We're not going to talk about this.

Nerves. That’s all you’ve been feeling this entire week.

When your boss had told you in October that you were assigned to cover the James Beard Awards you were elated. Partially because, you know, it was the goddamn James Beard Awards, but mostly because it would be your first major story at Vogue. You had been a writer for their Food column for a few months at that point, and while it wasn’t exactly as you had imagined it while writing it over and over in your manifestation journal, it wasn’t bad, and you were sure you could work your way up. This story was a chance for you to do so, so why would you pass it up?

What you didn’t know when you accepted the assignment weeks before the nominations came out, was that your new boyfriend, Alex Moore, would be nominated for Best Chef in the Midwest. This wouldn’t have been a problem- in fact quite the opposite -if it weren’t for the fact that your toxic ex who you hadn’t seen in ages was nominated for The Same. Damn. Award.

Now it’s May, and the dreaded day has arrived. You finish applying your vampy lipstick with a shaky hand as you hear Alex yell for you from downstairs. You two have been together for about 10 months now, and it’s been great. Alex is good; he’s stable. Sure he’s a bit egotistical and barely has any free time, but he’s a chef, aren’t they all that way? Alex talks about the future with you, he always calls when he’s tied up at the restaurant, he tells you he loves you.

He’s nothing like your ex, which is a good thing. You think. You love him. You think.

You rush down the stairs with your red Louboutins click-clacking on each wooden step. The shoes had been a six-month anniversary gift from Alex, who apparently didn’t know that anniversary means year. Your boyfriend came from old money which he loved to throw around, especially when it came to spoiling you. He had also purchased the dress you were wearing that night. It wasn’t something you would pick out, but it was nice. Simple and sexy without showing much skin.

“Finally,” he sighs, seeing you make it to the bottom of the stairs, “You look great in that dress. Shoes are a nice touch.”

“Thanks baby,” you say, approaching him where he stands by the counter, “You look hot,”

You go to give him a kiss but he puts his hand up before your lips can reach him, “Hey! Watch it!” He scolds, “I don’t want red lipstick marks all over me when I accept my award tonight, so you’re gonna have to keep it in your pants, nympho,”

You roll your eyes at the nickname, one that he gave you a few weeks into living together. Alex thinks it’s crazy that you want to have sex once (if not maybe two or three times) a day. He’s nothing like your ex.

—

When you arrive at the awards ceremony, your heart is racing. You had been squeezing Alex’s hand like a lifeline the entire ride there; he chalked it up to you being nervous about the work aspect of tonight.

You weave through people hand-in-hand with your boyfriend, saying hello to those you recognized, being introduced to those you didn’t. Currently, you were becoming acquainted with the sommelier from some new fusion place. Alex knew him from college. Or from when he did his training in Belgium? You aren't sure, you weren’t really listening. The only thing you’re focused on tonight is avoiding a very specific nominee. You hope you don’t seem too distracted in this (very boring) conversation.

“I’m gonna go find our seats,” you say to Alex, excusing yourself from the hellish small-talk, “It was great to meet you,” you say to- actually, you never caught her name.

As you saunter through the rows of tables, scanning each place card for you and your lover’s names, you try to calm yourself down. “No sign of him yet,” you think, “Maybe he won’t even come. That would be just like him, not showing up.”

Finally, you find the place card reading “Alex Moore”, but when you look at the table setting next to it, it’s empty. You glance around the table- maybe it blew off the plate? As you scan the surrounding area, you grow a bit concerned. Did they forget to put your name out? Were you even supposed to be there? You had no trouble getting in at the door, but-

“Looking for this?”

You freeze. Of fucking course he found your seat before you could.

You turn on your stiletto to see no one other than your ex-boyfriend, Carmen Berzatto, Executive Chef of The Bear. He stares back at you with your place card between his two fingers like a cigarette. Fitting.

“Please give that back,” you say, doing your best to seem unfazed by his presence.

“Wow,” he responds in mock-offense, “That’s the hello I get after all this time? C’mon, Jig,”

You wince at the nickname. You and Carmen had met while you were bartending in college. He was a regular at your bar, and you were a bright-eyed bushy-tailed 21-year-old hoping to make it as a food writer in the big city. You two bonded over your love of food, and would trade recommendations back and forth for different spots around town. You were the only bartender out of the whole staff who used a jigger (was no one else worried about their ratios??), so before he knew your name he would just call you Jigger, which then got shortened to Jig. Even after he finally asked for your name (and number), and even throughout your 3-year relationship (if you could even call it that), he still called you Jig more than your actual name.

“Hello Carmen,” you reply with a tight smile, extending your hand, “May I please have my place card for my seat?” You ask again.

As he opens his mouth to respond, you hear Alex calling out for you, “Babe!” He quickly walks over to where you and Carmen stand, “Hey, you found our seats?” He turns to look at Carmen, “Hey man, good to see you!” He embraces the chef, and takes a step back, looking at the place card in his hand, “Why do you have my girlfriend’s name in your hand?”

You panic. “Ummm… Carmen here found it on the ground, and he was kind enough to pick it up and come find me with it,” You (not so kindly) snatch the white paper out from between his fingers, “thank you again,” You hope your tone makes it clear that you want him to walk away.

“Find you…” Alex looks between the two of you, obviously confused, “Sorry, do you two know each other?” Shit.

Carmen looks at you, amused. You didn’t tell your boyfriend about him.

“Yeah!” You say, a little too enthusiastically, “Um yeah! I erm, I interviewed Carmen about The Bear for that article a few months back, remember honey?”

Alex looks back at you and thinks for a second. “Oh right, I remember that article,”

You never wrote an article about The Bear.

“And how could I forget such a face,” Carmen chimes in. You try to give him a warning with your eyes, and he seems to receive it when he says, “Well, it’s good to see you both, I should go find my place card this time. Good luck out there tonight, Alex,” He pats your boyfriend on the bicep.

“Hey, you too, man,” Alex responds, grinning. As Carmen walks away, he leans down to you and whispers not-so-discreetly, “He’ll need it,”

You try to ignore the comment as the two of you sit down. Your boyfriend was a good chef, a great chef even, but Carmen was better. When you read through the nominations all those months ago, you knew he would win tonight. As someone who had watched the man in his element, there was no doubt in your mind: Carmen would take home the award.

As people continue to mingle and find their seats, you take a glance around the room. The reception hall was huge, there had to be at least a thousand people in the building. Which is why it’s so painfully ironic that Carmen’s seat is in direct eye-line with yours. As you continue to survey your surroundings, his icy blue eyes meet yours. He was staring at you with a familiar look in his eye, and you try to ignore the knots it was tying your stomach into. You quickly look away, turning your attention back to Alex. He turns to look at you, and you go to give him a quick peck, forgetting your conversation from earlier. He once again stops you, rearing his head back to avoid your lips (or your lipstick, rather, so he claims).

“Sorry, I forgot,” you say dejectedly to your boyfriend, who looks at you like you just tried to stab him, “I’m gonna run to the bathroom really quickly before they get started,” you tell him, touching his arm.

“Okay, my speech won’t be until later in the ceremony, so no rush babe,” your ever so confident man responds.

You grab your purse as you head out of the large room, searching for the bathroom. You wish you could find an usher…

“Looking for the restroom?” Asks a young man in a suit. You nod. “It’s-“

“I can show her,” you hear from behind you as someone takes your arm, and before you know it, Carmen is leading you down the hall.

You quickly pull back from him, “Would you leave me alone?” You say quietly, hoping no one is watching or hearing this, “I am trying to work and enjoy my night, okay? You should do the same,” you start down the hallway again, alone this time.

“Alright…” Carmen says behind you, “the bathroom isn’t that way, just so you know.”

You stop, and turn to face him again, “So then where the fuck were you taking me?” You ask, exasperated.

“Well, if you would let me show you…” Carmen looks at you expectantly.

You stare back at him silently, and finally allow yourself to actually look at him. He looks good. Like, really good. Carmen never dresses up, but when he does, good lord he’s a sight for sore eyes. You indulge, ogling at the way his black dress shirt sits taught against his strong chest. Even under the thick suit he has on, you can see his strong arms. Those arms that used to hold you, throw you around, flip you over, help you bounce up and down on-

“My eyes are up here, y’know,” Carmen says sarcastically, obviously noticing what you were doing.

You ignore his comment and his noticing, “if I follow you to this mystery place will you leave me alone tonight?”

“Is that really what you want?” Carmen responds with a certain edge to his voice. An edge you recognize. An edge you miss.

You gulp. “Yes,” you say quietly.

“You were always a bad liar,” Carmen mutters, walking past you down the hall, “c’mon, Jig,” he says for the second time tonight.

—

After a few more hallways and a flight of stairs, you and Carmen arrive on the roof of the building. As soon as you’re outside, the blonde pulls out a pack of cigarettes, silently offering you one as his hangs out of his mouth.

“No thanks, I quit,” you say, putting your hand up.

“Well look at you, changed woman,” He jokes as he lights his cigarette, “Old Money Moore wasn’t into it?”

You roll your eyes at the jab at your boyfriend, “For your information, I quit before me and Alex even met,” you look down at your shoes and shiver a bit in the evening air, “why are we up here, Carmen?”

“Will you stop calling me that?”

“Stop calling you your name?”

“Yeah, it’s weird. You never used to call me that,” he takes another drag of his cigarette, “I mean, unless we were fighting,”

“So most of the time, actually,” You respond, humorlessly.

“Did we spend most of our time fighting?” The man looks you up and down as he continues to smoke, “As I recall we spent most of our time fucking,” he exhales.

You bring your fingers to your temples, “Oh my God, get to the point,” you glance down at your phone, “the ceremony’s going to start soon, and I really don’t want to miss anything,” you say. And you mean it - you have a goddamn article to write!

“Is he gay?” Carmen smirks at you.

“W- what? Is who gay? What are you talking about?”

“Your ‘boyfriend’,” he makes air-quotes around the word, “Alex, is he gay?”

You have half a mind to just turn around and head back to the ceremony, but you don’t. You’re not sure why. Yes you are.

“Firstly, he is my boyfriend. No need for the air quotes, asshole,” You start, annoyed that you’re even having this stupid conversation, “secondly, no, he is not gay. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a woman, and we’re in a relationship, so,”

“Oh I’ve noticed,” Carmen says, raking his eyes up and down your body, “I was just asking because I watched him refuse to kiss you earlier,” he throws his cigarette on the concrete ground, stubbing it out with his foot, “and any man who refuses to kiss a woman who looks like you, well, I just have to assume he probably isn’t into women,”

Your face goes hot. Half from the embarrassment, half from arousal. Boy was he laying it on thick. You clear your throat and meet his eyes, which you had been avoiding doing since the two of you got alone.

“Not that it’s really any of your business,” you start, narrowing your eyes at Carmen, “but he asked me not to kiss him so that I wouldn’t get lipstick on him for when he-“ you cut yourself off, realizing how ridiculous it sounds out loud.

Carmen chuckles, staring into your soul. You avert your eyes.

“When he what, baby?” He asks, coyly.

“Don’t call me that,” you say sternly. Or at least try to.

Carmen starts walking towards you, slowly. He backs you up against the wall behind you until there’s only a few inches of space between the two of you. You still avoid meeting his eyes.

“Jig, look at me,” he says quietly, and you obey, finally locking eyes with him. He moves even closer to you and puts his hand on the wall above you, caging you in, “he doesn’t want your lipstick on him for when he does what?” Your faces are so close he’s almost whispering. God, you wish he would leave you alone. No you don’t.

“For when he wins the award tonight…” you say, barely loud enough for Carmen to hear. But he obviously does, as he hangs his head and laughs. The tops of his curls nearly touch your nose. You stare up at the sky again, half from embarrassment, half from arousal. He was so goddamn close. You could smell him.

He lifts his head, still chuckling a bit, “that dumbass thinks he’s going to win the award tonight?” He asks you in disbelief, “like seriously?”

You knew Carmen would win the award, there was no doubt about it, but he was being a major asshole. A sexy asshole, but it was a bit much.

“Carmy-” You go to tell him it wouldn’t be impossible for Alex to win, but you freeze when the nickname slips out of your mouth. He smiles devilishly at you.

“There it is,” he says with that shit-eating grin on his face, “say it again,” he whispers, getting his mouth dangerously close to yours.

“Stop it,” you whisper back. His nose nudges yours and you turn your head to the side.

“What’s my name baby?” Carmy murmurs as he ghosts his lips up and down your neck, “Say it again, sweet girl,” he pulls the neckline of your dress to the side and bites down.

“Carmy,” You whine. You grip his shirt, trying to find something to ground you as your ex-boyfriend sucks a mark into your collarbone, “please, I can’t,”

“But you want to,” he smirks as he continues kissing your neck, your insides becoming molten lava, “Alex doesn’t need to worry about your lipstick on his face, baby. You know why?” He pulls back and looks you in your eyes, already glazed-over and needy, “because I’m gonna win that goddamn award,” he grips your waist as he pulls you tightly to him and whispers in your ear, “and then I’m gonna fuck his girlfriend while I wear it.”

You try to catch your breath as he releases you and your back hits the wall. Carmen takes his thumb and runs it over your bottom lip. You think he’s going to put it in your mouth, but he just wipes a bit of the lipstick off of it. You watch in lustful amazement as he then takes the red pigment and rubs it on his neck underneath his collar. He pushes off the wall and without a word leaves you standing up on the roof, alone, soaking through your underwear.

—

“Jeez, did you fall in?” Alex says quietly as you shimmy into your seat. You had missed the beginning of the ceremony. “Are you feeling okay? You look a bit flushed,” he rests a hand on your thigh and you give him a small smile.

“Yeah, sorry, you know women’s bathroom lines…” you say through tight lips, hoping he doesn’t ask any more questions.

Your prayers are answered when your boyfriend simply nods and turns back to the presenters. You turn to see Carmy staring holes through you, with that stupid goddamn smirk on his face. You take a deep breath and try to return your attention to the stage.

—

You sit through a handful of awards and speeches, and finally it comes to the “Best Chef” section of the night. Up first: Midwest. AKA: Your Boyfriend vs. Your Ex. Your heart races as you watch the presenter give a speech about the award and the nominees. He reads off all of the names of the nominees, and your palms sweat as you rest a hand on Alex’s shoulder.

The room is quiet as the announcer says, “And the James Beard Award goes to…”

You inhale.

“…Carmen Berzatto of The Bear!”

You exhale.

Alex curses under his breath and clenches his fists. You try to rub his back but for the third time tonight, he pushes you away. You sit quietly with your hands in your lap as Carmen takes the stage. God, why does he look so good even in stage lighting?

Carmen walks up to the microphone after having the medal placed on him by the presenter.

“Wow. Um, I’d like to thank my team first and foremost, I wouldn’t be able to achieve anything without them. I’d erm, I’d like to specifically thank Sydney Adamu, my sous chef and partner. She really should be the one up here, but I guess I’ll take it,” The crowd laughs along with him, “I’m really grateful for this award and anyone who’s ever eaten at The Bear. Thank you.” He looks dead into your eyes and grabs the medal as he ends his speech, “I can’t wait to wear this thing!”

Everyone laughs except for you, whose face goes beet red. Luckily the lights are dim enough for it not to be an issue, but you can hear the blood pumping in your ears. You turn your attention back to Alex, whose ears had apparently had steam coming out of them for the past two minutes.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” he mutters, “that was supposed to be my award. After all the fucking money my parents donated to this foundation? What a joke.”

You pretend you don’t hear your boyfriend whining like a spoiled brat, “Are you okay?” You ask sweetly, “It’s just an award baby, it doesn’t really mean anything,” you try to replace your hand on his shoulder but he swats it away. Hard.

“Jesus can you not touch me for like five fucking seconds?” He says, pretty loudly, considering they’re in the middle of presenting the Best Chef Northeast award. You look up to see if anyone heard and see Carmy coming down the steps of the stage, clenching his jaw as he watches the interaction. You hold your stinging hand and excuse yourself to the restroom before your tears of anger can spill over.

As you stand in the mirror, dabbing your eyes before any more tears can fall, you hear the bathroom door creak open and the deadbolt turn. Behind you in the mirror appears who else but Carmen fucking Berzatto, wearing that stupid fucking James Beard Award. You stare at him through the mirror, silently.

“Well, aren’t you gonna congratulate me?” He says, walking towards you. You turn around to face him, “C’mon, Jig, nothing?”

You stare at Carmen. You watch the way he stares back. All of today’s events race through your head. All the times your boyfriend rejected you, dismissed you, ignored you. Those moments on the roof, the adrenaline you felt, Carmy’s words ringing through your mind.

“and then I’m gonna fuck his girlfriend while I wear it.”

You reach out and grab the medal on his chest and use it to pull him into you. It’s intense off the bat, a mix of teeth tongue and lips, hands frantically grasping at each other. Carmy grips your neck and your waist as you lace your fingers through his curls and give a tug that earns you a soft moan. You begin kissing down his neck, leaving dark red lipstick marks all over. You push his sport coat off his shoulders and begin undoing the buttons at the top of his shirt.

“Eager, are we?” Carmen teases, helping you in removing his shirt.

“Just shut up and fuck me, Bear,” you respond, bringing his mouth back to yours.

“Mmm,” Carmen pulls away, “what happened to my good girl who used to beg so politely?”

“She only gets fucked once every two weeks so she’s kind of impatient right now,” you say as you continue to place kisses all over Carmy’s upper body and palm at his erection.

“Hold the fuck-“ Carmy pushes you off of him and looks at you with shock on his face, “that asshole only fucks you twice a month??”

You look back at him in all of his glory. His curls messy from your hands, his sculpted form covered in your lipstick marks, his pupils blown, his dick, well, huge. Why did you ever give this up?

“He just doesn’t have a high sex drive he says,” you shrug, putting your hands back onto him, “I don’t really wanna talk right now, Carmy,”

“Does he at least eat you out first?” He looks genuinely perplexed and frightened by this information. How could someone have this masterpiece of a woman under their roof and not be ravaging her at least once a day?

“I asked you to fuck me, not make me laugh, Berzatto,” you deadpan back at the man, “seriously, now you know how much I need this, so please,”

“Oh you need it bad, baby,” Carmen says as he turns you around to face the mirror. He begins unzipping your dress ever so slowly, leaving kisses across every inch of your back. You step out of your dress, left only in your matching bra and underwear along with your red Louboutins. “Turn around,” Carmy orders.

You do so. You look at Carmy through your lashes, feeling equally exposed and terrifyingly aroused. The man growls underneath his breath, just staring at you.

“What a fucking idiot,” he says, before picking you up and placing you on the countertop, “doesn’t fucking realize what he has, rich fucking asshole,” Carmy mutters more nasty things about your boyfriend as he pulls your panties down your legs. He smells the soaked fabric before putting them in the pocket of his trousers. He pulls your legs open and groans loudly. “Jesus, baby, is all this for me?” He runs a finger through your soaked folds, collecting some of your arousal which had been building since you first saw him hours ago.

You squirm atop the counter as Carmy just toys with you. He stares at your vagina with amazement, like it’s a piece of art. Finally, he dives in, licking a flat stripe from your entrance to your clit. You gasp loudly. One of your hands flies to grip onto the counter top while the other finds purchase in the golden curls currently perched between your thighs.

It’s just as good as you remember it. That’s the problem, always has been. The sex is so goddamn good. It’s what kept you crawling back every time Carmen would hurt you for 3 long years. You hated your past self for always giving in, but right now, you understood her completely.

Carmy swirled his tongue around your clit as he inserted two thick fingers into your entrance, curling them just right. The stretch was like nothing else. You let out a beautiful noise, causing him to groan into your pussy, the vibrations adding to the delicious stimulation. You clenched around his fingers as he continued his ministrations, feeling that familiar knot tightening in your lower stomach.

“You gonna give me one?” Carmy says, looking up at you with a soaked face and hungry eyes, “You gonna come all over my fingers, baby?”

“Yes, Carmy, yes, oh my god,” you babble, feeling so close, “please don’t stop baby,”

Carmen raises to his feet while continuing to finger you. He pulls you closer to him, leaning into your ear. “Does that feel good, princess?”

As you moan uncontrollably as you muster a “yes feels good,” but you know the questioning won’t end there.

“Yeah baby?” Carmen adds a third finger and you squeal, “how good does it feel?”

“God it feels so good please don’t stop,”

“Who’s making you feel this good, sweet girl?” He continues to whisper into your ear.

“You Carmy, it’s always you,” you respond breathily, the coil in your stomach moments from snapping.

“Say it again,” Carmen growls.

“Carmy oh my god-“ and with that your vision blanks. Your legs shake as you come harder than you have since… well since the last time you fucked Carmy. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he continues his movements, prolonging your orgasm.

You grip onto his strong shoulders as you come down, resting your forehead against his as he removes his fingers from you.

“Jesus Christ,” you say, as you watch him stick all three fingers into his mouth and suck off your residue. You watch familiarly as he gathers spit in his mouth and grabs your jaw. Knowing the routine, you gladly open your mouth, as he spits in the mixture of the two of you. You moan as you taste yourself mixed with Carmen.

“Swallow,” he demands, holding your throat. And you do. “There’s my good girl,” he says, undoing his belt with one hand, “thought I lost you there, baby,”

You hum contentedly as he continues to hold you by your throat while he pulls his cock out of his pants and boxers. You moan at the sight of the state of it. Veins bulging, tip bright red and leaking, and, well, huge.

Carmen pumps himself a few times before saying, “take your bra off,” letting go of your throat to opt for one of your newly free breasts, “love these fucking tits, god.”

You squeeze your legs together as he strokes himself while playing with your nipples. It’s hot, but you need more. Now.

“Carmy, please,” you said, making your sweetest eyes at him, “I need you so bad,”

“You gonna beg me baby?” He responds with that stupid grin on his face.

“I’ll do anything,” you say, disregarding your pride (and your boyfriend).

“Is that right, angel?” He asks, caressing your face as you nod, lowering his voice, “you’ll do anything for this dick?” He continues stroking it as he looks into your eyes, “you need to get fucked so badly that you’re in here begging me for my cock while your boyfriend’s in the other room. Didn’t realize you were such a slut, baby,”

Your pussy throbs as Carmen continues to taunt you, “yes, I’ll do anything please,” you’re truly so desperate at this point, “please just give me your cock Carmy,”

“Say it,”

“Say what?” You ask, genuinely confused.

“Say you’re my slut,”

You gulp. “I- I’m your slut,”

“And why are you a slut?”

“B-because I’m in here begging for your cock when my boyfriend’s right outside…”

“And why are you begging me for my cock when you have a boyfriend?”

Okay this interrogation was getting old.

“Because it’s so much better, Carmy, please just give me your dick haven’t I been good?”

“You’ve been so good, baby,” Carmy says as he pries open your thighs and buries himself inside of you.

You yelp at the intrusion, not expecting himself to push himself in to the hilt on the first stroke.

Carmen lifts up your right leg and puts it over his shoulder. Then the left. He watches as your tits bounce while you half-lay on the countertop. You watch as his medal bounces on his chest with each thrust. He notices.

“You like that baby?” He asks, snaking a hand down to rub circles on your clit, “you like getting fucked by the best chef in the midwest?”

“Yes Carmy, fuck, just like that,” you moan out, “best dick in the midwest,” you say, somewhat jokingly.

Carmen half-laughs half-growls at the comment, “that’s fucking right, baby, best dick you’ll ever have. That’s why you keep coming back, right? That’s why you’re in here cheating on your stupid fucking boyfriend? Yeah?” With that last comment, he delivers a slap to your clit, causing you to scream and your pussy to clamp down around him.

“Fuck always so tight, princess, always so good for me,” Carmy babbles, getting lost inside of you, “this is my pussy. No one else’s. Say it.”

“It’s- fuck!” You yell as Carmen adjusts his angle, now hitting your G-spot over and over, “It’s your pussy Carmy, fuck! It belongs to you, I belong to you, oh my God don’t stop, please!”

It seems like Carmy misheard you as he stops fucking you and pulls you down off the counter top and kisses you ferociously. He grabs at your ass and you whine at the loss of him inside of you.

“Hold on baby, I’ve got you,” he says against your lips, “just need to do something,” he says, as he lifts off his medal and places it around your neck. You look up at him, confused. “Turn around,” he says, darkly.

You turn around to look at yourself in the mirror. There’s a red mark around your neck from where Carmen was gripping you, your updo from earlier is now mostly down, your chest is littered with small hickies, and between your tits lies a motherfucking James Beard Award.

Carmen pushes on your upper back so that you’re leaning over the counter and re-enters you at a punishing pace. The bathroom is filled with lewd noises of skin slapping skin and moaning. You look up to see Carmen staring at you through the mirror. Except, he’s not looking at your face, he’s staring at your tits. Wait. No. He’s staring at the medal bouncing with your tits.

Carmen looks into your eyes through the mirror, “yeah look at you,” he growls, somehow pushing into you even faster now, “my girl wearing my fucking award. Jesus Christ look at that,” he watches intently as the piece of silver bounces off of your chest with each thrust he delivers, “fuck, who’s the best baby?”

“It’s you, Carmy, you’re the best,” you moan out in response, “you’re the best,”

Carmen reaches around you and grabs the medal, but keeps the ribbon around your neck. He pulls on it just enough that your back arches and your head falls onto his shoulder. The new angle this creates is mind-blowing, and you once again moan all too loudly. Carmen litters kisses and bites along the shell of your ear.

“I’m so close baby,” he strains into your ear, “want you to come with me,”

With that he takes his free hand and resumes his work on your clit. The combination of the dragging of his thick cock over your G-spot over and over again with the tight circles he’s rubbing into you has you barreling towards your second orgasm. Knowing your body the way he does, Carmy can tell, and he tries his best to time his release with yours.

With one final stroke, you’re coming undone on Carmy’s dick, throat still held tight by the ribbon of his award. Carmen stutters as he comes inside of you with a groan, holding your hips in a way that will bruise as he paints your insides, the warmth adding to your intense pleasure. You both come down from your highs with a collection of sighs and moans, and finally, Carmy pulls out of you. You whimper at the loss of contact and the feeling of him leaking out of you.

Wordlessly, you begin to dress yourself again. You don’t even bother asking Carmen for your panties back, that’s an argument you’ve lost to him enough times already. You zip your dress back up, Carmen silently helping you get it to the top as he too works on making himself decent again. You attempt to fix your hair looking in the mirror, getting it back to a somewhat similar state to when you arrived earlier this evening. You smooth out your dress, and go to walk out of the bathroom when Carmen clears his throat.

“You, um,” he looks at the floor before making that piercing eye contact he’s so good at, “you deserve better, you know, than that asshole,”

You stare back at the man you loved for so many years. The man you still love today. He was right, you did deserve better. Better than Alex, but better than him, too. You nod back at him with tears in your eyes.

The Interview.

The cameras are almost blinding as you stare out into the crowd of photographers shouting your name, trying to get the best angle for whatever publication they’re working for. Being a top executive at Sony Music meant you mostly worked behind the scenes; out of the spotlight. However, seeing as 18 artists on your label (five of which you yourself handpicked) were up for awards tonight, you couldn’t not show up to The Grammys. Besides, it felt good to dress up once in a while, especially if that meant wearing custom Chanel.

Continuing down the red carpet, you’re stopped by a reporter for Rolling Stone, Bryan Wilson. From the few brief interactions you’ve had with him at industry parties and the stories that have circulated about him, you know the guy’s a sleaze. But, given that there’s a Canon XF605 pointed directly in your face when he asks if you have time for a short interview, you smile sweetly and comply.

“You look stunning tonight, as always, Y/N”, he begins, in typical sleazy reporter fashion, “Can you tell us a little bit about what you’re wearing?” His eyes travel down the expanse of your body, grazing (quite slowly, to be frank) over the daring V-cut of your gown.

You couldn’t really blame him for checking you out, you did look incredible in this dress. Layers of black satin expertly draped over your body created an elegant but sexy silhouette complete with a plunging neckline and a timeless backless design. You knew you looked good, you didn’t need Wilson eye-fucking you to tell.

“Isn’t this The Rolling Stone?” You giggle in response, half-joking, “Shouldn’t you be asking me about Sony Records and leave the fashion questions to Vogue?” To the untrained ear, your tone is light-hearted and sincere, however, there’s an intended edge you’re hoping is coming through.

If he was picking up on the edge, he wasn’t showing it. Wilson continues on checking you out, responding “We hear about Sony Records enough, but it’s a treat to see the woman behind the magic,” he looks directly into the camera and gestures to your body, “especially when the woman looks like this!” He looks at you now, “Why don’t you give us a spin, Y/N?”

You clench your jaw into a tight smile, “You know, I’d really rather talk about the artists up for awards tonight. It’s a record-breaking night for my company, and I’m extremely proud to be here…” You’re trying your best to refocus the conversation on the real reason you’re on the red carpet tonight, but Wilson’s wandering eyes are making it difficult for you to focus on anything.

Finally feeling fed up, you clear your throat, “Sorry, Bryan, am I boring you?”

He breaks out of his stare from your chest and goes red. “Oh! No, I’m sorry I was just… looking at your necklace!” He gestures to the Tiffany & Co. pendant that hangs (conveniently for him) right between your boobs.

“Stunning, innit?” You hear your boyfriend say from behind you as he comes up and possessively wraps his arm around your waist on camera in a way that will definitely be circulating Twitter tomorrow. “Just bought it for her yesterday when I first got to see the dress.” Matty grips your right hip so tight that the satin puckers under his fingertips. You get a feeling he’s been watching this “interview” from afar.

“A beautiful necklace for a beautiful woman, indeed,” Wilson so boldly responds, either not noticing or not caring that Matty was already quite irritated.

With that final comment, Matty grips your hip even tighter, “Right, then,” he says shortly, “Cheers, mate!” He yells over his shoulder while quickly ushering you away from the train wreck of a media appearance.

“I’m gonna kill that guy,” he leans down to quietly whisper in your ear as the two of you make your way into the venue, “Staring at you like a piece of meat live on camera, isn’t he embarrassed?”

“It’s really not a big deal, baby,” you try to reassure him. And to you, it wasn’t, really, compared to some of the other harassment and objectification you’ve experienced in such a male-dominated industry, “He’s just some stupid reporter,”

“Yeah some stupid reporter who doesn’t know how to keep his stupid fucking eyes away from what’s mine,” he growls under his breath.

You grow a bit warm at your boyfriend’s possessive words and decide to push him a little further. “So what, people aren’t allowed to look at me now? We’re kind of on a red carpet if you haven’t realized,”

Matty rolls his eyes as the two of you take your seats at your assigned table. “You know what I mean,” he scoots a bit closer to you, wrapping his arm around your waist, “People can look at you all they want, but these,” he trails his hand up your torso, palming your left tit and slightly grazing its nipple through your dress with his thumb. You gasp. “These are mine, and you know that.” he says lowly into your ear.

This was going to be a long night.

—

Seven wins, two acceptance speeches, and a few too many bottles of champagne later, the ceremony was coming to an end. You were so proud of your artists, even those who hadn’t won tonight.

To your (and your aching feet’s) misfortune, your boyfriend was insistent on “making an appearance” at the afterparty, to “touch base with some important blokes”. You weren’t thrilled about the ordeal, but you had a nice buzz going from the free champagne earlier and figured a gin and tonic to top off the night wouldn’t hurt anyone. Boy were you wrong.

You were standing by the bar by yourself, watching Matty “touch base” with the aforementioned “blokes”. Nursing your second gin and tonic, you wonder how much longer their conversation will take, and when you can finally go home (and take your boyfriend to bed). As your mind indulges your fantasies of being fucked to sleep later, you hear an annoying and familiar voice from behind you.

“It breaks my heart to see such a gorgeous woman drinking alone,” no one other than Bryan Wilson saunters up beside you at the bar, “Where’s your man? You think he’d be smarter than to leave such precious goods unattended…” he slurs to you, obviously a few more deep than you were at this point in the night.

As Wilson drunkenly gets too close to you, you turn back to where Matty was talking to see him staring holes into the man’s skull, clenching and unclenching his fists. Your nearing-on-past-tipsy mind flashes back to your boyfriend’s words earlier, and his reaction to the reporter’s initial efforts towards you. You consider your options: 1) tell Wilson to fuck off and continue being bored by yourself at the bar, or 2) play this up a bit, make Matty jealous, have some fun, and probably go home early. Your sixth drink of the night tells you option two is far more enticing, and you agree.

You lean into Wilson a bit, closing some of the distance you were intentionally making. “Ever the flatterer, Bryan,” you lean back and give him a once-over, “I’m shocked that you’re still single, a handsome guy like you with such a smooth mouth on him.”

“It’s intentional baby,” he puts a hand on your arm - uh oh. “Why would I tie down this smooth mouth to one lucky lady? There’s plenty enough to go around…” and just as you think he’s about to make a move you feel a bruising grip on your upper arm tearing you away. Away from Bryan Wilson, away from the bar, away from the party.

You get your bearings and find yourself in a secluded hallway outside the party with your very angry, very sexy boyfriend staring you in the face. “What the fuck was that?” He spits at you, fuming.

“What was what?” You respond, looking up at Matty with your best doe eyes.

He cages your body in between his own and the wall of the hallway, “Don’t play stupid with me now, things can only get worse for you from here, pet.” As you look up at your very jealous partner, and feel the energy radiating off of him, you think to yourself that things can probably only get better.

You maintain your look of faux-innocence as you reply in your sweetest voice “Baby I was just talking to-“

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” Matty growls as he grabs your throat and pushes you harder into the wall behind you. “You were letting that perv practically fuck you in front of everybody here. Making everyone think you’re anything but mine.” He pushes his hips into yours to punctuate the word, and you can feel how hard he is. Oh dear. Maybe it’s time to drop the act.

“I’m sorry, you were just taking so long talking to those guys, and I was getting so impatient and needy for you,” You bat your eyelashes in an attempt to seduce your way out of undoubtedly being fucked silly in some corner of this hotel right now. “I just want you to take me home, baby,” You run your hands down his chest, the way you know he likes.

Matty scoffs at this. “Aw, my poor little slut can’t wait longer than an hour for me to take her home and fuck her?” You feel a heat pool at your center from his words and absolute condescension. His hand around your neck comes up to grip your jaw, holding your head so that you can’t look anywhere but his eyes. “So fucking pathetic. Having to whore yourself around in public so that I can give you some attention? Trying to embarrass me in front of all our colleagues meanwhile, the only thing embarrassing is how stupid you look letting that scumbag put his hands on you,”

He holds your face an inch away from his own, his eyes searching for a response in yours. “I think you may need to be reminded just who you belong to.” He says darkly. And with that, he’s dragging you again, this time into the bathroom at the other end of the hallway.

As soon as the door closes he has you pressed up against it face-first. He wastes no time undoing the back of your dress, practically ripping it off of your body. You hope he doesn’t do any damage to the new gown, but to be honest, you’re not sure you care in this moment either way. Upon removing the dress, your boyfriend can see that you’ve forgone any undergarments (half because of the dress itself, half because you knew it would drive him crazy - which it does).

“Oh my fucking god,” he practically moans when he sees your now naked form pressed up against the door for him. “You’ve been ready for me all night, haven’t you princess?” He whispers in your ear, pressing himself to your back, slightly grinding into your bare ass. You squirm with his words and the minimal stimulation he provides.

“Well let’s just take a look,” He reaches his hand around from where he’s standing and drags a finger through your soaking folds agonizingly slowly. Your breath hitches. “Oh my poor girl,” he tuts, “how long have you been soaking through your dress baby?” He resumes his teasing, touching everywhere that isn’t your clit or your entrance. You whine and push your hips back in protest.

Matty grabs you by your waist and holds you in place against the door. “I think I asked you a question, slut.” He barks. You only grow wetter at his words and his toying.

“Since-“ you start, but you’re cut off by a moan when he takes his free hand to pull on your left nipple. His teasing is almost overwhelming, and you’re not sure you even remember the question the way your head is clouded with lust and need.

You’re pulled out of your hazy state by a hard slap to your pussy, “Since what? Huh? I haven’t even taken my cock out and you’re already fucked dumb. Answer me. How long have you been this wet?” He asks again, rolling your nipple between his fingers while inching closer and closer to your entrance with his calloused hand.

“Since you were grabbing my hips on the red carpet,” you manage to stutter out “during the interview.”

With that answer, he removes both of his hands from you. You put your hands up to brace yourself from slamming into the door from your newfound loss of support. Matty laughs darkly.

“So that’s what this is about, huh angel?” He grabs you by your hips, spinning to face him and pushing you even harder into the door behind you, “you like it when I get riled up, so I’ll treat you like the whore that you are?”

You look up at him with your glazed-over eyes and nod dumbly.

“Well here’s the problem with that,” Matty begins sucking on your neck harshly, no doubt leaving bruises, “You… are… my… whore… no… one… else’s…” he punctuates every word by leaving a new mark on your chest with his mouth. He takes a step back, admiring his handiwork. “Gorgeous,” he mutters as he admires your now hickey-covered tits, “you should really see this baby.”

Matty leads you over to the sink of the bathroom, turning you around to see your naked and marked-up form in the mirror. Looking at the new marks on your chest, you realize that he’s left them in the distinct pattern of your dress’s neckline, meaning there’s no hiding them. No hiding the fact that you’re his. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought.

Leaning over your shoulder in the mirror, you watch as your boyfriend trails his hand down your body to the place you need him most. Unsurprisingly, though, he doesn’t touch you, he simply ghosts his hand over the outside of your now sopping heat. You press yourself into him.

“Please, baby,” you whine, making your best puppy eyes in the mirror at him. “Please, I need you to touch me.” You’re so desperate he doesn’t even need to ask you to beg.

“Do you think you deserve to be touched?” He responds, continuing his teasing, “You’ve been quite a bad girl tonight, baby. And bad girls don’t get what they want.”

“I’ll be good, I promise,” you beg even more, tears forming at your eyes with the desperation he’s built in you.

“Prove it,” Matty responds, trailing his hand up to your mouth. You gladly take his digits in, watching as he toys with you and stretches you out, wishing he would do that in other places. You hear the clinking of his belt, and you perk up, thinking that maybe he’s just going to put you out of your horny misery and fuck you already, but of course he’s not.

“Can’t have you getting yourself all over my nice trousers now can we love?” He says as he pulls his pants down to his ankles. You watch still with all four of his fingers in your mouth as he takes his newly naked thigh and roughly slots it in between your legs from behind. Your eyes roll back at the much-needed friction it provides. Matty leans in, “Right then. Be a good girl and ride my thigh, hm? You’re gonna have to get yourself off before I believe you after tonight’s theatrics.”

Embarrassing as it may be, you are in no condition to care in this moment. You immediately start feverishly fucking your boyfriend’s thigh, moaning around his fingers at the friction you’ve been needing all night, a ball already forming in the pit of your stomach. Not more than a second after your head falls forward in relief, your boyfriend grabs you by your hair to force you to look in the mirror, “Nuh-uh” he growls, “You’re gonna watch while you fuck yourself on my thigh. You’re gonna see just how pathetic you are, crying with relief and coming undone when I’ve not even touched you.”

Matty’s words and the sight of him and you in the mirror add to the very quickly growing warmth in your body. Your skin is on fire as you grip the sink in front of you, trying to use whatever leverage you can to get yourself off faster. You take one hand to start kneading your tits, playing with your nipples, hoping some added stimulation will help; you whine at the new sensation.

“There you go princess, that’s it,” he coos in your ear, “so good f’me, taking directions so well baby.”

The praise goes straight to your core and you can feel yourself clench around nothing. Matty can tell by your breathing that you’re close, so he grabs you by your hips to help you, moving you back and forth on his thigh, assisting in your rhythm. “Come on my thigh,” he demands in your ear; and you do. That white-hot pleasure you’ve been chasing since you saw your boyfriend on the red carpet this afternoon finally washes over you. But it’s not enough.

Matty takes his fingers out of your mouth but keeps you firm against him. As you come down from your high, you look at him in the mirror desperately. Your orgasm was, well, an orgasm, but you know it could be so much better if he would just fuck you.

“Matty please,” You whine, still making sweet eye contact, “Baby, I need more.”

Matty nods his head in the direction of the door. “Put your dress on, love,” You think you might cry, until he whispers in your ear, “I’m not done with you yet, princess.”

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