light enough to look almost innocent until the fabric moved and deepened where it folded. It was a fine, flowing silk, cut simply through the bodice and falling in long, weightless lines from the waist, elegant without making you feel older than you were, youthful without making you feel exposed.

It was summery. That was the word you had thought when you first touched it. Summery and soft.

Scout sat on the rug behind you with his front paws crossed, watching as if he had been personally appointed to judge the proceedings.

“You are not helping,” you told him, mildly scolding. His ears moved.

You turned back to the mirror and leaned closer, brushing color carefully over your mouth. You had not worn much makeup in the weeks after the abduction. At first because your skin had been bruised, then because the thought of looking too closely at yourself had made something inside you fold away. It had been easier to remain practical. 

Tonight, you made an effort.

The gala dinner was Maria’s annual charity ball, though she never called it hers. She would have said she only helped arrange it, that Helena Ashford did most of the difficult work, that the committee deserved the credit, that the children’s health project receiving the donations mattered far more than names printed on invitations.

But everyone knew: The evening mattered to Maria.

You had seen it in the way she spoke of the seating chart as though it were a military campaign, in the careful attention she gave to the flowers, the donors, the hospital representatives, the children’s wing that would receive the funding. She did not say she was proud of it. Maria rarely offered her softest feelings directly. But this was hers.

And because she had asked gently, because Joel had said you did not have to go, because he had come back from your father’s house alive and with no blood on his hands, you wanted, for once, not merely to survive the evening. You wanted to arrive.

You wanted to feel pretty.

You wanted to step into the evening as something other than what had happened to you.

The brush paused near your cheek. Three days had passed since Joel returned from the Moretti house unharmed.

Unharmed. You still returned to the word the way a hand returned to a bruise, checking whether it hurt less than before. You had seen him walk through the door in the same suit he had left in, his face composed, Elias behind him, no blood, no limp, no hard silence that meant something irreparable had happened. He had not told you it was over, only that it was done for now, and that your father had understood what had been placed before him.

Your body had not trusted it at first. Relief had come violently, almost painfully, so sudden that for one moment you had not known where to put your hands. 

Not everything had become safe afterward. You were not foolish enough to believe that. The house remained guarded. Tommy still disappeared into the study with Joel and came out with his jaw too tight. Elias stood closer than he had before, though he did it with enough discretion to let you pretend not to notice.

But something had changed. Joel had gone into your father’s house and come back to you without blood on his hands.

There had been a lightness in the house since Joel returned. Enough that Marta had hummed once in the kitchen before catching herself. Enough that Tommy had teased you about Juniper at breakfast and Joel had looked at your face afterward to see whether you smiled. Enough that you had slept through most of one night without waking in the dark, already afraid.

Enough that, sitting now before the mirror in a yellow dress, you let yourself think something you would have refused only weeks before.

He could be my happiness.

Happiness. Your eyes lifted to your reflection. You did not shrink from the thought, and you did not punish yourself for wanting it.

Behind you, Scout gave a long, theatrical sigh.

You glanced at him in the mirror. “I know.”

He blinked.

“It is a dangerous dress,” you said softly. “I agree.”

Scout lowered his head onto his paws, clearly deciding that if humans insisted on risking themselves with silk, he could not be held responsible. You smiled despite yourself.

When you eventually stood the silk settled around you with a faint whisper. You turned once, not out of vanity exactly, but to see whether the dress belonged to you from every angle. It moved when you moved. Caught light and gave it back softly.It made your skin look warmer, your hair darker, your shoulders more delicate.

You put on small pearl earrings.  Then took them off and put on the gold ones Maria had suggested, narrow drops that brushed just below your jaw when you turned your head. Scout watched the exchange with the grave patience of someone witnessing a ritual he did not respect.

“These are better,” you told him.

He did not disagree. That was as close to approval as you expected to get.

When you opened the door, the hallway outside was quiet, though the house below was not. Voices moved faintly from the front hall. A car engine idled somewhere beyond the windows. Someone laughed — Tommy, probably.

You gathered the edge of your dress in one hand and started down the stairs.

Halfway down, Benji came running from the direction of the drawing room in striped pajamas, one slipper missing and his hair damp from a bath. He stopped so suddenly at the foot of the stairs that he nearly slid on the polished floor. Then  his eyes went wide.

You stopped too, one hand resting on the banister.

For a moment, he only stared at you with the unguarded seriousness children gave to things they found beautiful before anyone taught them to disguise delight.

Then he said, “You’re very pretty.”

The sweetness of it struck you so unexpectedly that your throat tightened.

“Thank you,” you said, smiling down at him. “You are very handsome in your pajamas.”

Benji looked down at himself, apparently remembering his state of dress only then. “Marta said I have to sleep before the fireworks.”

“That sounds wise.”

“It sounds unfair.”

Then suddenly a voice came from the hall below, low and dark and close enough to make your hand still on the banister.

“He’s right.”

You looked down.

Joel stood near the foot of the stairs. For a second, you forgot the rest of the descent.

He wore a tuxedo. Not merely a suit this time, but proper evening black, cut cleanly across his shoulders, white shirt open only at the collar where the bow tie sat perfectly in place. But when he looked at you, none of that was what you saw first.

You saw the way he went still. His gaze moved over you once, slowly enough to make warmth rise under your skin, but not so slowly that you felt displayed. He looked at the dress, the earrings, the loose fall of your hair, and then back at your face as if the rest of it only mattered because you were inside it.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

You looked down for half a second, suddenly aware of your hands, the stairs, Benji watching with open fascination.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Benji looked between you and Joel with the profound interest of someone too young to understand everything and old enough to know something was happening.

Joel seemed to remember him at the same time you did.

“Bed,” he said firmly.

Benji groaned. “But Daddy said I could see one firework.”

“Uncle Tommy says a lot of things.”

From somewhere down the hall, Tommy called, “I stand by that one.”

Marta appeared behind Benji with the missing slipper in one hand. “Your dad is not responsible for your mood tomorrow morning.”

Tommy’s voice came again, lighter now. “That is also true.”

Benji accepted the slipper with great reluctance, then turned back to you. “Will you tell me if they’re good?”

“The fireworks?”

He nodded.

“I will.”

Satisfied enough to be guided away, he let Marta turn him toward the stairs leading to the family rooms, though he looked over his shoulder once more as if the dress might disappear if he did not keep track of it.

When he was gone, the hall seemed quieter. Joel stood waiting at the foot of the stairs.  You resumed your descent, slower now, more aware of yourself with each step. By the time you reached the bottom, your heart had begun to beat nervously.

Joel offered his hand. You placed yours in it. His fingers closed carefully around yours, warm and steady. He looked at you, close now, the expression in his face gentle.

“Yellow,” he said.

You glanced down, suddenly feeling unsure of yourself. “Is is too much? I can ch—”

“No. You`re perfect.”

Heat rushed into your cheeks and a smile touched your mouth. “You say that very decisively.”

“I’m sure.”

The warmth in your face deepened. Joel’s thumb moved once, barely, against the side of your hand.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

You looked toward the front doors, toward the sound of cars and men waiting and whatever world expected you beyond the house.

You drew a breath.

“I think so.” 

Joel’s face softened. He offered you his arm. Together, you crossed the hall.

The garden gala had already begun by the time you arrived.

Ashford Gardens glowed under the summer evening, every path and terrace lit with lanterns strung through the trees and small glass lamps set along the edges of the lawn. The pavilion had been opened on three sides to the air, its pale canopy lifting above long tables dressed in white linen and silver. Beyond it, the gardens descended toward the lake, where the last of the sunset lingered in soft pink and gold along the water.

People turned when Joel stepped out of the car.

His hand settled at the small of your back, light and steady. You looked at the lanterns, the guests, the waiters moving with trays of champagne, the men placed discreetly near the garden paths.

Maria found you almost immediately, as if she had been watching for your arrival, and kissed your cheek with warmth. She had left for the event hours ago in order

to check on the last preparations.

“You two look expensive,” she said.

Joel gave her a look. “Behave.”

“I am behaving. This is my behaved face.”

You laughed. Joel`s gaze moved to you, and he smiled with you.

Dinner unfolded more easily than you had expected.

Perhaps because Maria did not give the evening enough room to become stiff. She moved between guests before the first course with the bright, contained energy of a woman pretending not to care desperately whether every detail went well. She greeted donors, redirected a confused hospital board member to the correct table, noticed a missing place card from across the pavilion, and still somehow found time to touch your shoulder lightly when she passed behind your chair.

“You came,” she said, smiling down at you. “I’m so glad.”

“Of course, you invited me.”

“That has never guaranteed anything in this family.”

Tommy, seated on Maria’s other side, lifted his glass. “She means Joel.”

Joel looked at him over the rim of his water. “I heard that.”

“You were meant to.”

Maria gave Tommy a look that should have corrected him, but there was too much warmth beneath it to be effective.

You watched them with quiet fascination. Maria’s attention was everywhere at once — the flowers, the first course, the movement of waiters, the older gentleman two tables away who seemed to have misplaced his hearing aid and possibly his patience — but whenever Tommy looked at her, something in his face changed.

It was there in the way he tracked her through the room, the way his smile appeared when she managed a difficult guest with three polite sentences and no visible violence, the way he leaned toward you after she had gone to greet someone near the entrance and said, with shameless pride, “She’s terrifying when she organizes things.”

“She seems very good at it,” you agreed.

“She is good at everything. That’s the problem.”

You glanced at him. “That sounds like admiration.”

“It is admiration. Also fear. Marriage is complex.”

For once, you laughed without thinking first. Tommy looked pleased with himself. You lowered your eyes, still smiling.

Helena Ashford appeared then in a pale blue dress, carrying a clipboard that did not match the rest of her elegance. She was tall, silver-haired, and moving with the brisk authority of someone who had been born into old money. She then seemed to have discovered that work was more interesting than leisure.

“Maria,” she said as she passed, “the quartet is asking whether we want the second set before or after dessert.”

Maria stood at once. “After. If they play before dessert, no one will sit down again.”

“That was my feeling. Also, the mayor’s wife has changed seats.”

Tommy made a low sound. “Brave woman.”

Maria ignored him. “Changed with whom?”

“Dr. Baines.”

“She cannot sit next to Dr. Baines. She accused him of misquoting her at last year’s benefit.”

Helena sighed. “That explains the face he made.”

Maria turned to you with an apologetic smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Tommy watched her go with open devotion. “She loves this,” he said.

You looked toward Maria, who had already crossed half the pavilion and was smiling beautifully at a woman whose seating decisions appeared to have caused structural damage to the evening.

“She does.”

Joel was speaking quietly to a man who had approached the table with two others behind him. You recognized none of them, but you recognized the type: polished, careful, the sort of men who turned invitation into inquiry and inquiry into allegiance if allowed enough time near a bar.

One of them gestured toward the far side of the pavilion, where several guests had gathered beneath a line of lanterns with glasses in hand.

Joel listened. His expression remained courteous. Then his eyes shifted to you.

The movement was small, but it went through you at once. The men were still talking, still expecting whatever answer powerful men expected from one another, but Joel had already left the conversation enough to check you.

You were not sure what he saw. You sitting beside Tommy, your shoulders less tense than they had been when you arrived. Maria close by. Elias near the terrace doors. Scout absent, regrettably, but Benji’s compliment still tucked warmly somewhere in your chest.

Joel seemed to decide you were all right. Only then did he stand. He came to your side of the table before following the men. It was unnecessary. He could have nodded from where he was. He could have gone and trusted that you would understand.

Instead, he bent slightly toward you.

“I’ll be over there,” he said, voice low enough not to carry.

You looked up at him. “Alright.”

His mouth almost smiled. “Tommy’s here.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair. “I am very visible.”

“I know.” You meant it gently.

For a second, Joel only looked at you, close enough that the lantern light caught in the dark of his eyes. Then, almost as if he had forgotten where you were until after the movement had already begun, he lowered his head and kissed your cheek.

Briefly. Warmly. A touch of his mouth just beside the corner of yours, gone before you had time to prepare for it.  Joel stilled for half a second after, as if he had surprised himself as much as you.

Tommy became intensely interested in his wine. Heat rose under your skin.

Joel’s expression softened, barely.  “I won’t be long,” he said.

You nodded because words had become unreliable.

He left then, crossing the pavilion with the men toward the bar, and you watched him go. 

Tommy did not spare you, though.

“Well,” he said pleasantly.

You turned your face toward him. “Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

“I was breathing.”

“You were breathing smugly.”

Tommy’s grin appeared. “That’s a serious accusation.”

You looked down at your hands, but you were smiling. Across the pavilion, Joel accepted a glass he did not drink from and listened to one of the men speak. After a moment, his gaze found you again.

Just briefly. A check. A question. You answered without thinking, with the smallest lift of your mouth. Then he looked back to the men beside him.

At the table, Maria returned, triumphant and slightly breathless. “Crisis handled,” she announced.

“The mayor’s wife?” Tommy asked.

“Placed where she can do the least harm.”

“A humanitarian achievement.”

Maria sat, then looked from Tommy’s grin to your flushed face and finally toward Joel at the bar.

She reached for her glass and said lightly, “Good. Everyone is where they should be.”

The music began after dessert.

At first, it slipped beneath the conversation almost unnoticed: a low arrangement of strings and piano from the far end of the pavilion, where the quartet had taken their place beneath a canopy of lanterns. The first piece was light, meant to gather the room rather than interrupt it. Couples turned their heads. A few older guests smiled. The mayor’s wife, safely repositioned, seemed briefly appeased.

Then Helena Ashford appeared near the center aisle, clapped her hands once with brisk elegance, and said, “Now, if no one dances after I paid for music, I will consider that a personal insult.”

Tommy leaned toward you. “She means that.”

Maria smiled. “She absolutely means that.”

A few couples rose with the obedient good humor of people who understood that Helena Ashford’s disappointment was not worth courting. The dance floor filled slowly, black jackets and pale dresses moving beneath the lanterns, the glass pavilion reflecting their shapes back in softened fragments.

You watched them. You told yourself you were only watching.

Maria was saying something to Tommy about the second auction lot, her voice bright with relief now that the evening had found its rhythm. Tommy was listening with half-amused devotion. Across the pavilion, Helena Ashford swept past a waiter with the expression of a general correcting troop placement, and you found yourself smiling into your glass.

You were still smiling when a shadow fell softly beside your chair. Only a slight change in the light, a warmth at your side, the almost-imperceptible quiet that seemed to come with Joel before he spoke.

You looked up.

He was standing beside you. You had not seen him leave the bar. Had not seen him cross the pavilion. One moment he had been across the room among men with careful smiles and untouched drinks; the next he was there, close enough that the sleeve of his tuxedo nearly brushed your bare shoulder.

For some reason, that made your heart trip over itself.

Joel looked down at you, his expression calm enough for the room and too soft for it to belong entirely there.

He offered his hand.

“Dance with me.”

Your heart gave one hard, foolish beat.

This was not your wedding dance. The wedding had been ceremony. A room full of people watching two strangers perform obedience to a peace neither of them had built. You had been careful then, so careful that most of what you remembered was distance: the space between your hand and his shoulder, between your eyes and his mouth, between the woman you were and the wife the room wanted you to become.

This was different.

That was why you placed your hand in his, annd  his fingers closed around yours.

The music was slow, strings and piano moving softly under the murmur of conversation. Joel placed one hand at your back and took yours in the other. Then he guided you into the turn.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured.

“I don’t know the steps. I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“You won’t. You could never.”

You looked down at the front of his shirt rather than at his face.

Joel let you for a while. He moved with a natural ease, steering you around other couples. His hand at your back was warm through the thin fabric of your dress. You lifted your eyes and found Joel was already looking at you. 

“What?” he asked softly.

You shook your head.

His thumb shifted against your hand. “Tell me.”

You thought of the mirror. The yellow dress. The thought you had not fled from.

He could be my happiness.

The words rose in you and stayed there, too large to speak and too true to deny. So you said the smaller thing.

“I’m glad you came back.”

Joel’s face softened.

The music moved around you.

“I told you I would.”

“I know.”

He drew you a little closer then. Your hand, which had been resting at his shoulder, shifted with the movement and came briefly against his chest. Beneath the fine fabric of his shirt and jacket, his heartbeat was steady.

Alive.

Here.

The song ended and light applause rose around you. Neither of you moved. For one suspended moment, you remained where the music had left you, close enough to feel his breath, close enough that his hand at your back no longer had any excuse to stay there except that neither of you wanted it gone. You looked up to say something — you did not know what? — and found him still looking at you.

The words vanished. There was only Joel in the lantern light, his gaze lowered to yours with a restraint that had begun, finally, to look less like distance than patience nearing its limit.

He reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was barely there, but you felt it everywhere. His other hand was still warm through the thin silk of your dress, spread carefully between your shoulder blades as if he had meant to let go and forgotten how. Your own hand rested against his chest, higher than it had been before, your fingertips just touching the lapel of his jacket.

You could feel him breathing, a quiet rise beneath your palm.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth. Only for a second, long enough.

A shiver went through you. The air in the pavilion was warm, summer-soft, scented with flowers and candle wax and the faint trace of champagne. But goosebumps rose along your arms beneath the sheer wrap, and your fingers curled slightly against his jacket before you could stop them.

You should have stepped back. A part of you knew that. The old part, the careful part. The part that had survived by never wanting anything too visibly, by lowering her eyes. But you did not step back.

Joel’s hand shifted at your back, settling more securely. His thumb brushed once over the silk, barely there. The space between you grew smaller. Or perhaps it had been shrinking all evening and you were only noticing now? His face was close enough that you could see the faint shadow along his jaw, the tiredness near his eyes, the small, almost imperceptible tension in his mouth. You could smell his cologne beneath the warmth of his skin, dark and clean and familiar.

His breath touched your lips.

That was when the room disappeared. The lanterns blurred. The applause faded into a dull, distant murmur. Someone laughed behind you, and the sound might as well have come from another floor of the house, another life entirely. There was only Joel, the warmth of his hand, the place where your body almost met his, the impossible nearness of his mouth.

You looked at him and knew. If he kissed you now, you would not turn away. The knowledge moved through you with terrifying calm.  

 Joel seemed to understand it at the same time. His eyes searched yours once, slowly, as if he were asking permission. You gave no spoken answer. You only remained where you were, your hand still against his chest, your lips parted around a breath you could not quite finish.

His head lowered by the smallest degree.

Your eyes fluttered, not closed, not yet.

Closer.

His mouth was so near now that the almost of it became unbearable. You felt warmth before contact, felt the suspended second stretch thin between you, felt your whole body lean toward a thing it had been refusing to name for weeks.

Joel’s hand tightened gently at your back.

Then the first firework burst above the lake.

The sound cracked through the night, sudden and bright, and you startled against him before you understood what it was.

Joel’s arms came around you at once. Protective, instinctive.

The pavilion lit gold around you, faces turning toward the noise, voices rising in pleased surprise. Another firework opened behind the first, silver spilling over the water, applause breaking out as if the world had not nearly changed completely between one breath and the next.

Joel did not let you go immediately.

His mouth was still close to your temple now, his breath warm against your hair.

“Just fireworks,” he murmured.

You nodded, though your hand was still fisted lightly in his jacket.

“I know.”

But you were not sure which sound you were answering.

The one over the lake.

Or the one still echoing inside you.

He only shifted slightly. “Come on,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We’ll see better from over there.”

You followed him into the summer night, his hand still covering yours.

The fireworks bloomed over the lake in color and smoke, bright enough to turn the water white for a heartbeat before darkness returned. Around you, people laughed and applauded, faces lifted, glasses catching sparks of reflected light. Joel stood beside you at the balustrade, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours each time someone passed too near.

When the final burst fell in a slow purple rain over the lake, the garden applauded. The air smelled of smoke and roses and warm stone.

“We should go,” he said, voice rougher than before.

You nodded. When he offered his arm again, your hand found it without hesitation. He led you away from the balustrade, back through the lingering smoke and the last scattered applause. The fireworks had ended, but the garden still seemed bright from them, as if the light had not fully left the water or the faces turned toward it.

A fine mist had begun to fall. A silver softness in the air, catching in the lanterns and settling coolly along your bare arms. People around you laughed and lifted hands over carefully arranged hair, making cheerful complaints that sounded more pleased than offended. Somewhere behind you, Helena Ashford declared that the weather had excellent timing.

Joel glanced down at you. “You’re cold.”

“A little.”

He was already removing his jacket.

“You don’t have to—”

He placed it around your shoulders before you could finish. The warmth of it settled over the yellow silk at once, heavy and familiar, carrying the clean dark scent of him. You drew it closer without meaning to.

You looked down, smiling despite yourself. “You are very bossy for someone who asked me to dance so politely.”

The corner of his mouth moved. “I asked politely because there were witnesses.”

You looked up at him, startled into a small laugh. The look he gave you was warm, private, almost boyish for a breath before he tucked it away.

The path toward the valet court curved between the cypress trees and the edge of the pavilion, where the party was beginning to loosen. Guests were still talking beneath the lanterns. Waiters moved between tables. Somewhere inside, the quartet had begun another piece, softer now, the notes slipping out into the garden as if following you.

It felt like the evening was reluctant to let you go.

You walked beside Joel with his jacket around your shoulders and his arm beneath your hand. It felt full, but gently so. Full of what had almost happened. Full of his breath against your lips, his hand at your back, the way he had looked at you when the song ended.

You were shy with it now.

“You were right,” you said after a moment.

Joel glanced at you in surprise. “About what?”

You kept your eyes ahead. “I liked it.”

“The fireworks?”

“No.”

His attention stayed on you.

Your face warmed. “Dancing,” you admitted.

His mouth softened. “I noticed.”

You looked up at him. “You noticed?”

“I notice most things about you.”

Joel looked ahead again, but his hand came to the small of your back as you stepped around a shallow puddle near the path, steadying you with the same thoughtful care he had given you all evening.

You wanted to tell him something then. That you had liked dancing because of him. That you had not wanted the song to end. 

The words rose and tangled. So you only said, softer, “I’m glad we came.”

Joel looked at you then. “So am I.”

Ahead of you, Elias slowed. One moment he was walking several paces ahead, discreet enough to give you privacy, close enough to satisfy whatever rules Joel had set for the evening. The next, his body shifted.

A pause. He turned his head toward the valet line. Joel`s hand at your back firmed.

You looked from him to Elias, still half inside the softness of the moment. “What is it?”

Yet Joel did not answer.

“Joel.” Elias voice was hard. Low.

Near the line of black cars, a man in a dark coat turned away from the valet stand. You thought you had seen a glimpse of a white shirt underneath it. His head lowered against the mist.

For half a second, he looked like staff.

Then his hand came up.

Joel moved. There was no time for thought, no time for fear to arrive properly. One moment you were beside him, his jacket around your shoulders, the warmth of his words still moving through you; the next his arm swept around your body with enough force to drive the breath from your lungs.

He turned into you. Toward you, pulling you behind him and down, his body becoming the wall between yours and the raised gun.

“Down,” he barked.

Then the shot cracked through the night.

“We need some photos pulled from the photo lab…” Carillo’s voice drones on, his explanation fading into the background as the weight of Javier’s stare settles over you, dragging over your body unabashedly.

He’s slouched over a desk that’s cluttered with maps and reports, an overfilled ashtray perched precariously on the corner, its contents spilling over as evidence of long hours and bad habits.

The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up just enough to show off those strong, brown forearms, veins subtly bulging as he drums his fingers against the surface.

The air is perfumed with cigarette smoke, the stale scent clinging to everything. It’s honestly a wonder you haven’t choked on it yet.

Weeks have passed since your lapse in judgment in the parking garage—letting Javier fucking Peña slide between your thighs to take the edge off this godforsaken sexist job that you still haven’t quit.

Nothing’s changed, obviously. The men in the office are still assholes, continuing to treat you like an afterthought, but you just tune them out because at the end of the day; you know you’re better than all of them combined.

Except it’s hard to ignore Javier. Harder than usual when he’s flashing you those round and soft brown eyes that should be illegal for a man like him to possess. 

He’s tried cornering you—more than once. The break room, after meetings, even the damn staircase when you were in a rush to head home.

Each time, you shut him down. Telling him to fuck off and take whatever cocky, insufferable game he’s playing and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.

You’re actually kind of proud of yourself for pushing back more than usual, even if you do get hit with a wave of horny nostalgia for the way he’d taken you that day. Quick, ruthless, licentious.

You keep your expression neutral as Carillo wraps up his instructions. Nodding politely, you don’t spare a glance at the other agent before turning on your heel and making your way down to the lab.

The room is lit by a red bulb, casting everything in a hazy, bloody glow. You’re sifting through the folders, squinting at the labels, when you hear it—the soft click of the door shutting.

You spin around, and there he fucking is.

Javier leans against the doorframe, the silver watch on his wrist catching the light, his tie loosened around his neck and the first few buttons of his shirt habitually undone.

With his arms crossed and broad frame filling the space of the doorway, he’s the picture of amusement—of quiet, dangerous persistence.

You hate the way your pulse downstairs stutters at the sight of him.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his jaw shifts, a muscle ticking as he weighs his words, like he’s carefully considering how much trouble he wants to get himself into.

It annoys the ever-loving shit out of you.

When he doesn’t reply, you just huff out breath. “I don’t have time for this. Carillo needs these photos,” you snap, as if he doesn’t already know that. As if that’s why he’s really here.

Your fingers tighten around the folder you managed to locate, flipping through the contents to confirm it’s the right one. It is. Thank goodness. Now all you have to do is get the hell out of here—away from him.

“You’ve been doing okay?” He finally speaks, tone deceptively casual. “Your car’s fine?”

You bark out a laugh, loud and incredulous, because really? That’s what he’s opening with?

“What is it that you want, Javier?” You slam the filing cabinet shut, the sound echoing in the small lab.

And of-fucking-course—he’s closer now. The ruby luminescence of the room carves sharper angles into his face, deepening the contours, making his already unfairly handsome features look even more severe.

“What do you think?” he asks with a tilt of his head, tongue dragging slowly over his bottom lip.

“I think you just want to get your dick wet,” you accuse in a quip. “But I’m really confused as to why you’re so adamant about coming to me for that. Don’t you have a list of whores you can call? I’ve got about a dozen of their numbers written down at my desk. Just for you.”

Javier smirks—slow, lazy, irritatingly attractive. “S’not as fun. Not the same.” He shrugs. “I like to work for it sometimes.”

Your brows lift in disbelief. “Work for it? Wow, this really is just a game to you. To all of you.” Immature, arrogant, government assholes. You can feel yourself getting worked up, reminiscent of the last time you were this close to him. 

You don’t give him the chance to reply, instead brushing past him toward the door, reaching for the handle and twisting—nothing. 

You try again. And again. It doesn’t budge.

You exhale sharply, pressing your forehead against the door for half a second before pulling back. 

Right, so this door has been busted for as long as you can remember, locking from the inside at the worst possible moments, clearly.

You should have snagged the spare key, just in case. This is on you.

And since you’ve got unwanted company, the space feels a lot smaller.

“Please tell me you have your stupid phone on you,” you’re still facing the door, voice tight, manilla folder clenched in your hands.

The sound of dress shoes sliding over the floor, measured, deliberate, breaks the momentary silence.

Your body lights up, tensing as warmth ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

“I don’t,” Javier murmurs, too fucking smoothly.

And then his hands—those beautifully large hands—press against the door on either side of you, arms caging you in.

You turn slowly, back pressed to the door, looking up at him as your breath catches somewhere in your throat.

He smells like cologne and Marlboros, an intoxicating combination that does something dangerous to your resolve, sinking its talons into whatever shred of control you thought you had left.

You can already feel the telltale weakness creeping into your knees as he stares down at you, the red hue truly making him look sinful in all the right ways.

This is exactly why you’ve been dodging him, shutting him down at every turn.

Because he makes it so easy to give in if just given a second to lay it on thick, no pun intended. Not only have you experienced his sexual bravado first hand, you’ve also seen the way he works his personality and charm with everyone else.

You wanted to be different, you really did. To not be another person to fall for him. Not after the way he treats you in the office, like you’re barely worth acknowledging unless you’re useful to him. Not after the way he just lets the other agents walk all over you.

It’s really not fair that he looks the way he does or that he fucks like he knows exactly what his partner needs. Like he’s got some weird, kinky sixth sense. 

It’s definitely not fucking fair that your pussy is flexing at the memory of him cuffing your wrists behind your back, growling filth into your ear as he took you against the side of his Jeep.

You inhale sharply, attempting to shove the thoughts away.

“I think there’s a landline in here somewhere,” you tell him, grasping at something—anything—to keep your wits about you. “We need to call someone to get us out.”

You try to step away, but Javier moves faster.

He blocks your path effortlessly, stepping into your space like he belongs there, his chest brushing against yours, the heat of him seeping through your clothes.

“Not yet, baby,” he murmurs, tone laced with that familiar, knowing drawl. It’s so rich that a little bit of his Texan accent slips through. “Let’s have some fun.”

You let out another laugh, except this time it’s thinner, shakier than you want it to be.

“Fucking someone you don’t like isn’t really my idea of fun,” you bite out, but it doesn’t come out as bitchy as you intended.

“Didn’t stop you last time…” He says smugly and you grit your teeth. “It just makes it that much better,” he sounds so indulgent. Like he’s already won.

You open your mouth to argue, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“C’mon,” Javi coaxes like he’s the devil himself. “You’re always so tense. You work so damn hard, dealing with assholes like me all day. Let me make it worth your while.”

“I thought I told you last time that good dick wasn’t the solution to my problems.” 

“I’m not trying to solve your problems.” 

He ducks his head, the tip of his nose dragging up the side of your neck, a featherlight touch that sets your skin on fire.

You should push him away and slap him. But instead, you just… let him. Frozen, paralyzed by your own traitorous lust.

His soft pouty lips find your jaw, pressing kisses, each one getting you wetter. 

His tongue traces a languid stripe up to your ear, the wet heat of it making you gasp and your thighs press together. When his teeth graze your lobe, you can’t suppress the way your breath stutters.

“Javi—” His name escapes before you can catch it, barely more than a whisper.

You feel his grin against your skin.

“Say it again.”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut, as if that will somehow lessen the ache beating at your cunt. As if you can pretend you’re still in control of the situation. Like you ever were.

His hands find your waist, thumbs brushing slow, teasing circles over your ribs. The heat of his palms sears through the fabric of your top, burning away the resistance you were clinging to.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he breathes, lips dragging along the shell of your ear. “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

You should. But you can’t.

Your fingers fidget with the folder, aching to grab hold of him and pull him closer. You let out a shaky sigh, your resolve finally crumbling to dust.

You really are a weak bitch.

Javier pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression knowing—victorious.

The folder falls from your hands and to the floor as you grab him by the tie, yanking him down, crushing your mouth to his in a kiss that is nothing short of desperate, full of frustration, hunger and irritation.

Javier groans into it, gratified, his grip tightening on you as he presses you harder against the door, molding his body against yours. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming and demanding, and you let him, moaning into the kiss, your nails scraping against the back of his neck as his hands start to wander.

You were always going to give in and you both knew it.

You don’t even remember when his hands started working at the buttons of your shirt, but you feel the fabric coming undone, feel the cool air chilling you as he exposes your chest. His lips chase the newly exposed skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the slope of your neck, trailing lower… lower…

You gasp when he undoes your bra’s front clasp, his fingers ghosting over the swells of your breasts before he palms them fully, kneading, teasing, thumbing at your nipples then tugging them until you’re pathetically whimpering

“Mmmm,” you utter, your head tipping back against the door when his lips wrap around the aching peak and he sucks.

Javier chuckles against your skin.“Told you I’d make you feel good.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair, yanking his mouth back to yours, swallowing any other egotistic remark he was about to make. 

You feel the hard line of his thick cock straining in his slacks as he grinds against you like a rutting dog, his hips rolling in slow, instinctive motions that have your pussy clenching around nothing.

Maybe resisting him was always a losing game. 

It’s not like you’re drowning in offers elsewhere, and hell, you should own the fact that a man like Javier Peña—arrogant, infuriating, dangerously handsome—wants you more than any of the easy lays he could get with a single phone call.

Your confidence grows, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.

One hand slips from the back of his head, trailing down between your bodies, fingers pressing against the rigid length of him through his pants. You squeeze, applying just enough pressure to make him hiss against your lips before he retaliates, biting your lower lip.

The pain blooms deliciously, sparking something even darker inside you. You reward him with another slow stroke, palming him, feeling his dick throb under your touch.

He flips you around quickly after that, pressing you hard against the door, your cheek and tits flattened against the cool surface.

A startled whimper escapes you, but he doesn’t give a damn, too lost in his own haze of desire as he works the button and zipper of your pants.

You quit dressing in cute skirts and delicate blouses to work. You weren’t about to continue to be an office fantasy or easy target for sexist bullshit.

But even in your practical wear and stoic demeanor, you knew damn well these men would find any way to sexualize you regardless. And they’ve proved your point plenty of times.

However, all of your carefully constructed defenses and feminist arguments about power and autonomy crumble the moment Javier Peña drops to his fucking knees behind you.

Your breath stutters, eyes widening as you try to push back against the door, a weak attempt at stopping him—but his grip is firm, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as he tugs your pants down, his fingers skimming the sensitive skin behind your knees, making your back arch.

His calloused palms knead into the soft flesh of your thighs, gripping handfuls of your ass like he can’t decide whether he wants to spread you wider or keep you all to himself.

He does both—squeezing, parting you open just enough to make your pussy feel completely exposed, heat licking at her like a slow burn, anticipation curling around your clit.

“Javi—” His name barely leaves your lips before you suck in a sharp breath, body jolting as the wet heat of his mouth presses against the thin fabric of your panties.

Oh shit.

The damp lace does little to shield you from the deliberate drag of his tongue as he licks a slow stripe over the barrier, teasing, tasting, promising you things that make your head spin.

A moan slithers its way up your throat before you can stop it, your fingers twitching against the door as your knees threaten to buckle.

It’s such a foreign feeling.

“Nervous?” he asks, his voice dark, amused, but also curious.

You swallow hard, blinking rapidly against the overwhelming sensation of it all. No one’s ever done this to you before. No one’s ever wanted to. And yet, here’s Javier, on his knees in this dingy basement like this is what he was made to do.

“Just—” You suck in a breath. Fucking hell this is so embarrassing. “No one’s ever…” Your cheeks get hot, making you want to crawl inside yourself.

He stills for a moment, as if letting your words sink in, your panties now pulled down around your ankles. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, at the realization that he’d be the first to eat your pussy. His fingers flex, digging into the plush curve of your ass. “That just makes me want to ruin you even more.”

And then he does.

His mouth is everywhere all at once—tongue eagerly dragging through your folds, circling your clit dexterously and it’s a miracle you don’t melt entirely then and there.

His aquiline nose notches between your cheeks and the pressure makes you yelp in surprise.

Your fingers claw at the door like a rabid animal, trying to find something to hold onto, something to ground you as Javier devours your cunt.

He works you open by lapping thirstily and sucking on your wet flesh, groaning against you like he can’t get enough.

It’s otherworldly, a kind of pleasure so overwhelming that frustration bubbles up inside you. Why the fuck has no man ever done this for you before?

Your hips jerk when his tongue slides inside your hole, his mustache scraping against your soaked skin, his nose pressing against your asshole.

The contrast of soft and rough, teasing and taking, has you whining loudly, your forehead pressing against the cool wood as your eyes close tight.

The tension in your stomach twists tighter, hotter, tears spilling from your waterline as he sucks your clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue until your knees finally do give out but he holds you steady, keeping you from falling as you hit the wall of your orgasm. 

“Oh my god!” The words spill from you in a breathless, wrecked moan, your body pulsing, shuddering, before slumping as pleasure melts into boneless relief.

He takes his time with you, his mouth slowing to match your come down, his tongue kitten licking at your oversensitive sex like he relishes the taste of you.

He presses one last, open-mouthed kiss to your clit before pulling away.

His whispers are hushed, sweet words murmured against your trembling thighs until he stands, rising up behind you, his broad frame looming over yours.

You feel him—his chest, his shoulders—so solid and manly, pressing against your back. You’re still panting, skin heated, body humming, when you finally turn your head to look at him.

Javier Peña has never looked hotter in his goddamn life.

“Hard to believe no one’s ever tasted you, baby. Sabes tan dulce.” The praise sends a violent shudder straight to your freshly ate cunt.

He’s quickly working his belt open, the soft clink of metal making your thighs quiver in anticipation.

He fists his cock, stroking himself languidly, dragging his palm over the thick, velvety skin before his fingers dip between your legs, gathering the slick arousal dripping from your pussy.

Thankfully the door is thick enough to muffle the desperate, broken moans spilling from your lips, and that this basement is hardly ever visited—because the last thing you need is an audience for this shameful, filthy indulgence.

Yet once the lust settles, that same isolation won’t feel so convenient. You’ll be more than eager to get the fuck away from him.

He smears your sticky wetness over his shaft with a groan, eyes hooded and hungry as he watches your body react to him.

All you can do is continue to writhe, legs shaking as you kick your pants and panties off completely, giving yourself room to spread and bend over for him, expecting him to take you as he did last time.

But before you can brace yourself against the door again, Javi moves fast, flipping you to face him, his large hands cupping the backs of your thighs.

It’s instinct to wrap your legs around his waist, your ankles locking behind him as he hoists you up, pinning you against the door.

His lips crash into yours, hot and urgent, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you flick off his tie and work open the last of his buttons.

His shirt hangs open, exposing his warm, taut chest to your greedy fingers, and you run your hands down the hard planes of his torso, reveling in the contrast of smooth skin and how human he feels despite the sex god aura he emits so effortlessly. 

But it’s his neck that has you dizzy. That sharp jawline, his defined Adam’s apple, how his pulse pounds just beneath the thick muscle.

You make eye contact for a brief, charged second before your mouth latches onto his neck, tongue dragging over salt and cologne, teeth nipping at the tendon.

The way the red light paints him—his bronzed skin darkened by shadow, eyes heavy-lidded with hunger for you, lips slick from your kisses and pussy—it all makes you dizzy with need.

Javi growls low in his throat, shifting his hold to steady you against the door, angling himself just right before pressing the thick head of his cock against your entrance.

The stretch is immediate, slow and torturous as he sinks into you inch by inch, your walls fluttering around the intrusion of his dick, the burn mixing beautifully with pleasure.

Your jaw falls open, but no sound comes out, only ragged breaths and a strangled whimper as your cunt struggles to accommodate around his girthy cock.

His gaze is locked onto yours, dark and molten, his lips curling at the way you tremble in his hold.

You’d slap the smirk right off his face if your hands weren’t too occupied with digging into his shoulders to keep you sane.

“That’s it, puta madre,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Your pussy feels so fuckin’ good.”

“S-Stop talking and just fuck me,” you breathe as you yank him closer, pressing your tits against his bare chest.

Javier doesn’t need to be told twice.

With a sharp thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, slamming you back against the door, the impact rattling through your bones and knocking the air from your lungs.

The obscene sound of wet skin slapping against skin echoes through the cramped room as he sets an unforgiving yet utterly satisfying pace.

Every stroke of his cock against your walls, every graze of his pelvis against your swollen clit, sends you spiraling higher.

The heat of the red light, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air, the filthy sounds between you—it’s all too much, too good.

His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you right where he wants you as he fucks you hard and deep.

He plants one hand next to your head while the other slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, teasing circles, you break.

Your body seizes, nails raking down his back as your orgasm slams into you, pleasure blinding and unbearable.

Javier groans, hips stuttering as he chases his own release, as he fucks you through your climax. “That’s it. Fuckin’ come for me—mierda, so fuckin’ pretty pinned up on the door like this, fallin’ apart all over this dick—”

“D-Don’t finish inside.” The words spill from your lips between gasps, your foggy mind barely catching up to the reality of what you’re doing.

You thank whatever shred of sanity is left in you for speaking up before it’s too late—because fuck, you almost forgot.

A part of you chastises yourself for even letting it get this far, for not making him wear a condom either time he’s had you.

You know better. You know Javier gets around, that his reputation in bed is just as legendary as his skill with a badge and gun.

He groans, a deep sound of both pleasure and frustration. He wanted to finish inside you. You can tell by the way his thrusts falter, how his fingers dig into your hips a little harder.

The idea of filling you up, of making you take all of him, has him on the edge, his control hanging by a thread.

“Fuck,” he grits out, and suddenly, he’s pulling out of you, his cock slipping free with a wet, lewd squelch that makes your empty walls clench around nothing. Before you can catch your breath, he’s pushing you onto your knees, the roughness making your head spin, your lips parting in surprise.

He takes full advantage.

Javier’s hand grips the back of your neck as he guides himself between your lips, pushing his thick cock into the heat of your mouth with a sharp hiss.

You barely have time to react before he’s thrusting in deep, the heavy weight of him stretching your jaw, his scent overwhelming your senses.

Your hands fly to his thighs, nails digging in as he fucks your mouth the same way he just fucked your pussy: relentless, desperate, filthy.

Your tongue flattens beneath him, taking him as best as you can while he pants above you, his breath ragged, his curses slipping into Spanish as he chases his release.

And then you feel it how he stiffens, the pulse of his cock against your tongue before his salty release spills hot and thick down your throat. Javier groans as he holds you there, making sure you swallow every drop.

“Goddamn baby,” he rasps hoarsely, his fingers easing from your hair as he strokes your cheek, his softening cock still twitching between your lips.

When he finally pulls out, you’re left breathless, your mouth swollen, your body still thrumming with pleasure and exhaustion.

You look up at him, and the sight alone makes your stomach flip—his chest rising and falling, his shirt completely undone, his tie hanging loosely around his neck,  hair falling in front of his face and gaze hooded and dark as he stares down at you.

He looks wrecked and you’re the reason why.

The fog of lust dissipates all at once, replaced by a feeling akin to cold water washing over you. Your lips are swollen, your knees ache from the hard floor, the unmistakable taste of him lingers on your tongue, and your pussy is sticky with the remnants of his pleasure.

You rise quickly with a sharp breath, ignoring the way your thighs still tremble. He offers a hand, fingers curled in that lazy, confident way that suggests he thinks you’ll take it.

You don’t.

Instead, you swat it away, reaching for your discarded clothes with sharp, jerky movements, yanking your panties up, stepping into your pants, and shoving your feet into your shoes without grace.

Every button fastened, every piece of fabric back in place feels like reclaiming a part of yourself, like stitching together the resolve that had crumbled the second he put his mouth on you.

You allow yourself moments of weakness—you’re only human, and he’s too good of a fuck to deny. But moving forward, you’ll have to be more resolute.

This? This was a mistake you can’t afford to keep making. The last thing you want is for him to think he has an in with you just because he’s made you see stars with his dick… and tongue… and fingers. Goddamnit. 

“You gonna keep this little act up,” he drawls, redressed himself, half ass fixing his belt, “or am I gonna have to chase you down just to get you to fuck me again?”

You snort, shaking your head as you adjust your bra and start buttoning your blouse. “You do realize how predatory that sounds, right?”

He just smirks, unfazed, and leans against the desk nearby as if he’s lounging. “And that whole thing about no one ever going down on you… That true, or were you just trying to get a reaction out of me?”

You ignore him, not about to stroke his already inflated ego by admitting he’s the first and only person to ever taste you so intimately.

Instead, you snatch up the forgotten folder from the floor, shooting him a glare through the red lighting of the room. “Help me find the landline so we can call someone to let us out.”

Javier just chuckles, shaking his head as he finishes tying his tie. “Won’t need to.”

Your eyes narrow. “What?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the spare key.

Your jaw drops. “You had that with you the entire time?”

His only response is a shrug, like it’s no big deal. Which, truth be told, it isn’t. But the realization that this was all orchestrated is enough to make your blood boil. You wonder if Carillo was in on it too. 

Your teeth clench, fingers curling into a fist at your side as he pushes off the nearby table and steps forward, unlocking the door with an infuriating lack of urgency.

He swings it open, then leans against the frame, motioning for you to go first with an exaggerated flourish.

“After you.”

You consider punching him, it had felt so damn good doing it last time. You don’t, however, instead storming past him, ignoring the way your skin still hums where he touched you, ignoring the smug chuckle that follows you out into the hallway.

You’ll let this go, you have to if not it’ll prick at you until you snap. You really don’t know how many more crash outs you have left in you before you do something more reckless than fucking the DEA agent.

Though one thing becomes sparkling clear in this moment—you’re going to have to find a way to resist Javier Peña. Even if he’s dead set on making that impossible.

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

the sound of the shower running is loud while you gently rub at your scalp with shampoo, enjoying the hot thick steam that fills the bathroom and clouds your vision.

you don't hear the soft click of a tripod leg locking in place behind you. you definitely don't see the red light blinking from the vanity counter.

but he does.

joel's behind the camera first. watching through the screen, cock already straining in his jeans as he sees you: naked, slick, vulnerable. he adjusts the frame, zooms in on your back just a little to accentuate the curve of your hips and the way the water clings to your wet skin.

he moves.

fast.

a hand over your mouth. a hard body pinning you to the glass.

"you like showerin' with the door open, baby?" his voice rasps in your ear. "you wanted someone to come in and take what's theirs?"

you scream. muffled. thrashing.

he makes sure to angle your body towards the lens.

"smile for the camera," he growls. "wanna make sure you remember this."

he bends you over, water still raining down on you both. you catch a glimpse of the blinking red light on the counter and you fucking moan. eyes wide, heart pounding.

"yeah, you see it now," he chuckles, lining up behind you. "gonna play this back and watch you get ruined all over again. like the good fucking slut you are."

he enters your tight hole in one brutal thrust, giving you no time to adjust to his enormous, overwhelming girth. he is so thick you're worried he may split you apart.

but he feels so good. stretching you so painfully addicting, you can't help but replace the screams with pornographic moans and yelps entirely. eyes rolling in the back of your skull as your mind goes blank and all you can do is feel how he is impaling you on his cock from behind.

he fucks you like an animal. each thrust, each slap of skin, each broken sob into the tile meant for the camera. he drags his fingers down your spine.

"look at that arch. all for me. goddamn."

your body's twitching from overstimulation, close to collapse. and he knows it. one hand grabs your boob roughly, pinching the sensitive nipple. the other hand grabs your face and forces you to look toward the lens.

"wanna see what you look like when you come for your attacker, slut? huh? you wanna watch yourself beg? 'cause i wanna hear that pretty throat scream until the neighbours wake up n' call the police on us, sweetheart. so why don't you go ahead and fuckin' beg?"

"please, pretty please, sir, wanna cum so hard! wanna cum on your big fuckin' cock, sir. please let me cum… so good… yes, yes, yes!"

he pounds impossibly harder and faster into you and he is so big you swear you can feel him in your throat as he holds a tight grip over your body while he ocasionally spanks your asscheeks roughly until you come. hard. screaming. legs giving out — and he holds you there, pumping you deep and full of his cum, never once blocking the view of the camera.

when it's over, he kills the scene. pulls out gently, turns off the camera.

and suddenly - it's just joel. your joel. your thoughtful, caring husband wrapping a towel around you and kissing your temple.

"you did so good, baby. 'm so proud of you. you hurt anywhere?" he cooes while cradling your face in his hands.

"i'm good, darling. you were perfect," you say with a smile on your face as you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and place a gentle, loving kiss on his lips.

he carries you to the bed after the dries the both of you up with towels.

but the camera comes too.

he props it on the nightstand while he lays you on the bed. dazed and glowing.

"let's watch," he murmurs, crawling over you. already hard again.

"wanna see how gorgerous you look when you're scared for me."

you whimper as the screen lights up. "joel…"

"shh. round two, baby," he says, dragging your thighs apart. "eyes on her."

he runs two fingers through your puffy folds, a smug smile appearing on his face at your tortured whines filling his ears.

And here you are. The first night you're staying at Javi's place. Which is ridiculous, honestly. You've been together for three months and you've never slept over. Never fallen asleep next to him. Never woken up next to him. Hell, nothing between you has ever even happened in a bed. Or on a couch. Or anywhere people usually end up having sex. Which is probably weird. At least a little.

But you just... haven't been ready.

And Javi's never made that a problem. He's never pushed. Never made some passive aggressive comment about waiting. Never acted disappointed. He's just... Javi. Patient. Careful. So fucking considerate it almost hurts. Honestly, you couldn't have picked a safer person to fall in love with. Because that's not the problem. The problem isn't him.

It's you. You trust him. Completely. You just don't trust yourself enough to stand naked in front of a man like Javier Peña. Which is stupid. You know it's stupid. But your brain has somehow convinced itself that Javi probably likes bigger boobs. Or at least normal ones. And yours? Well… not exactly.

The worst part is that you don't even know where the idea came from.

Javi has never said anything. Never hinted at it. Never looked at another woman and made some comment. But he's also never seen you.

And push-up bras deserve an award, honestly. Because they do a hell of a lot of work. Enough that your shirts don't look completely flat.

Enough that maybe he thinks there's more there than there actually is. And what if that's what he expects? What if he sees you without one and realizes you basically lied? Jesus.

And now you're standing in his shower. Which means your options are becoming very limited. You can't exactly walk out there and say: "Thanks for the shower, I'm heading home now."

The man would think you've completely lost it.

And honestly? You don't want to leave. You want to know what it's like to sleep next to him. What it's feels like when he pulls you closer in the middle of the night. You want to wake up beside him. And maybe… maybe you're finally ready for sex too.

Not because Javi wants it. God, no. He's never pressured you. Not once. Never complained. Never acted frustrated. But three months is still three months.

And you're not exactly a nun. At this point you're getting pretty tired of lying in your own bed at night with your hand between your thighs pretending it's him touching you.

He's your boyfriend. You want him. Jesus, you need him. More than you've ever wanted anyone.

People at work have started making jokes. About how neither of you ever leaves together. About how you act like two teenagers. And honestly? They're not completely wrong.

Mostly because you've spent the last three months making sure Javi never has a reason to see you without a bra.

Because if he sees. If he realizes. If he…

You don't know. You never really planned that far ahead. You just kept putting it off. One day at a time.

You've known him for almost a year now. Ever since the transfer from Cartagena. At first it was just beers after work. Tacos. Murphy and Trujillo tagging along. Then somehow it became just the two of you. Then dates. Then him.

And now you're here. You're in love with him. He's in love with you. And you've spent months avoiding anything that feels too close. No sleepovers. No mornings together. No waking up in each other's beds. But tonight was supposed to be different.

Because Javi has waited. He's been patient. Though every now and then you've caught something in his face. Some tiny moment where he almost looks worried. Like maybe he's afraid you don't want him. Like maybe he thinks he isn't enough.

God. If he only knew.

Because it's exactly the opposite. You're terrified that you won't be enough for him. Those thoughts won't leave you alone while you stand under the hot water.

You know he's sitting out there in the living room waiting for his turn to shower. He didn't make a single joke about joining you. Didn't ask to wash your back. Didn't say anything remotely dirty when you told him outside the office earlier that you wanted to go home with him tonight. His eyes just lit up. Like you'd given him the best news he'd heard all week.

And honestly? For a little while, that made you forget all of this.

Almost. Because even now. Even after three months. Even with Javi being the most patient man on the planet. You're still scared. You look down at your chest. At the part of your body that God apparently forgot about. Your eyes sting. You could honestly cry.

And just as you reach for the shampoo, the bathroom door opens. The shower glass is so fogged up there's no way Javi can actually see anything. Still, you notice one thing immediately.

He's standing there with his back to you. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to just walk in." He clears his throat. "I realized I never gave you a towel. And you don't know where I keep them. Didn't really wanna leave you wandering around my apartment naked trying to find one." You can practically hear him rubbing the back of his neck. "They're in the dresser in my room, so... anyway. I brought one."

And that's it. No jokes. No trying to peek. No, hey, mind if I join you? Just Javi being Javi. You can already tell he's about to leave.

And suddenly you really don't want him to. Because you've been thinking about this all day. Since the moment you told him after work that you wanted to go home with him. That no matter what happened tonight, you wanted to be here. With him. Even if everything went wrong. Even if this somehow became the last night you ever spent together. You need this. God. You need him.

"Javi." Your voice barely comes out.

He stops.

"Wait." You can feel your heartbeat everywhere. Your chest. Your throat. Your stomach. You can't keep doing this. You can't keep waiting. Not anymore. "Could you..." Your throat feels dry. "Could you wash my back?" Jesus Christ. That sounds so stupid.

But Javi goes completely quiet. You can feel it, even through the glass. "You mean that?" His voice is soft. Careful. Like he's giving you an out. Like he needs to know this is really what you want.

"I do." Your voice sounds stronger this time. More certain. And apparently that's enough.

Through the steam you watch him undo his shirt. One button. Then another. The shirt hits the floor. His belt. His zipper. The sound of the buckle hitting the tile. And then the rest.

Heat curls low in your stomach. Fuck. You're about to see him naked. Actually naked. And for a few seconds that's enough to make you forget that he's about to see you too. Your entire body feels warm. Your stomach flips. Your thighs press together. The thought alone is enough.

The water keeps running. You can hear it hitting the tile. But mostly you hear your own heart. Honestly, you're pretty sure Javi can hear it too.

A second later the shower door slides open.

Your arms cross over your chest before you even think about it. Automatic. You know he's going to see eventually. You know that. But maybe it doesn't have to be the first thing.

Maybe if he looks somewhere else first. Maybe if…

Your thoughts disappear the second he steps inside. He's completely naked.

And Jesus. It suddenly takes every bit of self-control you have not to look down.

Because he's looking at you. Your face. Your eyes. Only your eyes. Not your chest. Not your body. Just you.

And honestly, if there's anybody losing their mind in this shower right now, it's definitely you.

If Javi is just as affected, he's hiding it way better.

The shower isn't exactly tiny, but it definitely wasn't made for two people either.

When he reaches behind himself to pull the door shut, he has to step closer. His skin brushes yours. Barely. But it's enough.

Your entire body practically shorts out. "Uh... right. My back." Jesus. You can barely get the words out. Before your brain has a chance to change its mind, you turn around. Too fast. Like you're running. Maybe from him. Maybe from yourself. Maybe from the fact that all he's done so far is stand next to you and you're already halfway to climbing him.

Because this is torture. You want to look at him. Really look at him. Unfortunately, your peripheral vision can only do so much. And your insecurities win again.

Javi doesn't seem bothered by it, though. You hear him squeeze the shampoo bottle behind you. It makes the dumbest little fart noise as the last bit of shampoo comes out.

The silence lasts about two seconds. And then you laugh. Actually laugh.

"Jesus," Javi mutters behind you. "Like a five-year-old." You can hear the smile in his voice.

And honestly? Thank God. The stupid bottle. His teasing. The fact that he still sounds completely normal. It pulls you out of your own head for the first time all night.

For a few seconds you're not thinking about your chest. You're thinking about him. And then you're not really thinking at all.

His hands settle on your shoulders. Big hands. Warm hands. He works the shampoo into your skin slowly, like he's got all the time in the world. His thumbs move across your shoulders, down your neck, over your back. There's nothing rushed about him. Nothing impatient. Every touch feels deliberate.

When he reaches your hips, you stop breathing. "Can I?"

You know exactly what he means. You nod. "Mhm."

His hands slide lower. Over your ass. Slowly spreading the soap over your skin.

Your eyes close. And somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, you lean back into his hands.

Javi takes that as his answer. One of his hands squeezes your ass gently.

The sound that leaves you is embarrassingly obvious. At this point? You don't care anymore. You're tired of pretending. Tired of acting patient. Tired of going home every night and lying awake thinking about him. Tired of squeezing your thighs together and wishing it was his hands instead of your own. You need him. You've needed him for weeks.

You still can't make yourself turn around, though. Instead you lean against him. Your back against his chest. Your weight against his body.

And then you feel him. Hard against your ass.

And oh. Oh…!

Well. Apparently you're not the only person in this shower who's been trying very hard to behave.

His hands slide back up your hips. Across your stomach.

You tense immediately. Too close. Way too close.

"Hey." His voice is right next to your ear. "Relax."

You feel his breath against your skin. Then his lips. Little kisses. Your neck. Your shoulder. The side of your throat. One after another.

His hands stay exactly where they are. Resting against your stomach. Not moving higher. Doesn't even try. Almost like he's giving you time. Like he wants you to get used to him first.

Your head eventually falls back against his chest. He's warm. Solid. And the hard length pressed against your ass is making it almost impossible to think straight.

For a little while, you stop thinking about everything. Your body. Your chest. Your fears. Everything. Until you suddenly realize you don't know what to do with your hands. And before you can stop yourself, your arms cross over your chest again. Subtle. At least you think it's subtle.

You feel Javi go still behind you. "Hey. What's wrong?"

You hesitate. Shit. "Uh... nothing. Nothing's wrong." You let out a nervous laugh, but even to you it sounds fake.

"Hey..." Javi says quietly. "If you're nervous, we don't have to do anything. We can just shower and go to bed. I... I don't want you to think I'm pushing you into this, and if I did, then–"

"No." You cut him off. "You didn't. You're not pushing me. You never have."

"Okay." His voice stays soft. "But something's bothering you, huh?"

"Maybe..." Your arms tighten around your chest, like if you hold yourself hard enough you might somehow disappear. God. Everything was going so well. And now you're ruining it. At least that's what your brain keeps telling you.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Javi asks quietly. He doesn't move. Doesn't touch you. It's almost like he's afraid that if he does, you'll bolt.

"I... I don't know, Javi." Your throat burns. This is so embarrassing. You're a grown woman. Not some teenage girl having a crisis in a locker room.

"Okay." His answer comes immediately. "You don't have to." You feel him shift slightly behind you. "I can finish washing your back and we can just go to bed. We can talk. Watch TV. Sleep. Whatever you want." God. He's so fucking gentle.

And suddenly you realize you can't do this anymore. You can't keep carrying this around. It's now or never. "Javi, it's not that I don't want..." You swallow. "You. Or... any of this." You close your eyes. "It's the opposite." Your voice comes out shaky. "I want this. I want you. God, I want you so much that I honestly can't imagine another day of pretending I don't."

Javi doesn't interrupt. He just listens. Waits.

"It's just..." You take a breath. "I'm scared."

"Of what, baby?"

You almost can't say it. "That you won't like me."

He doesn't answer right away.

"That..." You laugh nervously. "That I'm not really like the women you've been with before."

A small pause. "Well, that's good." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Because I don't want those women. I want you."

"No, you don't get it." Your eyes sting. "I..." God. Why is this so hard? "I have small boobs. Like… really small." The words come out so quietly you almost don't hear them yourself.

For a few seconds there's nothing except the sound of the water.

Then Javi's hands gently squeeze your sides. "Baby..." His voice sounds genuinely confused. "You really thought I wouldn't want you because of your boobs?"

"No, I..."

Javi is quiet for a second. "Could you do something for me? But only if you want to."

You wait.

"Turn around."

Your stomach drops.

"You can keep your arms where they are. I don't care." His voice stays soft. "I just... I wanna see your face." And somehow that makes it easier. Because he doesn't sound disappointed. He doesn't sound upset. He definitely doesn't sound like a man who's about to walk out of this shower and never look at you again.

So you turn around. Slowly. Your arms stay crossed over your chest. You still can't do that part.

Javi doesn't even look down. Not once. His eyes stay on yours. "Hey." His voice is quiet. "I need you to listen to me for a second."

You nod.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be right now."

Your throat tightens. "Javi–"

"No. Let me finish." He takes a breath. "I don't care about any of that."

"But maybe you think–"

"What?"

"My bras." You immediately want to die. "They make them look bigger and I just..." Your voice cracks. "I thought maybe that's what you expected and–"

Javi reaches up and cups your face. And then he kisses you. No speech. No grand declaration. Just his mouth on yours. Slow. Warm. Patient. Like he's trying to shut up every horrible thought you've had about yourself for the past three months.

You lose track of time. His hand slips into your hair. Your bodies press together. And at some point, without even realizing it, your arms fall away from your chest. You don't notice.

Javi doesn't say anything. Doesn't look down. Doesn't react. He just keeps kissing you.

And honestly? That might be what finally breaks your heart.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. "Do you believe me now?"

Your voice sounds rough. "I always believed you."

"Then what's going on?"

You look down. "I just thought..." God. This sounds stupid. "I thought maybe I wouldn't be enough."

Javi stares at you. And then: "You really thought I was gonna see your boobs and leave?"

You almost laugh. Almost cry. Maybe both. "I don't know."

"Jesus, baby. You've been worrying about this the whole time?"

You nod.

He looks genuinely sad. Not disappointed. Not awkward. Just sad that you've spent months hurting yourself over something that means absolutely nothing to him. "Look at me."

You do.

"You're beautiful."

You open your mouth.

"No." He shakes his head. "I'm serious." His thumb brushes your cheek. "I don't give a shit if they're big."

Your eyes fill immediately.

"I want you. That's it."

The tears finally come. Not because you're hurt. Because you're tired. Because you've spent months carrying this around by yourself.

Javi kisses your forehead. "Wish you could see what I see."

After a minute you step back. You let him look. Really look. And for the first time in your life, you don't feel exposed. You don't feel judged. You don't feel small.

Javi's eyes move over you slowly. No surprise. No disappointment. Nothing. Then he looks back up. "See?" You laugh quietly.

And finally you let yourself look too. His chest. His stomach. And then… his dick. Well. At least one thing in this shower definitely isn't small. The laugh slips out before you can stop it.

Javi catches it immediately. His eyebrow lifts. "What?"

Your face burns. "Nothing."

His eyes narrow. "That's a lie."

You glance down again.

He follows your eyes. And suddenly he laughs too. "Well." He shrugs. "I guess that's proof."

"Proof of what?"

A little smile appears. "That I like you."

You lick your lips. Then you take his hand.

Javi immediately looks at you, almost questioning.

You know him. You know exactly what he'd do after everything you've just told him. He'd give you space. He'd ask if you're sure. Probably ten times. He'd spend the next half hour worrying about crossing a line.

So you do it for him. You place his hand against your breast.

His fingers barely move at first. Like he's waiting for you to pull away.

You don't.

His hand closes around your breast gently. And Jesus. The look on his face. "Mhm. You're gonna be the death of me." His thumb brushes over your nipple, giving it a small squeeze.

The sound that leaves you is embarrassingly loud. Heat rolls through your body all over again. And honestly? You feel good. Really good.

Because he's standing here hard as hell. Because he's touching the thing you've spent months hating. Because he looks at you like he can't believe you ever thought he wouldn't want this.

Maybe the insecurity isn't gone. Maybe tomorrow it'll still be there. But right now? Right now all you can think about is him.

The man standing naked in front of you. The man whose hand is on your breast. The man who's looking at you like you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen. And God. He means it.

A few minutes later your legs are wrapped around his waist. His hands are under your thighs, holding you up against the cold tile while he kisses you hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

And suddenly none of it feels scary anymore. Not the shower. Not the sex. Not being naked. Nothing. Because it's him. It's always been him.

He pushes into you and both of you gasp. Jesus. He’s really big.

"Fuck," Javi breathes against your neck. His forehead falls against yours. He gives you a second. Another. His fingers dig into your thighs. "You okay?"

You nod. To be honest, his dick fills you up so perfectly that you're more than okay.

He kisses you. Then he starts moving. Slow at first. Almost careful. Like he's still trying to convince himself this is actually happening. His mouth finds your neck. Your shoulder. Your chest. And when his lips touch your breasts, the same breasts you've spent months hiding from him, something inside you almost breaks.

Because he kisses them like he loves them. Like they're something precious. Like he genuinely cannot understand how you ever thought he wouldn't want them.

He groans against your skin. His hips lose their rhythm for a second. And every little sound he makes heals something you didn't even realize was broken.

By the time your orgasm hits, you're shaking against him. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your whole body goes weak.

Javi comes a moment later with a low groan against your throat, his arms tightening around you as he buries himself as deep as he can.

And afterward, with the water still running around you and his forehead resting against yours, you realize something.

This wasn't the thing you were afraid of. You were never afraid of him. You were only afraid that he wouldn't want you.

And being here now, with him still holding you like he never plans to let go, that fear suddenly feels very, very far away.

Thank you so much for reading ♡

💌 @idknananchimaybe @pascalispunktexas @mothmanuwu @pascalispunkbr @reasonablyluminousquill @justmasblack @indiegirlunited @saralovesjoelmiller @picketniffler @canonisoptional @katyispunk @daltoncharm @kirsteng42 @borinquenasoy @cuteanimalmama @negramurguera @senoratess @misstokyo7love @suestormnotcheatingversion @lizette50 @grxnde-dwt @harriedandharassed @somedayheaven @ningaispunk @ladyofmidlo72 @bardot49 @scarlettval2 @goonersquad101 @loveoverpride @fckyeahsaltandpeppercurls

Louis meows at your feet, winding through your legs as you water the plants that thrive in the kitchen. 

“Oh no you don’t, you already ate, big man.” He yowls in protest, but you ignore him. 

The jingle of keys hits your ears before his form fills the kitchen. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” He slips his jacket on, taps his pockets to make sure he has everything he needs. “Just a quick job, I’ll grab dinner on the way back home.” 

You smile into the kiss he gives you, squeal at the spank he lands before winking. He tuts at Louis and moves towards the door. 

“I love you.” He calls out. 

“I love you too!” 

-

He’s tired, achy from the job as he walks into the elevator. The hot shower he’ll take after dinner will be amazing. He can almost feel it, the loosening of his muscles, the warmth of her hands, he can’t help but smile as he finally opens the door to their apartment. 

“Sorry I’m late, took a little longer than I thought but the food is hot.” He sets the paper bags down, takes the containers out one by one and sets them on the counter. “They really loaded us up, we’ll have food for a few days.” he calls out. He groans reaching for two plates, loads them both up and sets the table. 

“Baby?” He calls for her again, “Come eat while it’s hot–” He sets the cutlery down beside the steaming plates. He frowns when she still doesn’t answer him. 

He finds her on the floor of their bedroom, clutching at the phone, staring into the empty air. 

“Baby? What's wrong?” Louis is curled up beside her knee, the phone beeps in her hands. 

“He’s dead…” Her eyes don’t move, they stare, unfocused, lost. She swallows thickly, drops the phone and finally looks up at him. “My dad is dead.” 

His stomach sinks, just as he sinks down to her level. She looks so young, so lost it breaks his heart. 

“Oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He takes the receiver from her hands, hangs it up and then takes her in his arms. He can feel how stiff she is and he understands, the shock of the news locks you in place. He remembers how he felt the day his mom went, the haze of it, the way the earth seemed to crumble under his feet. He’d been rudderless, lost for months, maybe years. 

“I don’t–I—” she licks her lips, “I haven’t even seen…” she mumbles, voice little, far away. He holds her tightly, presses his lips to her temple, ignores the pain in his back and rocks her gently. 

She pushes away from him for a moment, takes a deep breath and lets out a deep sigh. 

“I have to plan a funeral, and sell the house. God, I don’t even know how to plan a funeral.” She lets out a laugh, a sad, empty sound he recognizes only too well. 

“We can do it together.” He rubs her back, lets her work through the shock. Whatever she needs, he’ll do. After all, he’s done it before. 

-

It’s hard to deal with the numbness, it bleeds into everything. The shower feels like nothing, even though you can see the steam in the air, you can see it coming off your skin when Clint turns the water off. He says something, but you don’t quite catch it.

“Sorry, what?” He repeats himself, but you miss it again. Your ears are ringing, your body feels slow. He doesn’t get upset, doesn’t bother repeating himself. Instead he wraps the towel around your body, guides you gently into the bedroom and dresses you in your pajamas, like some lifesize doll. 

You sit on the bed, waiting, like a doll, to be moved and placed, to be made to walk and talk and do whatever it is you make dolls do. 

He lifts you softly by the arm, and guides you again to the kitchen. A bowl of food is set down in front of you. He says something again, this time you can guess what it is. It tastes like nothing. It feels like nothing, but you finish it anyway. 

He clears away the bowl when you’re done, and still, you just sit there. Louis jumps up onto your lap, you pet him absentmindedly, he can tell somethings wrong, you know it in your bones.

It feels like time doesn’t pass, nothing moves, until he guides you to the bathroom; until he helps you brush your teeth and tucks you into bed. He talks in the dark, and this time you catch a lot of it. 

Soft, scarred hands hold you close, his thumb wipes away tears you hadn’t realized were falling. His lips are dry, and soft on your forehead. 

“Whatever you need, anything at all.” He whispers, you nod. 

-

Things feel weird when you wake up, you’re somehow more tired than you’ve ever been, despite the time. He’d let you sleep in much later than you should have, given everything that had to be done. Louis is still there, your feline shadow, purring so hard you can feel it through the blankets.

You yawn as you dress, blindly reaching for clothes you don’t even care about. Clint is there in the kitchen when you emerge, he’s pouring you coffee, pressing it into your hands with a kiss. 

“I slept too long.” You drink it, barely tasting. 

“You needed it.” With another kiss to your forehead, he urges you to eat the breakfast he’d made. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“I know, but you should eat anyway.”

You don’t want to, you barely want the coffee in your hands, you’re drinking it more or less out of habit. You don’t argue with him though. 

“I don’t know what to do.” You pick at your toast, rip it into little bits and spread them around your plate.

“I know.” There’s a patient expression on his face, a calmness that you try to tap into but it isn’t calm you feel, it’s emptiness. 

“What do I do?” Something inside you cracks. Any hope you may have harboured of reconciling, or maybe fixing things, however small and unrealistic is gone. All potential for a healthy relationship with your father one day, extinguished. The sound of Clint’s chair brings your head up and then he’s there, scooping you up into a tight hug. 

-

Time doesn’t feel real. The moments are disjointed and chopped up. Peaceful nights with the love of your life, in your perfect apartment, a phone call, preparations for a funeral, talking with the bank. Clint had taken care of it all. He’d made the hard calls, he’d even gone through your dads clothes and picked the suit he’d be buried in. 

People you know, and people you don’t give you their condolences. They shake your hand, or wrap an arm around your shoulder, they apologize for your loss. You nod along. When did you get here? Clint stands just behind you, grounding you by extension. You look to him every once in a while for a lifeline he so lovingly provides. 

The mass feels both long, and short. A whole life boiled down to an hour. How you read the eulogy, how you wrote one you’ll never know. 

You don’t suppose any of it matters now. It’s done, and your father is in the ground. And you are, for all intents and purposes, an orphan.

-

The house sold, shockingly enough. And even more shocking, it had sold for more than you’d thought it was worth. Enough to pay the balance of the mortgage, enough to pay off your father’s outstanding debts as well as set you up with a decent little nest egg. Not that it mattered. It didn’t feel like anything really. Nothing did in the weeks after. 

It was still a blur; the funeral, packing up the house, settling back into your routine. Your boss at the video store had been sweet, and had given you all the time you needed to process and deal with the practical matters of a death. 

Even a couple of weeks after the actual death, time still feels weird, disjointed and unconnected. The days are like yarn, a spool of string crisscrossing through the apartment like a spiderweb. Other feelings have woven themselves through the fabric of grief. There is the main thread, the devastation of losing a parent; your only parent, as shitty as he was. Then there’s the loneliness of it all, the solitude of being all alone in the world, Clint not included. These things you could understand and identify, these feelings you could deal with.

The relief was harder. 

It had crept in while cleaning out all of the crap he’d hoarded, a little thought, a sigh of relief at never having to deal with any of his bullshit ever again. It had taken the wind out of you, needled at the space between your ribs enough to pull you out of his bedroom and into the kitchen in a cold sweat. 

That relief floods you again while in bed. Clint, the saint that he is, walks into the dimly lit bedroom with a steaming cup of chamomile. 

“I put a little bit of honey in it for you, but I can add more if it’s not sweet enough.” He sets it down on your nightstand, pressing his lips to your forehead and the love you have for him swells so suddenly. He’s been so caring, so patient and understanding, truly a saving grace. 

“Thank you babe.” He winks, “Get into bed with me.” 

“I will, let me just lock up.” 

You think about what your life might have been like had he never come into it. Where would you be right now? Probably sitting in your old room, dissolving in your own distorted, lonely world. The tea steams while you wait, warming your hands. It’s perfect, just how you knew it would be. 

He groans when he finally gets into the bed, tired no doubt from everything he’s been doing in the time since the phone call. You cuddle up to him, rest your head on his chest and relish the steady sound of his heart beating. You sigh, already calming down significantly. His heartbeat regulates your own, your breathing syncs up with his. 

“How you holding up Princess?” His hand squeezes your arm and it’s almost too much to take, how much you love this man. 

“I’m only coherent because of you.” You admit, his eyes are already on yours when you crane your neck to look at him. 

“I don’t know if that’s true, pretty baby.” 

“I do, I would probably still be dealing with the house, probably would have let the funeral home talk me into something insane–you did everything, Clint. You did it all, dealt with all of the bullshit, I don’t even know how to thank you for that.” He shakes his head, frowning. 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything, I did what you needed me to do and that’s it. There’s no doubt in my mind you’d do the same for me.” He cups your cheek, breathing the words onto your face and into your skin. You can’t really speak, it’s all too big. The loss, the period at the end of that chapter, the recurring realization that you have no one left but him. 

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts.” He kisses your cheeks, tastes the tears fresh from the source. It’s not just the grief that makes you cry, it’s everything. It’s the warmth of the man who holds you so tightly, loves you so deeply. It’s the security you have in this aspect of your life at least, the knowledge that he’s with you through it, warts and all. 

“I-” You take in a deep gasp, “It’s just everything,” you choke out the words, throat aching through the tears. Your body is so sore from crying, from clenching up tight, making yourself small, maybe the sadness wouldn't fit if you were smaller. 

“I know baby, it’s a lot to deal with, and it’s so fucking fresh.” He squeezes tighter, keeping you together, mending more cracks in the veneer of you. You cling to him, desperate to feel anything but this blinding emptiness, this inescapable weight that’s pinned you down in the dirt. 

“I just want to forget.” You hiccup into his neck. He smells like the bodywash you bought him, like his own clean sweat, like home and love and the promise of a million nights cuddled together in bed. 

“I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but the pain won’t be this bad forever. Eventually, with time, you will feel like yourself again. It’ll be a little different but you’ll adjust and you’ll laugh, you’ll feel happy again. I promise you.” He holds your face in his hands, holds your heart there too. Your body blooms for him, unexpectedly, shockingly, annoyingly. 

You surge forward and press your mouth to his, a filthy kiss that he entertains for a moment before softly, but firmly pulling back. 

“Baby–”

“I need it.” You surge forward again, so hard that your teeth and his clink together. It hurts but the pain is good, his tongue is better. With a force you can barely understand, you crawl onto him, straddle him in your quiet bedroom and take the kiss. For a few seconds he lets you, your madness infects him–that and the fact that it’s been weeks since you’ve been intimate with everything going on. 

He groans when you bite his ear. 

“Baby, baby wait–” He speaks, but his hands grab at the meat of your thighs, slip under your panties to hold onto your ass. 

He says your name, loud enough that it shocks you into stopping. 

“Princess, we don’t have to do this right now.” He cups your face again, eyes soft despite how fucking hard his cock is underneath you. “I don’t want you to do this just because you think it’ll fix things, it won’t take the pain away. When we’re done he’ll still be gone.” It’s a harsh point, anger and grief swell again at the thought, at the reminder.

“I don’t say this to hurt you, I just want you to understand that nothing you do will fix anything. You have to sit with it.” You know he means well, you know what he says, he says out of love but that’s exactly what you need, you need his love, you need to be reminded that good feelings still exist, that this emptiness and loss won’t fill every single part of you forever.

“I’m not trying to fix anything, and I know I won’t forget, I just want to feel something other than this.” You hate that a tear falls, hate that you can’t even ask him to fuck you without crying about your dead dad. He says nothing for a long moment, the seconds collect and you think he might deny you despite how badly you need this from him now. 

Wordlessly he moves, gets you on your back and settles between your legs. 

His kiss is soft, but full of everything that you share. It’s sweeter than yours, softer than you need but he senses it; slants his head and licks into your mouth deep enough to pull a moan from somewhere in your throat. It's everything a kiss should be, passionate enough to warm the apples of your cheeks and chase away everything but the feel of it.

The layers separating him from you are a mere suggestion, every vein, every ridge of him only unravels your arousal, soaks into the gusset of your panties and soon, the crotch of his bottoms. The slip of it is so fucking good it makes you want to laugh. 

“Fuck me.” You pant into his ear. It will help you think, it’ll help me forget for a little bit, just a little bit.

He kisses you for a long time, excites you to the point of madness with his tongue and the bulk of him pressing against your soaked core, with his fingers creeping under your shirt and across your nipples. 

“I want your mouth—“ he cuts off your words, groaning with pleasure. He loves when you ask, when you tell him what you want; Clint loves it when you tell him what to do.

It’s a mad scramble the way he surges up and rips your panties down. 

He doesn’t even stop to strip himself before diving in, eyes focused, hands heavy. He holds you close to his mouth, a predator with freshly caught prey and it’s everything you need. 

He groans into your skin, slipping his tongue as deep as he can before honing in on your clit. You sigh, smiling at how fucking good he makes it. This is it, this is perfect. It makes you almost giddy, makes you laugh like a madwoman.

Your fingers slip through his hair, hold his face closer while you grind onto his tongue.

“Yes, god yeah, keep doing that—“ you bite your lip watching him, “more, I want your fingers too.” He nods, half moaning, half smiling while he continues his great work. He obeys, and two thick fingers slip inside, pressing on that sweet fucking spot. 

“Fuck—yeah baby, yes.” You pant, it’s building so fast, how can anything feel this fucking good with what you’ve gone through? It curdles, the pleasure slips out of your grasp despite how amazing it feels. 

A sob crawls its way out of your throat and his fingers still inside you, his tongue pauses its pilgrimage.

“Baby—“ His voice makes you ache with its softness, “why don’t we—“

“No, no, it’s good I promise, please.” You smile through the tears, urging him to continue. He watches you for a moment, quiet, focused on whether or not you’re serious or just manic. You’re not actually sure which one is real, the pleasure or the insanity, neither of which you could correctly map just now. You wipe away the tears and smile a watery smile. 

He must see something in your eyes that convinces him, he lowers his head and tastes you again. With his fingers continuing their movement, with his tongue gliding over your clit, up and down again and again, it built up quickly. You held onto the feeling, pushed away everything but the hot slip of his tongue 

“Yes, yes—“ you chant, following that current, that perfect tap of his fingers inside you. He groans against you, getting lost in the taste of you and when his other hand slips up to pluck at your nipple. The waves crests and all of the tension that’s been squatting in your neck and shoulders, in your lower back and your jaw all melts away. 

He doesn’t say anything when he’s at eye level, only presses his lips to your forehead, then your cheeks, following the trail of tears that continue to fall despite your wishes. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him while you breathe him deep into your lungs. It has helped you think, the tears mean nothing. 

“More.” You whisper into his ear, reaching down to expose his cock. You grasp it in hand, stroke it just how he likes while he watches. He still doesn’t speak, only lets you guide him where you want him the most. 

The moan he breathes out when you pull him in, when he’s pressed up against you tight, molding you to accept him lights you up from the inside out. You kiss him, taking more of what he gives you so freely, willing the love you have for him to fill you up to the brim, so much so that there isn’t room for anything else. The tears still fall but they aren’t for anything other than him now, for how grateful you are that he’s with you, that he loves you this much. He kisses the tears from your face, keeps his rhythm and pulls you apart in all the best ways. 

You fall apart when he does, pulsing around his length while he pumps you full of his come. 

He takes care of everything after that too. Cleans you with a damp, warm cloth, presses the cooled cup of tea to your lips. He tucks you in beside him and turns the lights off. When you let go of the breath you’ve been holding, the tears have dried up, and he’s all that remains. 

-

Tag list: @frannyzooey @greeneyedblondie44 @lola4pedro @221bshrlocked @artsymaddie @supernaturalgirl20 @sleep-tight1 @sherala007 @cannedsoupsucks @thirstworldproblemss @ilikechocolatemilkh @hrk-fic-recs @maxwell--lord @the-feckless-wonder @kirsteng42 @thisshipwillsail316 @feministfanboi  @stevie75 @readsalot73 @pedrostories @tobealostwanderer @mandocrasis @elegantduckturtle @diogodxlot @alczysz17 @evyiione @absurdthirst @beskarboobs @andruxx @littlemissoblivious @1800-fight-me @maievdenoir @gracie7209 @omlwhatamidoinghere @magikfanatic @frankiecatfish @pedritoispunk @studythoreauly @missswriter @pintsizemama @mswarriorbabe80 @a-trial-run-on-paper @la-le-lu @chickadee-djarin @dobbyjen @rosiefridayrogersunday @ajeff855 @johnsrevelation @the-witty-pen-name 

@zombiesnips-blog @sarahjkl82-blog @fan-of-encouragement @queenofthecloudss @deadhumourist @felicisimor @toomanystoriessolittletime @what-iwish-you-knew @pedrostories @athalien @bi-thewayy @literallydontlook @pedrosbrat @luxmundee @iamafadedmoon @nakhudanyx @littlemisspascal @grogusmum @heyitmelexie @killyspinacoladas @gothicxbarbie @evildxad @dragonslarimar @spideysimpossiblegirl @chemtrail-mix @breezythesimp @altarsw @staygolddindjarin @softsweetedbeauty @littlemisspascal @yuiopiklmn @squidwell @just-blogging-around @bbyanarchist @girlofchaos @maddiedrmr @frasmotic @acourtofsnakes @buckybarneshairpullingkink @astoryisaloveaffair @harriedandharassed  @shirks-all-responsibilities @alwaysachorusgirl @dindjarinsmut @captain-jebi @gallowsjoker 

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, non-con, dub-con, very dark!Joel, BAD bdsm etiquette, not SSC/RACK compliant, sadist!Joel x masochist!reader, coercion, corruption, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, semi-permanent damage (a bone is broken, I’m not fucking around), whipping, spanking, face slapping, tit slapping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, anal, vaginal, degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, edging, denial, dacryphilia, bastinado (mentioned), restraints, very brief knifeplay, tiny drop of blood play, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare 

Again, I cannot say this enough. This is a dark fantasy and should not be taken as representative of a good d/s relationship—it’s abuse masquerading. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I’m condoning it. 

Please read responsibly. 

I. in media res

     -the fracture

There’s one comfort Joel almost never denies you.

Well, never denies himself.

Unless you’ve been real bad, you always take your place in bed with him at the end of the day. You think it’s so he has easy access to you if he wakes up horny, but honestly, that happens a lot less than expected. He works hard all day; he needs his sleep.

No, he likes the comfort of your warm body next to his. The way you curl up and press kisses to him, no matter how bad he hurt you during the day. His sweet little pet, desperate for every bit of his affection you can earn. He’s always gentle with you here.

It’s part of what makes The Pit so effective.

It fucks with your brain on so many levels, exposes you to so many fears, and then you have to reconcile that you were bad enough for Joel to deny himself the comfort of you in his arms at night. That you’re so undeserving of his love.

Of all of the ways he punishes you, this will be the worst. You can take the humiliation, the pain—not easily, but you can, and there’s usually immediate care after.

But a night in The Pit will tear you down completely.

You hadn’t known what to expect when he said you’d have to spend the night alone, but it wasn’t this.

“No, please,” you scream, stumbling to keep up as Joel pulls you by your hair.

“Shut up,” he snarls.

The soil is loose, clinging to your sweat as you try to right yourself. It’s a futile effort. When you reach The Pit, he holds you down with his boot on your chest while he unlocks and opens the bars.

“Get in,” he says.

You’re sobbing and shaking, skin already gone cold. Somehow, you manage to obey.

The Pit is exactly what it sounds like. It has an open wooden frame with mesh on the side walls to keep the dirt in place. The bottom is bare soil. Mounted to the top of the beams is a grate of bars that sit flush with the ground.

It’s big enough for you to curl up at the bottom—which is what you do now.

“I’m sorry,” you cry.

He shuts and locks the gate.

II. from the start

     -intact

It was kismet, really, that he was there that night. He didn’t usually go out for drinks with the guys, not wanting to be the boss who was always cramping their style. But Tommy had dragged him out tonight, and so he was witness (with the rest of the pub) to your relationship falling apart.

And okay, maybe he went outside for a smoke after you moved the fight to the alley so he could eavesdrop. But it wasn’t his fault. How could he not?

You had said, “Maybe you’re just not man enough for me,” to the brawny but pathetic prick across from you in the booth. “Wanting you to be rough doesn’t make me a freak.”

“That’s not rough; that’s fuckin’ abuse. You’re sick,” your boyfriend had practically shouted.

The discussion evolved into a screaming match in the alley, where Joel had been pleased to be right. It was about more than just a little rough sex or spanking.

At the end of it, your boyfriend stormed off, and you went back in the pub. Joel found you at the bar, throwing back another shot and wiping your tears away.

“You did good back there,” he says.

You startle and look at the stranger. The very handsome stranger. Rugged, with a salt and pepper beard and a scar across his nose.

“What do you mean?”

“Standin’ up for yourself. Not a lot of people woulda been confident enough. ‘Specially not a girl lookin’ for that.”

You glare at the bar counter. “M’not a weirdo.”

“Nah, you’re not. Shit like that is perfectly normal. He’s just pathetic.”

You look back up at him, and he sticks one hand in his pocket, trying to adjust himself discreetly. The tear streaks on your cheeks are getting to him.

“I don’t know. He’s probably right. It’s not your garden variety shit,” you say. The tequila and his gentle eyes have loosened your tongue.

“I doubt that. Try me,” he says.

“What?”

“Try me. Tell me what he freaked out over, and I’ll tell ya if it’s weird. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.”

You hesitate, but he looks genuine and kind. “I asked him to hit me. Like, in the face. And to, y’know, pin me down and—” you trail off.

“And make ya take it?” he guesses.

You nod. “He thought I like, I dunno, actually wanted to be raped,” you whisper the last word, eyes darting to the people around you.

Joel laughs. “Honey, that’s so normal, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve helped ladies out with that little roleplay more times than I can count. If that’s your deepest, darkest fantasy, and he couldn’t take it, then you’re better off without him.”

“It’s not,” you mumble.

“Speak up, honey.”

“It’s not my deepest, darkest fantasy. It’s probably one of the least of them.”

He grins. “Then you’re definitely better off. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with likin’ things on the darker side, sweetheart.”

You’re feeling hot all over and are about to ask him more when your phone rings. It’s your idiot boyfriend, who’s realized you have the car keys.

“I better go. Thank you,” you say, standing and offering him your hand.

He gives it a firm shake, tipping his head. “I’m Joel. And if you’re ever so inclined, I’d like to take you out sometime.”

You laugh. “Let me break up with my boyfriend first, Joel.” But you dig a pen out of your purse and write your number on one of the tiny bar napkins.

Your first date was so normal. You’re not sure what you expected. To jump right to hardcore sex?

But no, he turns up at your door in a neatly pressed green button-up, black slacks, and an ostentatious belt buckle. He greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a bouquet of wildflowers, lavender stalks nestled between pink honeysuckle and red salvia. Not a traditional arrangement, but it reminds you of a summer sunset.

“From my garden,” he says a little sheepishly, but you like them a lot better than some generic store display. You tell him as much and his cheeks flush a little.

You return the kiss and pop the flowers in a vase of water before he sweeps you off in his pickup. You aren’t surprised, really, but it’s more charming than some of the other men and their gaudy trucks.

Joel’s is older but well-kept, with minimal rusting around the wheel wells. The bed is open, and you can see streaks of grease and paint spills. A silver tool chest is mounted against the back of the cab. Everything inside and out has a light coating of sawdust.

He isn’t some insecure man with a truck big enough to make up for what isn’t in his britches, that’s for certain. You’d hazard a guess that the corded muscle of his forearms and the breadth of his shoulders are well-earned.

He holds the door open for you, which you tease him for as you slide onto the truck’s bench seat.

“Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause you’re incapable,” he drawls. “Or because you’re a lady,” he adds when he sees the glint in your eye.

“Oh yeah, cowboy?”

His grin is lopsided, a little dark. “Nah. I just think you deserve to be taken care of, s’all.”

You flush, the back of your neck burning, but you don’t fight the smile that threatens to break out. “Thank you, Joel.”

He shakes his head. He’s pretty sure, now, that if he plays his cards right, he’s found somethin’ special.

He waits three whole dates to take you to bed, and even then, it doesn’t start dirty.

“Let me get to know your body first, baby,” he urges when you ask him to fuck you rough. Instead, he takes you apart piece by piece. First with his tongue, and then his fingers. He brings you to the edge over and over, but never lets you fall.

After a while, you’re a broken record, pleas and sobs spilling from you.

“That’s music to my ears, darlin’,” he says, pulling his fingers out abruptly to see how your cunt throbs for him. He spits on your clit and watches it drip down to join the mess between your thighs.

“Please, please, Joel,” you beg.

“Please who now?”

“Please, sir,” you try, and are rewarded with his sharp grin. But not with an orgasm.

He slaps your cunt. “That’s more like it, baby. You remember who you’re talkin’ to, alright?”

You nod. “Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”

He shakes his head, sucking on your clit for a moment before pulling back to get a good look at you. “You do like a little pain, huh?”

“Would like more,” you say.

“Oh yeah? What would you let me do to you?”

“Anything, please, sir.”

He clicks his tongue at you. “Don’t go sayin’ that to someone you barely know. It’s okay to mean it when you trust somebody, but you’re gonna end up in more trouble than you bargain for if you pass that out like candy.”

“I do mean it.”

“Yeah? You’ll let me do this?” His open palm smacks across your face, leaving a sting tingling on your cheek and a lightness to your brain.

Tears spring to your eyes, but you nod frantically.

“What about this?” he grabs a nipple in his calloused fingers and yanks, twisting.

You yelp, but it trails off to a moan, and you nod.

“Goddamn, baby. S’good. But what about this?” He flicks open the switchblade he keeps in his pocket.

You jerk and whine, eyes wide and wet as he brings it to your breast. Your breathing falls shallow as you try to hold still, the point scraping the delicate skin as he circles it. But the look you’re giving him almost has him cumming in his pants like he were twenty years younger.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding. I mean, you’ve gotta have limits; everyone does. But you just want me to hurt you, huh?” He digs the tip of the blade in a little on the side of your breast, cock throbbing as you gasp, and you both watch a tiny drop of blood bead and trickle down the blade.

He puts it away. “No,” he says when you whimper. “Not today. I ain’t prepared for all that.”

Joel doesn’t like to break his toys. Not permanently. Just enough that he can put them back together how he likes and then do it all over again.

“Don’t need to be prepared; just do it,” you whine.

He slaps you again and wrenches your head up with a hand in your hair. “First of all, I fuckin’ told you no. Second, I know you want to be a stupid little cunt for me, but I’m not about to cut you open without any goddamn first aid shit.”

He leans back and smacks the breast he had cut. He hits you over and over, alternating sides, until your chest burns, and you’re sobbing.

He looks you over briefly and then shoves his hand between your thighs. “You’re wetter than a slip ‘n slide, baby.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, and wipes the tears from your cheek with his thumb. He feels your cunt twitch when he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean.

It’s the last straw for him. He’s not opened you enough, but he has a feeling you’ll like it better this way anyway.

You cry out, back arching when he shoves into you. He meant to go slow, he really did, if only to drag out the anticipation. But you’re so warm. So wet. So he just stuffs himself inside.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe you love the pain; it’s just that he can’t resist feeling the evidence for himself. He slaps you across the face while you’re still processing his cock, and the resulting clench and jerk of your body drag a moan from him.

He holds back, regulates his urge to pull each whimper and scream from you, but it’s still so fucking good. It’s been a long time since he’s doled out real cruelty to a slut like you who loves to suffer.

When he finally lets you cum, it’s when he’s about to. He pulls out and spanks your cunt, granting his permission. As your pussy flutters desperately around nothing, he cums on it, watching the way it gets prettier as he paints it.

You black out for a minute. When you come to, he’s wiping you down gently with a warm washcloth, wicking the sweat off your face and chest before cleaning his cum from your curls. You whimper, and he grins, leaning over to steal a kiss.

Even after that first night, he goes slow. He can’t scare ya, not while you still have someplace to run. Plus, it’s so much easier if he starts planting the seeds for your training now.

He knows you’ll beg for it, anyway. He’s been getting the nastiest text messages from you. Part of it is the dopamine; he’s not stupid. But part of you really wants this shit. And the rest? Well. You’ll get there.

It’s the little things. He orders you a black decaf at the drive-thru when you ask for a latte. You start to correct him, like you think he’s made a mistake, but he gives you a look, and you shut your mouth immediately.

When he pulls away from the speaker, you look over at him again. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry…?”

You squirm a little, heart pounding, unsure if he’s really doing this at the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Sorry, sir.”

He smiles and rubs his hand on your thigh where it peeks out from your skirt. “Thanks, baby.”

And that’s all it takes. You take the cup when he hands it to you and you’re quick to say, “Thank you, sir,” even though the kid at the window is still passing things through to Joel and can clearly hear you.

     -fissured

It goes on like that for a couple of months, but it doesn’t all go so smoothly. One night, he picks you up from work and takes you to a restaurant, saying he wants to treat you. Halfway through the meal, he asks for your panties.

“What?” you say, shocked at his vulgar language in the dining room.

“Take ‘em off and hand ‘em to me.”

You go to stand, probably thinking you can go to the bathroom to obey.

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Right here, right now, baby.”

“Joel,” you hiss, sitting back down, “I can’t do that.”

He fixes you with a calm smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, raising one finger in the air. “I’ll give ya three choices. The first one, the one I’m going to advise you pick, is that you do it right now, and I’ll only punish ya for talkin’ back.”

“The second one,” he holds up another finger for emphasis, “is you can go to the bathroom to take ‘em off, but you’re gonna pay for it when we get home. The third one is where you don’t listen, we leave right now, and you learn to fuckin’ regret it.”

Your breathing is shallow, and your pretty eyes are shining. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now.

“I-I can’t,” you whimper. “Please, sir.”

“You got about thirty seconds to make up your mind.” The softness is gone—from his voice, from his face, from the set of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and you stand up. You’re only in the bathroom for a minute, and when you sit back down, you try to hand them to him under the table.

“Nah, that was only a choice if you were good,” he says, smirking and laying his expectant hand on the white linens.

Mortified, you ball them up tight in your fist and press them into his hand. He slides them into his pants pocket.

He doesn’t say anything else about it for the rest of dinner, asking instead about your projects at work and your visit with your parents over the holidays. You feel sick, barely eating a thing, and biting your lip to stave off the tears.

As soon as you’re in the truck, you start to cry. “I’m sorry, I was just scared and—”

“Shut up. You made your choice. You’re not sorry. You’re just afraid of the consequences.”

“N-no, I am sorry, I mean it.”

“You’re gonna have to prove it.” He doesn’t look at you on the drive home, doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t even turn the radio on; just listens to you sniffle.

When he parks, he sets his hand on your thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I know you can be my good girl. All you gotta do is take your punishment and learn from it, okay?”

You sniffle again and nod, blinking through tear-laden lashes at him.

“So pretty when you cry for me,” he murmurs. He gets out and comes around to open your door, offering a hand to help you step down from the tall truck. You take it, and he holds on, leading you inside his house.

He sits sprawled on the couch, thighs parted wide to make room and waits until you’re comfortably kneeling between his legs. You’re sat in silence, head bowed, arms folded behind your back.

“Tell me what you did wrong today.”

This is a first, but not a last. Even on days when nothing egregious has happened, you will follow this ritual. He’ll ask for your sins, and you’ll confess. There will always be something you’ll owe him for.

“I argued when you gave me orders. I was disobedient.”

“Anything else I need to know about, baby?”

“No, sir.”

“Why’d you argue?”

“I was afraid. I’m sorry.”

“Save your grovelin’ for after, baby. Why were you afraid?”

“I didn’t want people to see. I didn’t want to get kicked out or arrested.”

“You think I’d let anything happen to you? You think I would have given you an order that put either of us at any kinda risk?”

Your face burns. “I—”

“I thought you trusted me.” He sounds hurt, and you’re a little nauseous when you look up to see his eyes wide and sad, lips turned into a wounded scowl.

Your shoulders slump. “I didn’t think. I panicked.”

“Hmm. Okay, I can work with that.”

You look up at him, brow scrunched and lips pouting as you try to parse his words.

He smiles. It’s cold, and his eyes are steel.

You swallow hard, and his grin widens, quirking into a smirk.

“Alright, baby. I got just the thing.”

He leads you into the ensuite. You kneel on the little rug by the tub while he fills it. You’re too afraid to ask what’s happening, so you just sit quietly. He leaves the room and doesn’t come back until the tub is nearly full, and you’re starting to worry that you were supposed to be monitoring it.

He comes back in, and once it’s nearing the lip of the tub, he turns off the faucet. He has you kneel on the top of the three steps leading up to the edge. It’s the most luxurious thing in this house, and you suspect he installed it custom so he could soak his aching muscles.

He bends you over the edge so you’re leaning close to the water and crouches down behind you. It’s a pleasant surprise when he spreads you wide and licks from your clit to your asshole.

He stays there for a few minutes, indulging in your wet cunt and the cries it draws from your lips. After he’s had his fill, he stands up and lubes up his cock before pushing his way into your ass. He’s generous with the lube but rarely preps you, since you both like it better when it hurts.

You’re writhing a little beneath him, wriggling your hips to try to ease the passage. Once he’s fully seated inside you, he grabs the back of your head and shoves it under the water before fucking hard into you.

You thrash, displacing water from the tub, until he yanks you back up.

You gasp for air and scrabble to get a grip on the wet tile, but he pushes you back down and groans at how tight you get while you’re struggling.

He pulls you roughly back up. “Gonna keep going until you stop makin’ a fuss.”

You go to protest, to panic, and he pushes you back down.

The next time he pulls you out, he spanks you until your skin is burning. “Fuckin’ trust me. You think I’m gonna let you drown?”

“No, sir,” you cry, but it’s garbled as he pushes you back down. You’re still fighting him each time.

He pulls you back out and repeats the beating. “Relax, or we’re gonna be here all night.”

He continues the process a few more times and then gives you a reprieve, letting go of your hair so you can rest your cheek against the cold edge of the tub while he pounds into you. He reaches and rubs featherlight circles around your clit until you’re softly moaning.

“You gonna trust me?”

“I’m trying, my body panics,” you pant.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya. You hear me? You know you’re panicking, so focus on me instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

It shouldn’t make sense, but you think he’s long warped your brain anyway. The next time he pushes you underwater, you clench your fists tight and focus on what oxygen you do have, even if he knocks a little out with each thrust.

His hand in your hair is your anchor and buoy. You tense when you feel your body start to jerk, trying so hard to control it.

He pulls you up. “Just like that, baby. Again.”

It gets just a little easier each time. He leaves you under longer, until your lungs are burning, and you’re on the edge of gasping in water, but he pulls you out in time.

“Fuck, you’re doing so well.” He’s a little fascinated. He hadn’t really been sure it could be done or if your survival instincts would go into a frenzy. But here you are, letting him almost fucking drown you.

Not that he would.

Despite being balls deep in your tight little asshole, he isn’t trying to reach his orgasm. Not yet, staving off his pleasure so he can keep a clear head.

He keeps it up just a little longer. You’re getting tired and tolerating less and less time underwater. The last time he pulls you up, he pinches your clit and tells you to cum while he fills you.

He dunks you again while you cum, and you clamp down on him tighter than you have before, convulsing on his cock. When he pulls you back up, you’re gasping and sobbing. He pulls out and wraps you in a towel, easing you to the wet floor while he cleans up.

When he comes back to you, he helps you stand and dry off, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“So?”

Your brow furrows. It’s not what he usually asks after a punishment, but you think you know what he means. “I’m sorry. I trust you, I promise.”

“I know. M’so proud of you for taking that. You’re turning out so nicely, sweet thing.”

In the morning, you’re almost late to work after sucking him off when you should have been getting dressed. He’s about to walk out the door to head to the site when he hears your frustrated voice from the bedroom.

“Joel, where are my underwear? I need to fuckin’ leave.”

“I told you, baby. There was a price to pay when you picked the bathroom. Y’ain’t wearing ‘em anymore.”

“What?”

He doesn’t need to see you to smirk at the shocked expression he knows is on your face. “We’ll talk about it more tonight; I gotta run.”

     -avulsed

“Y’know, baby,” Joel says, leaning forward to rub your shoulder. “They just don’t fuckin’ appreciate you.”

You’re bent over, elbows on your knees, crying with your face buried in your hands. You sit up and sniffle, wiping the tears. “It’s fine; it’s not like I need to be coddled at work.”

All the stress of the PR world is getting to you, and you hate it, you fucking hate it, but you dropped 50k on a degree, so now you’re stuck.

“But they make you work all this overtime, cut your team in half, and then berate you when you can’t meet the client’s deadline? You do not deserve that, baby.”

You let him coax you into his lap, facing him so you can bury your face in his soft, worn tee. He rubs your back and holds your head to his chest.

“You’re too good to me,” you mumble.

“Nah, darlin’, I’ve told ya a thousand times. You deserve to be taken care of.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I, well. I was thinkin’...”

You wait, but when he doesn’t pick back up, you sit up and look at him.

“I dunno. It’s nothin’,” he says.

“Please tell me?”

“Alright, fine. Now, I don’t want ya to feel any pressure. It’s just a thought. But maybe you should just quit and stay with me a while, ‘till you can find something better?”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. He must see something on your face, because he tips your chin up so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I know it’s sudden, but I mean it. Let me take care of ya while you figure shit out. We don’t gotta treat it like living together if y’ain’t ready. But I’d be open to that conversation, too.”

It doesn’t take much more than that. The first couple weeks, he lets you give it a try—searching for new degree programs, applying for jobs you know you’re overqualified for just to try something different.

After nothing pans out, he suggests you both take a week off. Him from work and you from the burden of trying to escape unemployment. Just relax, like a little staycation.

It’s bliss. You go on dates, eat pizza and marathon the “Jurassic Park” movies, and fuck like crazy.

On the third night, he sits you down. On his cock, of course. While you’re bouncing and brainless, he cups your cheek. “Baby, you’ve been too damn stressed still. What if we… well, what if we tried out a day or two like we’ve been talking about?”

Sometimes, you whisper to him in the darkness, usually while he’s balls deep, how you wish you could be his all the time. His good girl. His pet. And he whispers back, lures you right in with promises of taking care of everything, of you not having a worry or care in the world. Just him.

Now, he fondles your tits while he murmurs to you. “We can just wake up together, and I can take care of ya. Everything you need, baby. All you’d have to do is be good for me, yeah?”

You moan and grind down harder on his cock. “Please, sir. I want it more than anything. Just to be yours.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

Joel had no patience for brats, so he usually broke his toys in sooner into the training process. He liked ‘em nice and obedient—scared, if that’s what it took, but devoted. But you had been from the start—you wanted to be good in all the ways you could never seem to be to other people. Your family, your job, the world seemed to just demand more and more.

Joel was the first person to make you feel like you had actually, really, truly pleased him. There wasn’t a higher mark you should have made. There wasn’t any expectation for you to give more and more.

His orders were complete, always. You learned that very quickly. Attempts to go above and beyond were rebuked.

“If I wanted that, I woulda said so,” he told you. And like everything else, you committed his words to memory.

It helped that he gave praise freely. You didn’t have to wonder if he was satisfied, if you should have licked him differently, if you should have made prettier faces while you came. He reassured you until you believed him, and then kept going anyway.

It made it easier for him to slowly peel you away from the ungrateful world.

“You don’t have to take that,” he’d say after watching your face fall further and further while on the phone with your mom. “Family ain’t supposed to make you feel like shit.”

They made it too easy, really, and your relationship with them would have likely just fizzled out. But in the end, he had to step in and snap it off.

You asked him to come with you to dinner at their house. He was hesitant. He wasn’t really the boyfriend type. He wasn’t really even your boyfriend. That was too weird a word for either of you, not when he owned you.

But he knows you didn’t want to go alone, and he has a feeling he’ll be cleaning up the mess anyway.

You want to give them a chance. Things have been so tense, and they said they missed you. But they didn’t even make it through the entrée without ridiculing you.

When your father asks how work is going, you quietly confess to quitting, hastily reassuring them that you are looking for a new position. Though, and you keep this part to yourself, you maybe haven’t been trying that hard.

“What do you mean you quit? How are you paying your bills? You better not have come here to ask for money,” your father says, setting down his fork to glare at you.

“Well, I’ve been living with Joel,” you mumble to the tablecloth.

“I didn’t raise you to be a gold digger,” your mother chides.

Joel tries to bite his tongue and let them dig their own graves. But your father calls you a “fucking whore,” and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand the way you’re cowering in your chair, fighting back tears.

“You watch your mouth,” Joel snaps at your father.

You look up, mouth agape, eyes darting from Joel to your parents.

“Mind your business,” your dad tells him.

Joel stands up and throws his napkin on the table. “She is my fuckin’ business. I wouldn’t stand by and let anyone talk to her like that. You’re not an exception just because you managed to get it up long enough to cum in your wife.”

“Joel,” you whisper, tugging at his sleeve. You’re burning, melting on the spot, from the vulgar way he’s talking to them. For him, someone who’s always strict about manners and proper hospitality, to talk back like this? God, you think, he must really love you.

He puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds firmly as you lean into it. He rounds back on your parents. “You treat her like fuckin’ dirt beneath your feet, and I’m tired of it. You don’t deserve the fuckin’ dirt beneath her feet.”

He shoves his chair back and grabs your hand. “C’mon, baby; we’re leaving.”

You take it and stand up, letting him pull you along. Your father follows you into the foyer, and you try not to look at him while you shove your shoes on.

Joel holds your coat out while you slip into it, and you tune out whatever your dad is yelling now. You don’t want to hear it; you know it’s nasty, and your whole world has narrowed to Joel anyway.

He holds out the key. “Go wait in the truck, baby.”

And you do.

He comes out about five minutes later, red-faced and huffing with fury. He doesn’t say a word when he gets in; just throws the truck into reverse and pulls away. You both ignore the blood on his knuckles.

Once you’re on the road, he looks over at you and sighs. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You unbuckle and slide over to the middle seat, tucking your hand between his warm body to curl around his arm. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Whaddya sorry for? None of that was your fault.” He kisses the top of your head and cups your cheek at the stoplight. “It was gonna happen eventually, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

The rest of the ride home is silent while you breathe in his comforting musk and try to relax. But the tension is unrelenting, the horrible rotting feeling eating away at your spine.

He knows. Knows what you need, knows what he can do to seal this moment forever. He waits until he’s unzipping the pretty little cocktail dress you’d stressed over.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, breaking away from where he was sucking his claim down your neck to swap out your delicate necklace with his collar.

He unhooks the bra and kisses the marks he left behind with the cane, your penance for being allowed to wear it. It leaves you bare to him, and his hands turn greedy. He presses biting kisses against your lips while digging fingers into your bruises, swallowing your whimpers.

He grabs you by the neck and squeezes the sides of your throat, holding you to him while your vision blurs. When he lets go, you stumble, but his arm around your back holds you upright. He slaps your face with quick, sharp blows in rapid succession to keep you unsteady.

“Knees, hands behind your head,” he says, and lets go.

You fall but are quick to right yourself and take the position. He wastes no time, giving you another harsh smack before grabbing your hair and shoving his cock into your throat.

You choke and gag but keep your hands in place even as your head spins. You feel limp and grateful that he doesn’t seem to require any effort from you as he uses you without mercy.

“Look at you. You’ve got my whole cock down your throat. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

Your eyes are already glazed over, and you moan your appreciation around him.

He pulls out and hauls you to your feet. “I know what you need, sweetheart. Get your ass downstairs.”

He fucks you, beats you, uses you wherever he wants. But the basement is where he keeps the heavy equipment and where you know you’re about to have your mind and body pushed to the absolute limit.

You’re ready, he thinks, when he gets down and finds you waiting perfectly in place for him, eyes wide like he’s descended from on high. He jerks a thumb to the wooden post, and you meet him there.

“Forget about what they want you to be,” he murmurs as he closes the steel cuffs around your ankles. “You know what you want, baby. Right?”

“Mhm,” you nod, already slipping away into that safe place only Joel can get you to.

“What do you want to be?” he asks, binding your arms up over your head to the eye bolt at the top of the post.

“Yours.” It’s half-whisper, half-whine.

“Yeah? You just wanna be mine? You don’t want to get a new job?”

“No,” you finally confess. “But—”

“But what, baby? If you say somethin’ about money or bills, I’m gonna be mighty unhappy.”

You bite your lip. “I’m scared one day, you’ll wake up and not want me anymore.”

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, sweetheart. You think I put all this work into helpin’ you, into teaching you how to be mine, just to toss ya out? You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically.

He slides a silicone cock into the bracket lined right up with your mouth. It’s a fairly standard size, since he knows you’re going to thrash around and doesn’t want you gagging too much and throwing up.

Your torso gets tied to the post by your tits, the wood nestled between them and rope woven around. Securing you there forces your head onto the toy, but he doesn’t make you take it all the way. You keep your mouth open and don’t move closer or further, waiting for his command.

“Suck on it whenever you’d like. You’re going to need it.”

Your eyes roll back a little at his promise. If he thinks you’re going to need something in your mouth to self-soothe, you’re in for an absolutely amazing time.

“Focus on me. That’s all you’ll need to do from now on, baby. No more worries in that pretty little head, okay?”

The first strike is a warm-up. When you feel the lash of his favorite whip lick your ass, you moan. It’s a moderately short signal whip that he wields like a fucking pro. His warmups are quick but thorough, and you’re squirming when he moves on to your thighs and shoulders.

“Already?” he says, laughing when you whine around the silicone cock.

You’re absentmindedly sucking on it when he starts a harsher assault. A particularly sharp strike stings at the valley where your ass meets your thighs, and you yelp, jerking a little and gagging yourself on the dildo.

His smirk burns into your back as the cry melts into a moan, and you writhe a little, trying to get friction where you need it most. What you get, though, is the tip of the whip against your cunt.

By the time he moves around to your tits, they’re covered in spit, heaving with the effort of holding back your orgasm. He comes up to you first, and pinches at your nipples.

“Aw, does my dumb little cunt want to cum?” He croons, tugging and twisting until you moan. He laughs when all you can get out is a muffled “mhm.”

“Tell ya what. You can cum all you want while I hurt you tonight, okay?”

He punctuates it with a particularly cruel pinch, and that, combined with his permission, is all you need to let the pleasure shudder through you.

“Yeah? You gonna get off to being my little toy? Gonna let me do whatever I want?”

You moan around the fake cock, easing it further into your throat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He doesn’t give a warm-up on your tits, figuring you’re already so far gone it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.

He’s right. The first lash is harsh, a welt blooming across the top of your breast in its wake, but you groan, trying to press your cunt up against the post for any relief.

You don’t need it, though. He brings you to your peak again with the skilled flick of his wrist, landing blows across the fat of your breasts. He waits until you’re mid-orgasm to bring the whip hard across your nipples.

The resulting wail almost makes him cum in his pants. He does it only twice more, relishing in your agony, but restraining himself from just letting loose. Not with the whip, as much as he’d like to. Maybe later with a flogger.

Once he’s taken it as far as he’s willing to risk, he moves back around to give the rest of you the same treatment. The hardest hits push you over the edge, and by the time his arm is getting tired, you’re sobbing and writhing in your restraints, overstimulated in every way.

He unlatches your ankles first, helping you find steady footing before untying your wrists and torso. You drop to your knees and open your mouth, throat aching for his cock after the tease of the toy.

He doesn’t have the willpower to torment you by denying it tonight. Instead, he nearly pops the button off his jeans in his urgency to pull his cock out and shove it as far down your throat as he can.

Your arms find their place behind your back, and you just take it. He fucks into you without restraint. It’s filthy, from the mess you’re making to the wet choking sounds he pushes out of you with each thrust.

You’re shaking, and he pulls out abruptly.

“I said while I’m hurting you. You don’t get to just cum from getting facefucked.”

“Then hurt me, please,” you sob. It’s right there; you’re so close.

He slaps you across the face and laughs as you cum, shoving back into your throat while you’re still riding out the aftershocks.

He pulls back out, and you whine until he yanks you up by the bicep and pushes you over to the padded bench, bending you over it and shoving into your sopping cunt.

“Still disappointed?” he teases.

“N-no,” you pant. “Please hurt me.”

“Beg me properly, greedy little cunt.”

You clench around him just at the words, but obey. “Please, sir, please hurt me so I can cum. Please.”

“I’ve been hurtin’ you all night, baby,” he says, voice thick with false pity. “Don’t you want me to be gentle with you now?” He can feel how hard you’re trying not to cum as he mocks you.

“No,” you sob. “No, love me, hurt me, please.”

It’s got an edge of desperation and heartbreak to it that he just loves.

He smacks your already bruising ass until you sob harder, shaking uncontrollably as you cum. He wraps his hands around your throat and fucks you through it until he cums, hips stuttering, and filling your cunt with his spend.

He lets himself collapse a little on top of you, pinning you with his weight against the bench with his softening cock still buried in you. “Feel loved now?”

You’re still crying, and when he folds his arms around your chest, elbows resting on the table, you cling to him. “Love you,” you murmur over and over, pressing kisses up and down his forearms.

He nuzzles his face into your neck, kissing and sucking at you. “I know, baby. You know I love ya.” He’s half-hard—not something that happens a lot anymore at his age, so he’s not gonna waste it. He pulls out just to manhandle you up onto the bench on your back, climbing up between your legs and shoving back in.

It’s a little sloppy until he’s fully hard again; your combined cream making things a little too slippery. Once he’s erect, though, he sets a punishing pace, folding you in half with your legs up by your ears. He works your clit with his hand, relishing in the way you’re fucking exhausted and overstimulated, but your poor clit’s been neglected. It means he can twist and pull on it, tugging until you give him more and more, until you’re sobbing for mercy that you know you’ll never get.

He doesn’t ease up until he pulls out to cum over your tits and face.

“Mine,” he snarls, shoving his fingers into your swollen cunt and feeding you what’s left of his first orgasm and your… well, he’s not really sure how many. A fuckin’ lot. “You’re all mine. Little fuckin’ toy to do whatever I want, right?”

You’re still gasping for breath, having been half-suffocated in that position, but when you look at him, it’s like he’s a fucking god. “Yes, sir.”

     -broken

The day had started out fine.

He’d laid out a dress for you to wear. Sometimes, he made you go around bare for a while, just to fuck with your head a little, but he prefers to unwrap you like a present.

Plus, the sight of you crawling around in nothing but a slutty, barely-there dress is picture-fuckin’-perfect. He’d know; he’s got a bunch of ‘em on his phone.

And crawl, you do. You haven’t been allowed to walk further than a couple of feet in a long time. There’s penance to be paid if you can’t avoid it.

Joel collects your penance whenever possible, gathering what’s owed for your sins and dealing out forgiveness when it's settled. It’s how he shows his love.

And he does love you. How could he not? Such a perfect little toy. He’s spent so much time training you right to be his prized possession.

He knew it’d happen eventually, so when you commit one of the worst offenses, he has to make it count. You were testing your limits, of course; he had expected it. He had expected it months ago. It was worse now, after you’d been so good and earned so much trust. But now that you’d been nothing but his for two months, you had finally fucked up.

Your punishments were never painful. Okay, they weren’t pain-focused. Sometimes, he had to put you over his knee to let his frustration out before he could give you a proper punishment. But the pain wasn’t the point—you both liked it too damn much. No matter how much farther he took it than a regular session, and no matter how sick you were with guilt, you were always a soaking wet mess after a beating.

This time would have to be different, though.

It was time to finally break you.

He knew as soon as he got home. Not the particulars, but that you’d made a huge mistake.

On the surface, nothing was amiss. You were knelt by the door in your pretty little dress, a short number in navy blue. You had your head down and arms folded behind your back in perfect posture.

But something was off. It didn’t feel like you were happy he was home. And he was pretty sure there would only be one reason for that.

He hung up his keys but didn’t bother to take off his shoes, coming to stand in front of you. “What’d you do?”

You flinch and have to re-tense to hold the position as a sob escapes you. Your hands are balled into fists to fight the urge to cover your face. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked what you did.”

If it were still the early days, when this shit usually happened, he might have been just a little softer. At least until he coaxed the confession from you, anyway. But you were in too deep, now, too entangled in this life that he had little patience for your reticence.

“I—”

“I recommend you spit it out. You’ll tell me in the end, anyway.”

You start to cry. “I can’t say it.”

“You better figure it out pretty fuckin’ fast, little girl.”

“I had an orgasm,” you blurt, whimpers escalating to sobs.

He pauses. It’s worse than he thought. The rush of disappointment and anger sends his heart racing, and his fingers flex in longing for a cane.

“Did you enjoy it?” he says.

It catches you off guard. “No, I promise.”

“That’s too bad, ‘cause it’s the last one you’re gonna have for a while.”

You aren’t surprised; you’re actually relieved. Of course, of course he’ll fix you.

He finally takes his shoes off and sets his phone on the counter, beckoning you to follow him to the living room. Taking his seat on the couch, he waits until you’re settled at his feet.

“Why’d you do that, baby?”

“I-I didn’t mean to. I was edging for the last time today, and I don’t know what happened. It was just there, and I knew it, I knew it was coming, and I—” You choke on the guilt, the grief.

“You what?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t convince myself to stop. I kept thinking ‘no, you stupid cunt,’ but I couldn’t pull my hand away.”

He regards you for a moment. He’s burning inside, but trying to calculate the most effective approach.

“Thank you for telling me right away,” he says, but even though he means it, the words are cold and clipped. “Which hand?”

You look at him, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What?”

“Which hand did you use? Give it to me.”

You lift up your right hand, and he cradles it in his.

“Listen close.” He waits until he’s sure you’re focused on him, on his words.

This is where things have fallen apart in the past. No amount of training and manipulation can get someone across this hurdle; they have to mean it. The last thing he wants is someone running to the police because they don’t fucking understand how serious he is.

“This is going to be your last chance to back out. I will stop right now and let you pack your shit and leave. But if you stay, you’re agreeing to anything I do to you past this point.”

You bite your lip, stomach churning. “You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

“Good. You should be scared. What you’ve done is one of the worst things you could have. That’s got some serious consequences, baby.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I gotta hurt you. Bad. Y’ain’t going to like this; I can promise you that. I can’t punish your cunt because you’re such a stupid pain slut; anything short of permanent damage is gonna make you wet. And I’m not lookin’ to do permanent damage.”

Your lip trembles, heart pounding. You’ve never been so afraid, but you’re also enthralled. Lured in by the timbre of his voice and the salvation it’s promising.

He squeezes your hand where he’s still holding onto you. “I’m going to break one of your fingers.”

Your heart falters, blood rushing. “Oh god,” you whisper, shaking your head. Instinctively, you tug back on your hand, but he grasps it tight, tight enough that you feel the bones grind under his large fingers.

“It’s up to you. That’s half the price for forgiveness. The rest is gonna be spending the night alone.”

Somehow, that sounds worse. You can’t breathe.

“Gotta choose, baby. You wanna go? I’ll pay for a cab. You can walk away, but you can’t ever come back.”

You think you might be drowning. Leave? How could you leave? There’s no debate in your head; you have nothing without Joel. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. And the idea of losing him feels catastrophic.

You’re crying again, and you’re vaguely aware of his soothing voice trying to coach you through breathing. When you focus on him, just like he’s taught you, you start to calm down.

It’s Joel, you think. He’ll take care of you. And he said he didn’t want permanent damage. You just have to suffer for your betrayal and he’ll forgive you.

“I think I might throw up,” you warn him.

He sighs, the fear of losing you flooding away, taking some of his anger with it. “We’ll do it in the bathroom.”

He stands up, and you follow, albeit slowly, as the wave of nausea rises. You do throw up as soon as you get in the bathroom, thankfully making it to the toilet. He holds your hair and rubs his hand across your shoulder blades.

“It’s okay, baby, get it out of your system. You’re being so brave for me,” he croons. He helps you up to sit on the edge of the tub and gets you a little cup of mouthwash.

“I’ll help you brush your teeth after,” he promises. “I’d do it now, but, well. You’re probably going to puke again.”

When you’re done swishing the mouthwash, when it’s all turned to foam and you’ve spit it back in the cup, he swaps you for water. You rinse and spit that, too.

He’s laid a few things out on the counter. You feel dizzy all over again. Something tells you the comfort you feel is wrong, but he’s prepared an ice pack and medical tape, and has four little ibuprofen out next to another cup of water.

The other, louder part of you is whispering, see? He’ll take care of you. The act of wondering what’s wrong with you feels like a farce. You’re thinking it because you think you should, just going through the motions.

He takes off his belt and brings it to your mouth. You clench it between your teeth, letting a shaky breath through. His hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the warmth.

“I knew you were somethin’ special,” he whispers. You’re not sure he meant to.

Your whole body is shaking uncontrollably. He watches you for a moment, worried you’re going to faint, and then sits on the floor with his back against the tub, pulling you into his lap. He lays you back against his chest, caging you in with his arms and thighs. The ice pack sits to his right, already popped and frozen. Waiting.

Gently, he lifts your hand and brings it in front of your chest, taking it in his left. It’s a macabre mockery, the way he cradles it in his palm, fingers wrapped around the sides. In his right hand, he notches his thumb on the knuckle of your middle finger, bringing the other fingers in below it.

He doesn’t drag it out, doesn’t take pleasure in your terror. When he moves, it’s faster than a gunshot. Your scream is raw, breaking free from the spaces between your teeth and the belt. The taste of leather will remind you of this moment for the rest of your life.

He has the ice pack on it before you mentally register that it’s over. You’re sobbing. Horribly, he’s right, and you are sick again. He holds your hair in one fist, holding the ice pack to your mangled hand in the other.

When you’re done, he pulls you back against him, wrapping his limbs around you in a perverse embrace as you shake harder. With his free hand, he brings a damp, cool cloth to your face, cleaning you of the viscera of your sickness.

He’s shushing you, head bent close to your ear. “It’s alright, baby, it’s over. You did so good. I’m so proud. I love you so much.”

It’s good that he doesn’t expect an answer because he doesn’t get one. You’re too lost in the pain and shock.

When it’s time to take a break from the ice, he grabs the medical tape and wraps it around your index and middle fingers. You cry out again as he jostles the break. Once he’s splinted it, he lowers your hand gently to your lap so he can grab the medicine.

“I can’t; I’ll throw up again,” you say, voice cracking.

“Don’t have a choice, baby. Gotta keep the swelling down.”

He feeds you each pill, one by one, chasing them with sips of water.

You look so sad and precious that he almost feels bad. Unfortunately, he’s also rock fucking hard, so he shifts you a little to pull his dick out.

You don’t say anything when he lifts you to lower you on it. He’s careful, trying not to shake you around too much. He was right; you didn’t enjoy this pain. You’ve never been this dry for him before, and you whimper pathetically at the pinch and sting of his girth.

You may be worn out and in agony, but your cunt doesn’t get the message. He grins when he feels you getting wet and clenching around him. He doesn’t push it though, doesn’t torment you, just fucks up into you gently until he fills you.

You’re limp against him now, and he presses a kiss into your hair. “You may have to walk for a bit,” he muses. “But I’ll cap your penance at ten.”

You wince. Ten strokes with the cane on the soles of your feet every day until your finger heals? You usually only owe enough for two or three. It is a mercy, though, so you nod and thank him.

Joel can hardly contain the way his chest is flooding with warmth. You’re so close; he can feel it. So close to being completely his to put together just the way he likes.

He can’t wait to take you to The Pit.

     -kintsugi

You’re cold. So cold. You’re curled in on yourself, tucked into a corner in the hopes that you’d be able to keep warmer. Your whole right hand throbs.

Moonlight only cuts across the corner, but it’s a comfort still. The soil is loose and you keep shuddering, feeling the tickle of a dozen phantom insects.

Worst of all, your chest aches, like he may as well have hewn you open. Dry sobs work their way free every now and then, leaving your mouth tacky and your throat full of cotton.

The only rest you get is when you blessedly pass out. Every time you close your eyes voluntarily, you see the heartbroken look on his face when you begged him not to leave you there.

“I wish I didn’t have to. I wish you hadn’t broken my trust and I could keep you close, baby. But you’re never going to learn how to be good if I don’t show ya.”

Bad, I’m bad, he doesn’t want me anymore, you think to no end.

When the sun starts to rise, you’re limp, still in your corner. You barely turn your head when a shadow falls over The Pit, but your heart starts to pound when the lock clicks, and Joel raises the gate.

“Oh, baby,” he says, soft and sorrowful. “C’mere.” He reaches out a hand, and you scramble to him, letting him take your left arm in his grasp and pull you out. You move immediately to your knees, body bent forward as your knotted muscles protest. He scoots his boot out of the danger zone near your broken finger.

You keep whispering, a broken record of “Sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”

He picks you up and holds you to his chest, shushing until you fall quiet. It doesn’t take longer than a few seconds as your brain desperately clings to any scrap, any way you can be good for him.

He brushes the loose dirt from you before going inside and upstairs to the ensuite. He sets you on the little rug next to the full garden tub, and he tests the water with his fingers before peeling his clothes off.

You flex your left hand, balling it in and out of a fist. You’ve never been particularly ambidextrous and wonder how you’re going to wash him without falling in or hurting your hand.

Before he gets in, he feeds you four more little red pills. Once he’s settled, he reaches out and guides you carefully by the waist, pulling you into his lap in the warm water.

That’s all it takes for you to start crying again. He doesn’t try to quiet you; just holds you there against his chest and lets you sob.

By the time you’ve calmed, the water has cooled, but instead of getting out, he just drains a little and runs more hot water.

Joel tips your chin up gently with the knuckle of his index finger. “You ready to be my good girl again?”

You nod, lip trembling.

Joel does nothing you hadn’t asked for. The trouble for you was that you asked for too much. Gave him too much. And it was far too late to get any of it back.

He gave what he could, though. Couldn’t replace what he’d taken, so he pours himself in the cracks, puts you back together with a firm hand and loving care. Sure, his love doesn’t look like what you’re used to, but he knows you see it for what it is.

“I know, baby. You took that all so well. Don’t worry,” he pauses to kiss you, “I forgive you. My perfect little toy.”