mimi

“don’t wanna talk about it,” he grits out, because he knows you’ll try to get him to spill if he doesn’t take control. he’s already popping open the button on your shorts and dragging the zipper. the denim is yanked down your shaky legs and tossed to the floor with swiftness.

his hands hook under your knees and push them up towards your tits while he kneels over you. they press into the backs of your thighs next, unforgiving and demanding as he folds you up under him and ignores the whine of discomfort that falls from your lips. your brows furrow, watching him reach for his belt. his hands tremble and his fingers twitch as he undoes his buckle, you swallow down the urge to reach out between your legs and help him.

“just let me do this, let me fuck you.” the words are huffy and pleading. his voice cracks, just a little. “please.”

you don’t say anything. you only look at him with those glossy eyes that he can’t stand sometimes and stay put like a good girl. you’re always good for him. too good. your panties are pulled down your legs in the next second, hanging off of your ankle as he cages you in against the door entirely. his breath mingles with yours, guiding his thick cock to grind against your soft, messy cunt until you’re grabbing at his arms and a groan rattles through his chest. you babble breathlessly and mewl, your wild eyes meeting his half-lidded gaze.

“pope, pope— ‘s gonna hurt.”

your hands slide down his chest before resting on his lower abdomen, a weak attempt at coaxing him to show some restraint.

“i know, sweetheart,” he grunts as he leans down. his nose brushes against yours in an affectionate gesture, before your lips meet. his mouth moves against yours, messy and needy— enough to make you drool a bit as your tongues rub together, enough to distract you when he finally presses his cock inside you, panting against your spit slick mouth, “relax that pretty pussy f’me. you can take it, know you can.”

you’re embarrassed by the sound you squeak out. your hands fist at his shirt, body engulfed in heat that the truck’s AC can’t help. he hisses when your nails bite at his chest through the material, just as he bottoms out and you feel like all the air has been snatched from your lungs. and pope must feel the same way because he chokes on a groan, watching himself sink into your cunt and your thighs twitch. your silky walls flutter around him before you’re even properly adjusted. a testament to how well your body knows and loves him. his hands find your hips, dragging you back under him.

the sound of your pitched gasps and whimpers make his head spin as he fucks you into the backseat. he almost puts his full body weight on you, trapping you and snarling against the side of your face as if he can’t stand himself right now either, “tell me— need you to tell me that you’ll never leave me. promise me.”

it takes you a moment to process the vulnerable words, to realize that whatever happened today had to have been a personal attack rather than a petty disagreement. you somehow manage to bite back your own sounds that he knocks out of you with every deep, controlled thrust. your back arches off of the seat and he’s eager to slip his arms beneath you, holding you close and keeping your hips angled so you can’t run from him. it forces you to hiccup out your words pathetically, “‘m never leaving you— ‘m never leaving, i promise!”

“better not be lying to me, sweet thing.” he breathes. whatever sadness he was clinging onto before has become anger. one rough, firm hand grabs your face. his digits dig into your plush cheeks, making your lips jut into a pout. his eyes are dark, nothing short of dangerous and unwavering. it doesn’t match his hushed tone nor what he’s saying, “y’know i’d find you, right? i’d hunt you down until you had no choice but to come back t’me.”

“andrew, please—” you whimper.

all at once, it becomes too much. how deep he is, how much he needs you, how obsessed he is with you even if it only comes out in moments like this. you nearly fall off the edge right then. your arms snake around his neck, yanking him closer as he groans again against your jaw, feeling your snug cunt hug him so tight he can just barely pull out enough to fuck you right. so he ruts his hips into you, reveling in the way your heels settle against his lower back and your toes curl.

“oh, you like that? like bein’ threatened?” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, making your eyes fall shut. he can’t help but watch in wonder as your lashes fan out, as your cheeks puff while you pant and chase after the orgasm that he’s about to give you.

his own breathing catches in his throat, taking in how perfect you are for him— but then he shakes your head with his grip on your face and brings your full attention back to him. his lips brush over yours as he speaks, “maybe next time i’ll drive out further, let you do a test run in the woods… we can see how far you get before i catch you.”

he made sure you came on his face at least three times. until your legs were jelly, brain mush, voice hoarse from begging him to stop. ‘i-i can’t’ you had whined, ‘ ‘s too much andy!’. he did it to get you into that floaty head space where you’re babbling mindlessly and lax for him.

and you’re exactly that as pope crawls up your body and settles where he belongs, above you and inbetween your legs. still, you breathlessly slur the question that he despises. “condom?”

he feigns frustration even though this is exactly what he planned. “shit— i left my wallet in craig’s car… i don’t have one.”

your response is a needy whine that morphs into a gasp when he rests his cock against your drenched folds and slowly slides back and forth. “can i just have you like this sweetheart?” pope rubs his thick length upwards, angry pink tip catching your clit with every pressing glide. you whimper through your desperate nods, nails clawing at his shoulders, fusing your knees to his ribs to stay spread for him. such a good girl, he thinks to himself.

he keeps his ruttings short. almost playfully light in order to not get you anywhere besides out of your mind from teasing. just how he wants it. when you start to wriggle beneath him, whimpering a few mindless “please please please”s, he looks down at your aching pussy to see her clench around nothing. poor baby, she needs me so bad, he tells himself.

his dick is so coated in your slick releases that pope ‘accidentally’ notches at your opening. staying in motion, he pushes in ever so slightly. your eyes shoot open in surprise “ohh- andy!” you squeal. frustration bubbles in his chest, but he doesn’t give up. because your panic simmers to pleasure and your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you moan at just his bare tip breaching your wet heat.

he buries his face into your neck to hide his satisfied grin, licking and suckling the skin how he knows you like. “jus the tip sweetheart? please?” he emphasizes his wimpy whines with an inching forward of his hips. your nails tear at the flesh on his back as you shudder. “p-promise?” you croak out in hazy compliance. his reply is strained. “ ‘course honey.”

popes promise — to him at least— goes up in flames when he slips a tiny bit further inside and is met with warm, silky tightness. fuckkk. he groans, muscles tensing and you cry out, eyes rolling back. his thrusts are shallow and unsatisfactory. after a only a few, he’s twitching in need, pathetically trying to inch deeper.

you notice, starting to whine and pant. “you cant andy! i’m not on the pill!” the words almost make pope start to piston in and out of you. the thought of coming in you until you’re swollen with his baby infiltrating his mind. that you’ll be tied to him forever and— oh yeah. that’s happening, he decides.

pope leans down to kiss you languidly. trying to tongue fuck you into submission. your pussy is rapidly fluttering around the first inch of his cock, telling him that you want this just as bad as he does. he uses his words. “you just feel so good sweetheart. need you so bad. need all of you.” a breathy moan slips from you at his praise as you return his kiss greedily.

you pull back and blink up at him with your glossy eyes and kiss bitten lips. when your legs start to wrap around him, crossing tightly at his back, he knows he’s almost home free. “okay... i- i need you too andy.”

you barely get the words out before he hastily pushes all the way inside of you. guttural noises of pleasure are ripped from you both as you clench around him so prettily and he stretches you out so perfectly. it’s searing, intimate and raw. so fucking raw.

as pope starts to thrust in and out of you eagerly, obscene slapping sounds echo throughout the room. he whimpers loudly at the warm, wet feeling of you and the noises your body makes for him.

when you shakily tell him between moans “you h-have to pull out.. okay?”

Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.

This was the second kind.

He knew because your breathing changed.

Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.

He knew you read smut.

That was not new information.

You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.

What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.

You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.

The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.

Not enough to be obvious.

Enough to be suspicious.

Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.

You turned a page.

Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.

Jack’s thumb paused.

You bit your lip.

Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.

You did not notice.

Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.

Jack had seen the tabs before.

He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.

You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.

He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.

He was about to find out that he was right.

Just not in the way he thought.

You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.

Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”

Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”

Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.

His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”

You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”

You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”

Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”

Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.

“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.

Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”

You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”

You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”

Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”

You did not hesitate. “Smut.”

Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”

You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”

Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”

You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”

Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”

You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”

You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”

Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”

Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”

Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”

You gave him a look. “Obviously.”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”

You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.

You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.

Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”

You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”

Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”

You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”

Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”

You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”

Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”

Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”

You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.

You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”

Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”

You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”

Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”

You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”

Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”

You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.

Jack waited.

He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.

The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.

Jack looked at the book.

The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.

He reached for it.

Not because he was snooping.

Snooping implied shame.

Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.

This was clinical curiosity.

Marital clinical curiosity.

He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.

Jack glanced toward the hallway.

The kettle hummed.

He opened the book where your finger had been.

He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.

Jack muttered, “Christ.”

You had not been kidding about the smut.

He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.

Red.

Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.

Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.

At first, he smiled.

Then he stopped smiling.

His eyes moved over the page once.

Then again, slower.

A throne.

A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.

A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.

Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.

At the end of that hallway sat his home office.

His chair.

His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.

The one with lumbar support.

The one with the locked wheels.

The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.

Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.

Jack said softly, “Well.”

The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.

He should have stopped there.

He did not.

The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.

Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.

He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.

His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.

Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.

Jack murmured, “Fuck.”

You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.

You stopped in the bedroom doorway.

Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.

Not casually.

Not idly.

Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.

Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.

You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”

Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”

You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”

Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”

You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”

Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”

You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.

You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.

That was the first thing that got him.

Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.

It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.

Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.

Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”

You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”

Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.

The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter. 

“That’s what you wanted?”

You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”

Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”

You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”

His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”

“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.

He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”

You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”

Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”

You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”

You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”

Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”

You smiled. “You like it.”

Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”

The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.

Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“He’s twenty-two?”

You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”

Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”

You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”

Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”

You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”

He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”

Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”

Jack paused. “That was vague.”

You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”

Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”

You blinked. “Worried?”

Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”

You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”

You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”

His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”

You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”

His hand stilled on the book.

You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”

Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”

You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”

Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”

You laughed softly. “Noted.”

His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”

You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”

Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.

You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.

In the way his eyes came back to yours.

In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.

You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”

His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”

“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”

Jack went still.

You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”

His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.

You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.

“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”

His jaw shifted.

“That’s part of it too.”

Jack did not blink.

“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”

His thumb moved once at your waist.

You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”

Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.

You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”

His voice came out lower. “No?”

You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“Because I trust you,” you said.

His hand stilled at your waist.

You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.

“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”

Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.

Then they came back to yours.

“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”

Jack was silent for a long moment.

Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.

“It’s the trust,” he said.

Your breath caught. “What?”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”

You laughed under your breath.

His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”

You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”

Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”

Jack looked toward the book.

His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”

You laughed.

He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”

Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.

His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”

You blinked. “How many what?”

Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”

You laughed softly. “Your problem?”

Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”

You smiled.

He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”

You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.

Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.

You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.

“You really want to know?” you asked.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.

Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.

You tapped the page. “Start there.”

Jack glanced down at the red tab.

Then back at you.

His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”

You nodded. “The throne.”

Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.

He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.

You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”

You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”

“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”

Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”

“We covered the chair,” you agreed.

His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”

The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.

“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.

Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about worship.”

Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.

But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.

“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”

Jack did not interrupt.

You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”

The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.

His voice had gone lower. “What?”

You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.

“I want to try something.”

Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”

Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.

“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”

Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”

You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”

Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.

You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”

Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.

You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”

Jack had taken one slow breath.

Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.

“Close the door.”

You had.

By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.

“Here?” he had asked.

You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.

Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.

Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.

“You want my full attention?” he had asked.

You had nodded, throat tight.

His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”

And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet. 

The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.

But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.

“Look at me,” he had murmured.

You had tried. God, you had tried.

Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.

“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”

And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.

It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.

Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.

Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”

You nodded. “That was the idea.”

His thumb moved once. “The worship.”

You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”

For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.

“Okay,” he said.

You smiled a little. “Okay?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”

Your chest softened.

You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”

You nodded. “Not the first.”

His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”

You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”

Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”

You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”

His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”

You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”

Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”

You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”

Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”

You glanced back at him. “Yes.”

His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.

Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”

You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”

Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”

You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”

Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”

You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”

You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.

Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”

You added it to the stack. “That one too.”

His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.

You followed his eyes and smiled.

Jack sat forward. “No.”

You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”

Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”

You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”

His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”

You smiled. “It was.”

Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”

You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”

Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.

The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.

Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”

You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”

Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”

You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”

Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”

His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.

Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”

Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”

Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”

You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”

You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”

The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.

His mouth had curved. “You need something?”

You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you. 

You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”

Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.

Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”

You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”

Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”

He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.

Jack had checked once. “Like this?”

Your breath had caught. “Yes.”

Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.

His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”

You had tried.

Jack had noticed every second you failed.

Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”

You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”

Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”

You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”

You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”

Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”

You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”

His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”

You nodded. “The night it snowed.”

Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”

Your pulse kicked once.

You held his eyes. “Yes.”

The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.

He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.

Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”

You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”

Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”

You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”

Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.

You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”

His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”

You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”

You had nodded. 

Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”

And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.

In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.

His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”

Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”

You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”

Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”

You smiled wider. “A lot.”

Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.

Then his eyes returned to yours. 

“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.

You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”

Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”

You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”

Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.

“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”

You laughed softly. “Mixed?”

Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”

You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”

Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”

You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”

Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.

His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”

You smiled. “The sundress.”

Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”

You held his gaze. “No underwear.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.

His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”

You smiled. “That was for you.”

The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.

Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”

Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”

You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”

Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.

Jack had asked, “You sure?”

You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.

“Bathroom,” he had said.

You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”

His hand had found the small of your back.

Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”

In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.

His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.

“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”

Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.

Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.

You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”

Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”

You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”

You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”

You laughed. “This is not a court.”

Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”

Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.

Jack watched your hand move to it.

His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”

You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”

Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”

You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”

His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.

You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”

Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.

You nodded. “After the double.”

Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”

Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”

The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.

“What?” he had asked.

Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.

His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.

You had nodded.

The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.

“Tell me what you need,” he had said.

You had swallowed.

You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”

Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”

Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”

Jack had gone very still. 

Then his mouth had softened against your temple.

“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.

Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.

Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.

His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”

In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.

You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”

Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”

You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”

Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”

You sighed. “Yes.”

Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”

You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”

Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”

You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”

Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.

His voice softened. “There.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”

You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”

Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”

You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”

Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”

The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.

“Begging,” you said.

Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”

You nodded. “After your shower.”

The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.

His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.

You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.

Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.

“Ask for what?” he had asked.

Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”

Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.

His thumb had moved once over your skin.

“Then tell me.” Jack had said.

You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”

Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle. 

“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”

Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.

“That one mattered,” Jack said.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”

You breathed out. “Because I asked.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”

Your throat tightened.

You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”

Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”

You tilted your head. “The begging?”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”

You laughed once.

Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”

Your smile softened.

His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”

The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.

You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”

Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.

Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”

You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.

Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”

You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”

You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.

“Green dress,” he said.

You nodded. “Green dress.”

The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.

You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.

Completely.

His eyes moved over you once.

Then again, like the first look had not been enough.

“Jack,” you had said.

He had crossed the room without saying anything.

You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy. 

Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.

“I want you to help me see it.”

Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.

Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.

For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.

“Look,” Jack had said.

You had started to glance away.

His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”

Your breath had caught.

His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.

You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.

“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.

Your throat had tightened.

His fingers had spread over your waist.

“Beautiful,” he had said.

You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him. 

The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.

You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”

Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”

Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.

You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”

Jack covered your hand with his.

You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”

Your smile wobbled. “I know.”

Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.

You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”

Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”

The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.

“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”

You nodded. “Mostly.”

Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”

You smiled. “Pool house.”

His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”

“Fireplace.”

He tapped the third. “Risk.”

“Bar bathroom.”

His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”

“Supply closet.”

His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”

“Bedroom.”

Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”

You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.

Then his eyes returned to yours.

“And worship.”

Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”

Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”

You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”

His eyes darkened.

“Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled. 

He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.

“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”

You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.

“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”

You laughed, startled and bright.

Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.

You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”

You smiled. “Every single one.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”

You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”

You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”

Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”

Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”

You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”

Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”

Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”

You laughed. “Obscene.”

Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.

“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”

Your breath caught.

His smile deepened.

“There,” he murmured. “That look.”

Later That Night…

The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.

Face-down.

Spine bent.

One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.

You were going to complain about that eventually.

Probably.

When your lungs worked again.

For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.

Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.

Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.

He had conducted research.

Thoroughly.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.

Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound. 

“That was incredible.”

You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.

His eyes were still on the ceiling.

You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”

Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”

Your smile widened. “I heard you.”

Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”

You waited.

His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.

Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”

A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.

Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.

You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”

Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously. 

“Yeah.”

Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”

His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.

“Just need a minute.”

You smiled. “Take your time.”

Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.

His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”

You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”

Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”

That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”

Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.

“You’re very pretty,” he said.

You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”

Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.

“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”

You raised your eyebrows. “No?”

“Wrong word.”

You waited, biting back a smile.

Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.

“Beautiful,” he decided.

Your throat warmed.

Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”

You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”

Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”

You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.

His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”

You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”

You pressed your lips together. “The process?”

He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”

You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”

Jack looked back at you.

His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.

“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”

You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.

Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.

You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.

His heartbeat was still too fast.

You smiled against his skin.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.

Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.

“That was incredible.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”

His eyes shifted to yours.

He looked almost offended by your amusement.

“What?”

“You’ve said that four times.”

Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”

Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”

Jack’s eyes held yours.

For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.

“I liked that you showed me.”

Your chest tightened.

His thumb moved against your back.

“I liked that you asked,” he said.

You swallowed.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”

The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.

When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.

Then he exhaled.

“That was also incredible.”

You burst out laughing.

Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.

“There she is,” he murmured.

You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”

His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.

“I’m enlightened.”

You laughed against him. “By smut?”

Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.

“By my wife.”

That stole the breath from your chest.

You lifted your head.

Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.

Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”

Jack nodded once, like that mattered.

Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.

His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”

Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.

“Too late.”

You stared at him.

He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”

You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.

Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.

You hit him with it.

He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.

Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.

After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”

You smiled against his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It was.”

You knew Jack’s kitchen well enough to know he had run the dishwasher. That was the first problem. The second problem was that you also knew Jack well enough to know he had absolutely no intention of unloading it before he left for tactical training.

You found the clean dishes by accident.

You had been at his townhouse for almost an hour, tucked into the corner of his couch in one of his old T-shirts and the soft lounge shorts you kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Jack pretended not to notice they had taken up permanent residence there. You pretended to believe him.

The TV murmured low in the living room. Your phone was facedown beside you. Late afternoon light stretched warm across the hardwood, catching on the coffee table, the arm of the couch, the spot near the entry where Jack always kicked off his boots, even though he complained when you did the same thing.

He had told you to let yourself in.

He always did now.

That was dangerous information if you let yourself think about it too long, so mostly, you didn’t.

You used your key. You kicked off your shoes. You curled up in his house like it had started making room for you without either of you saying it out loud.

Then you wandered into the kitchen for water, saw the clean light glowing on the dishwasher, and sighed as if this were somehow your responsibility.

“Of course,” you muttered.

The dishwasher door opened with a soft hiss. Warm air rolled up, damp and clean, smelling faintly like detergent and steam. The heat brushed your bare legs. Jack had loaded the bowls in the wrong direction again, because apparently, a man could be trusted with a trauma bay, tactical medical support, and other people’s lives, but not proper dishwasher geometry.

You started unloading it anyway.

Not because you were trying to be domestic. Not because the green mug already in his cabinet made something soft move behind your ribs. Definitely not because this had started to feel like your kitchen too.

You were simply a helpful person.

A generous person.

A person who had taken her bra off the second she got comfortable because Jack was not home yet, and you had planned to do nothing more strenuous than drink water, watch terrible television, and bully him into ordering Thai food when he got back.

You put the plates away first. Then the bowls. Then the mugs. The green one went on the second shelf, where Jack always reached for it in the morning, even though he claimed he did not have a favorite.

You were stretching to slide a mug into place when the front door opened.

You did not look over right away. “You ran the dishwasher and abandoned it,” you called, rising onto your toes. “I’m choosing to believe that was a cry for help.”

Jack did not answer. That was your first clue. Your fingers paused on the cabinet handle. The house changed when Jack entered it. You never knew how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. It was not sound, exactly. Not silence. Not even presence.

It was pressure. A subtle rearranging of the air.

You lowered yourself back onto your heels and turned.

Jack stood just inside the kitchen entry.

And your entire brain stopped. Not paused. Stopped. You had seen him in scrubs. You had seen him in old T-shirts and jeans, and the gray sweatpants he pretended were not specifically engineered to ruin your life. You had seen him half-asleep at this very counter, hair flattened on one side, making coffee with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on a French press. You had even seen him at work when he got sharp and calm, voice low, hands steady, the whole room rearranging itself around him because Jack Abbot had decided panic was not useful.

But this—

This was different.

Camouflage tactical pants tucked into boots. A tan quarter-zip stretched across his chest and shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. Camouflage sleeves pushed up enough to make his forearms a personal attack. Protective glasses shoved into his hair. A radio clipped at his shoulder. A duty belt low on his hips, heavy with equipment you did not know the names for, and suddenly wanted explained to you in unnecessary detail.

And the vest.

God help you, the vest.

It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was bulky and practical and worn in, half-unfastened, like he had started taking it off and gotten distracted. A black patch across the front read POLICE in block letters.

It should not have done anything to you.

It did several things.

Several immediate, humiliating things.

Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the mug still in your hand.

His mouth twitched. Barely. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Yeah.” Your voice caught. “I—yeah.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough.

Heat rushed up your neck.

You turned back to the cabinet too quickly and shoved the mug onto the shelf. The wrong shelf. The green mug sat neatly beside his stack of bowls. The kitchen went horribly quiet.

Jack looked at the mug. Then at you. “That’s the bowl cabinet.”

Your fingers were still on the cabinet door. “I know.”

“You put a mug in it.”

“It’s visiting.”

Jack’s mouth curved. Small. Slow. Awful.

You shut the cabinet like that would erase the evidence, and bent for a plate from the dishwasher. A plate was normal. A plate was safe. A plate had never come home from tactical training looking like it could ruin your life with one raised eyebrow and a vest buckle.

 Jack stepped farther into the kitchen. His boots sounded heavy on the tile.

You stared very hard at the plate. “Training was good?”

Jack hummed. “Mm-hm.”

“Good.” You croaked. 

“Long.”

“Right.” You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Long is… training often is that.”

Jack went quiet. That was worse than if he had laughed. 

You lifted the plate toward the cabinet. Wrong cabinet. Again. You froze with your arm half-raised. 

Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.

You could feel him looking at the cabinet. Then at the plate. Then at you.

“Don’t,” you said.

“I didn’t.” Jack replied. 

You couldn’t look at him. “You were about to.” 

“No.”

Somehow, that was worse.

You lowered the plate slowly and opened the correct cabinet with all the dignity available to a person actively losing a fight with kitchen storage.

Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Still in the gear. Still quiet. Still watching.

“You’re flustered.”

You laughed. It came out too high. “I am unloading the dishwasher.”

“Badly,” Jack murmured. 

You exhaled, “You’re welcome.”

His eyes dropped. Not crudely. Not obviously. Just enough. Bare legs. Soft lounge shorts. His T-shirt. Your bare feet on his kitchen tile. You, too comfortable in his house to have expected him like this.

When his gaze returned to your face, something had shifted. Still amused. Still warm.

But darker now. More certain. “Oh.”

Your stomach dropped. “No.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You said ‘oh.’”

“I did.” 

You pressed your lips together, “Don’t.”

He pushed off the doorway and took one slow step closer. You looked at the vest.

Mistake.

Jack noticed. His hand rested briefly against the front of it, fingers brushing one of the buckles like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly where your eyes were.

You looked away so fast that your shin almost caught the open dishwasher door.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Careful.”

You gripped the counter. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yep.” Too fast.

He came closer. Not too close. Close enough. The kitchen smelled like detergent, steam, and him now. Work and heat and Jack.

You picked up another mug. Then forgot why you were holding it.

His gaze flicked to it. Then back to you. “Need help?”

“No.”

“You sure?” He asked. 

“Yes.” You answered quickly. 

Jack glanced at the mug in your hand, “You’ve been holding that for a while.”

You looked down. You were, in fact, still holding the mug. 

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

Jack’s smile deepened. Small. Unbearably pleased.

You shoved the mug into the correct cabinet this time and immediately wished you had not looked proud of yourself for completing a task toddlers could master.

Jack caught that too. “Good job.”

Your face went instantly hot. The words were mild. Too mild.

That was the problem.

He had said them like he was talking about the mug, but his voice had gone just low enough to make your pulse stumble.

You turned to him. “Don’t do that.”

His expression stayed innocent. Too innocent. “Do what?”

You glared, “You know.”

“I don’t.” Jack shrugged a shoulder. 

“You absolutely do.”

A beat passed.

His eyes dropped to the way your hand curled around the counter edge.

When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “You like the gear.”

Your mouth went dry. “I—what?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

You shook your head, “I do not.”

He raised a brow, “No?”

“No.” Your eyes betrayed you, straight to the vest.

Jack saw. The smugness sharpened.

You shut your eyes. “Damn it.”

A low sound left him. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “That’s what I thought.”

You opened your eyes.

He was close now. Close enough that you could see the dust on his boots, the tired edge around his eyes, the way the tan quarter-zip pulled across his shoulders beneath the vest.

You swallowed.

Jack watched your throat move. Said nothing.

Which was, frankly, rude.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said.

“A little.” Too honest. Too calm.

Your stomach flipped. “You’re supposed to deny it.”

“No.” The single word landed low.

Your hand slipped on the counter.

Jack’s gaze dropped to it. Then back to your face. His smile softened into something darker.

More focused. “Oh, baby.”

Your entire body went warm. “Don’t call me that right now.”

His head tilted. “Why?”

“Because I’m already—” You stopped.

Jack waited. His eyes stayed on your face, patient and pleased and quiet enough to make the silence feel like a touch.

You cleared your throat. “Because I’m unloading the dishwasher.”

He looked at the open dishwasher. Then, at the single spoon still sitting in the rack. Then back at you. “Almost done.”

You hated him.

You wanted him so badly your knees felt unreliable.

Jack stepped closer. Your back met the counter. He did not touch you.

Not yet.

His gaze moved over your face, taking in the blush, the uneven breathing, the way you kept trying not to look at the vest and failing every time.

Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. His fingers brushed the loose collar of your T-shirt where it rested against your shoulder.

Barely. Not enough. Too much.

His voice dropped, “You want me to take it off?”

Your eyes jumped to his. “The shirt?” 

His mouth curved. “The vest.”

Oh. Right. The vest.

You looked at it again, because apparently, you had learned nothing.

Jack watched you look. Watched your breath catch. Watched your fingers tighten against the counter.

When you dragged your eyes back to his, he looked unbearably smug. Your voice came out smaller than planned. “Maybe don’t.”

Jack went very still. The kitchen went quiet around you.

His thumb brushed once against your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”

You nodded.  

He waited. Right. Words.

“Yes,” you said softly. “Maybe don’t.”

Jack smiled then. Slow. Private. Absolutely lethal.

“Hands on the counter.”

Your breath left you. “What?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

The words were quiet. That was the problem. Jack did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The command settled into the kitchen with the same calm certainty he carried into rooms where people were used to listening when he spoke.

Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter.

Jack saw. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then came back to your face.

“You good?”

You nodded, then caught yourself because his eyebrow moved. Barely. Still enough.

“I’m good.”

Jack believed you. That was worse. Better. Both.

His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, not quite mercy.

“Then, hands on the counter.”

The kitchen seemed to shrink around the sentence.

The open dishwasher breathed out the last of its heat beside you. The single spoon still sat in the rack, ridiculous and bright beneath the kitchen light. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured to itself, low enough to be forgotten but not low enough to let the house feel empty.

You turned because he told you to. That was the first thing. The second was that Jack noticed the exact moment you realized you liked it. 

Your palms met the counter. Cool stone. Smooth beneath your hands. You spread your fingers over it and tried not to think about how exposed the gesture made you feel. Tried not to think about the soft lounge shorts riding high on your thighs, the oversized T-shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, the fact that your back was to him now, and you could no longer use his face to prepare yourself for what he might do next.

Behind you, Jack did not move.

The silence was deliberate.

You felt it travel down the line of your spine.

Your skin prickled. “Jack.”

His boots sounded once on the tile. Then again. Slow. Measured. Not stalking. Not rushing.

Just coming closer because he had decided to, and because you had put your hands where he told you to put them.

He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.

The vest touched you first.

A brush of hard tactical fabric between your shoulder blades. Warm from his body underneath, rough at the edges, practical in a way that made it feel more obscene than anything designed to be sexy ever could.

Your fingers curled against the counter.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

You had not moved. Not really. But your hands had lifted by a fraction, your fingers starting to curl like they wanted to reach back for him before you remembered yourself.

You flattened them again. The counter was cold. Your skin was not.

Jack’s hand settled at your waist. Warm. Steady. A single touch, and your whole body went too aware of itself. The old cotton of his shirt against your skin. The loose waistband of your shorts. The bare line of your shoulder where the collar had slipped. The cool air in the kitchen. The hard vest behind you.

His thumb moved once against your side. “Good.”

One word. No flourish. No smirk you could see.

Still, your breath went uneven.

Jack heard it.

His hand stayed where it was, not moving higher, not moving lower, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in giving you anywhere to hide. “You like that.”

Your eyes shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His mouth brushed the side of your neck. Barely there. “Liar.”

It should not have sounded affectionate. It did. A shiver moved through you before you could stop it. Jack’s palm flexed at your waist, grounding you without letting you pretend he had missed it.

The kitchen smelled like detergent, fading steam, and him.

Cold air still clung to his clothes from outside. Beneath that was sweat, dust, soap, and the faint metallic edge of gear and training equipment. It was not cologne. It was not polished. It was Jack after a long day doing something physical and dangerous enough that your body had apparently decided common sense was optional.

His other hand came to your opposite hip. Now he had you between him and the counter. Not trapped. Held.

There was a difference. Jack knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too.

His mouth touched your shoulder, a slow kiss just below the place where your shirt had slipped. The touch was soft enough to make your knees go weak. His hands tightened at your hips before you could sway.

Jack’s thumbs moved in slow arcs beneath the hem of your shirt, finding skin. Your breath caught. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked softly as it cooled. Jack’s vest shifted against your back when he leaned closer, and the sound of it—fabric, buckles, the faint scrape of equipment—went straight through you.

His fingers skimmed your stomach. Not high enough. Not low enough. Just enough to make you feel the shape of his restraint. 

You started to turn your head toward him.

 His hand left your waist and came to your jaw, two fingers beneath your chin, guiding your face forward again. “No.”

Your pulse jumped. The word was quiet. Simple. Devastating.

You faced forward again.

Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand dropped back to your side. “Stay there.”

You pressed your palms more firmly to the counter. “That’s bossy.”

His mouth hovered near your ear. “You like bossy.”

Your face burned. “I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A frustrated sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.

Jack stilled. Then, softly, “There.”

Your stomach flipped. “What?”

“That sound.” His lips touched the back of your shoulder. 

The hand beneath your shirt slid slowly up your stomach, then stopped at your ribs. Waiting. Teasing. Holding back exactly enough to make you feel the absence of everything he was not doing.

You went silent.

Jack’s mouth moved along your neck. Slow. Patient. Awful. Every touch felt measured. Not because he was hesitant, but because he had figured out that patience ruined you and was immediately putting that information to use.

His palm flattened over your stomach and drew you back against him. The vest pressed hard into your back. The duty belt brushed the back of your thigh. You felt him there, solid and warm and controlled, and your body gave one helpless little shift backward before your mind could stop it.

Jack’s grip tightened. Not a warning. A response. His breath changed against your neck. For the first time since he had walked through the door, the smug control slipped just enough for you to feel the man underneath it.

You caught it.

Your mouth curved despite yourself. “There he is.”

Jack went still. The air changed. His hand stayed flat over your stomach, but his thumb stopped moving. 

You had gotten him. Only a little. Only for a second. But enough.

His mouth came close to your ear. “Careful.”

Your smile widened, shaky but real. “With what?”

His hand slid to your hip and pulled you back into him again, slower this time.

Your smile disappeared. Every thought went with it.

“Thinking you’re in charge because I let you have one.”

You swallowed hard. “That was one?”

His mouth brushed your neck. “One.”

The word should not have undone you. It did. You were suddenly aware of your hands again, of how badly you wanted to take them off the counter. To reach back. To touch the vest. The straps. His belt. His hands. Anything. You wanted to turn around and get your mouth on his, wanted to make him stop sounding so calm when you could feel he was not.

Your fingers flexed.

Jack saw. “Hands.”

You flattened them. 

He kissed your shoulder. A reward. You hated how fast it worked. You loved how fast it worked.

Jack’s hand slipped beneath your shirt again, slower now, knuckles brushing bare skin on the way up. His touch stayed to the edges: waist, ribs, stomach, the underside of wanting without giving it a name. He was not rushing toward the places your body begged for. He was making you feel every inch before then.

You let your head tip to the side. More room. You did not say it.

Jack did not need you to. His mouth found the space you gave him. His lips were warm against your neck, then his teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch, and your hands press flat again against the stone.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

The praise sank into you slowly like heat. You had been embarrassed before. Flustered. Mouthy because it was easier to be difficult than honest. But somewhere between the counter under your palms and his vest at your back, the fight in you had softened.

Not gone. Changed.

You were still aware of how ridiculous this should have been. The open dishwasher. The last spoon. The clean mug sitting in the bowl cabinet. His kitchen lit golden in the late afternoon while Jack stood behind you in tactical gear and touched you like he had all night and no intention of wasting a second.

But the embarrassment had started to dissolve into something heavier.

Relief, maybe. Relief at not having to hide how much you wanted him. Relief at being told exactly what to do by someone who would stop the moment you asked.

Relief at Jack’s quiet certainty, at the way he gave commands like promises and praise like reward. His hands slid down to the hem of your shirt. 

You tensed, not from fear. Anticipation moved through you so sharply that your breath caught in your throat.

Jack felt it. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Still good?”

“Yes.”

He trusted it.

His thumbs hooked beneath the fabric. “Arms up.”

The command was simple. That made it worse. You had been told to keep your hands on the counter. Now he was telling you to move them. The shift itself felt intimate, as if he were changing the rules and trusting you to follow.

You lifted your hands slowly.

The counter disappeared from beneath your palms, leaving you briefly unanchored. Your arms rose above your head. The position pulled the shirt higher, exposing the line of your stomach, leaving you open to him in a way that made your face burn before he had even taken anything off.

Jack watched. You could feel him watching. His hands rested at your waist for one long second, as if he was taking in the fact that you were standing there because he had told you to.

The silence made your pulse beat harder.

Then he began to lift your shirt. Slowly. The cotton slid up your stomach. Over your ribs. Higher. He did not rush. Of course, he did not rush. Jack had learned that patience ruined you and had apparently decided to make it your problem.

You made a small, impatient sound before you could stop yourself.

The shirt stopped. You froze.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Something you need?”

Your eyes closed. Terrible man. “No.”

His fingers held the shirt exactly where it was. Not up. Not down.

A strip of kitchen air cooled your skin. 

“No?”

Your pride made one final, useless attempt at survival. It failed immediately.

“Please.”

Jack’s breath changed. Only slightly. Enough.

His mouth touched your shoulder. “Please, what?”

The word sat on your tongue, embarrassing and simple, and exactly what he wanted.

“Take it off.”

A pause.

Then his lips curved against your skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re still listening.” He lifted the shirt the rest of the way. 

The fabric dragged over your chest, your shoulders, your raised arms. For a second, it covered your face, warm cotton and the faint smell of him, and then it was gone, dropped somewhere behind you onto the kitchen floor.

The air touched your bare skin.

Jack went still. Completely. Your arms were still raised. Your breathing had gone uneven. The vest pressed warm and hard against your back. And Jack, who had been so smug, so pleased, so devastatingly in control, did not say anything. For one second. Two. 

The silence reached your pulse before his voice did. “You weren’t wearing anything under this.”

Your face went hot. “I was comfortable.”

His hand came back to your waist. Slow. Firm. “In my kitchen.”

“You weren’t home.”

His fingers tightened once. “I am now.”

The words landed low and heavy between you.

You started to lower your arms.

Jack caught the movement immediately. “Ah.”

You froze.

His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could move.”

Your whole body went hot. Slowly, you lifted your arms back into place.

Jack’s hand slid over your waist, controlled, almost reverent, like he was taking a second to recover and refusing to let you see how badly he needed it.

Unfortunately for him, you knew him too well.

Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “Oh.”

His fingers paused.

You smiled, breathless. “Oh, baby.”

Jack’s grip tightened at your waist. “Careful.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. “Did you not know?”

His mouth hovered near your ear. His voice was low. Still controlled. Barely. “I know now.”

A shiver moved through you.

Jack felt it.

His mouth touched the side of your neck. “There you go.”

Your arms ached faintly from being raised, but you did not lower them.

He had not told you to.

Jack noticed.

You felt the exact moment he noticed: the way his hand stilled, the way his breath went rough, the way his body pressed closer behind yours until the vest brushed your bare back again.

He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “You’re waiting.”

Your eyes fluttered. “You didn’t tell me I could move.”

For a second, he was silent.

Then his hand spread over your stomach and pulled you gently back into him. “That’s my girl.”

The praise hit harder than you expected.

Your breath shook.

Jack’s mouth moved along your neck, slower now, rewarding every second you kept your arms lifted. His hand stayed at your waist, then drifted over your stomach, then back to your hip. Teasing. Learning. Not attempt to hide how much he liked the way you were listening.

Finally, his voice came low against your skin. “Hands down.”

You lowered them slowly. Relief moved through your shoulders. 

Before you could decide what to do with your hands, Jack spoke again.

“Behind your back.”

Your pulse jumped. The kitchen blurred softly at the edges. You turned your head a fraction.

Jack was waiting there over your shoulder, eyes dark and steady, giving you time because he always gave you time.

Your hands slid behind you. Slowly. Obediently.

His mouth curved. “There she is.”

The words were soft. Too soft for what they did to you. Your hands stayed behind your back, fingers curling around your opposite wrist, because you had no idea what else to do with them. The position pulled your shoulders back and left you open to him, skin still warm where his mouth had been and cooler now beneath the kitchen air.

Jack did not touch you right away. He looked. You felt the weight of it move over you. Down the side of your neck. Across your shoulders. Along the line of your spine where the vest had been brushing you. The kitchen felt too ordinary amid the silence: the open dishwasher, the clean spoon still abandoned on the rack, the soft ticking of cooling metal, the fading detergent steam caught beneath the sharper scent of him.

Then he stepped closer. The vest touched your back first. Hard fabric. Warm underneath. A scrape of tactical gear against bare skin that made your stomach pull tight.

Your breath caught.

Jack heard it. His hand moved behind you, slow enough that you could have stepped away, and closed around both of your wrists. Not tight. Not rough. Just firm. Certain.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist, and the carefulness of it almost made the whole thing worse. He held you like he meant it. Like he knew exactly what you were giving him and had no intention of taking it lightly.

“You good?” he asked against your shoulder.

Your answer came out quieter than you expected. “I’m good.”

His grip settled.

His free hand came to your waist, palm spreading warm against your skin. Then he drew you back by degrees, not pulling hard, not forcing, just guiding until your spine met the vest and your hips met the solid line of him behind you.

Your lips parted.

The air left the room.

Jack’s mouth touched the side of your neck. Barely.

You felt it everywhere.

He kissed you slowly, once beneath your ear, then again lower, where your pulse had become embarrassingly easy to find. His hand slipped from your waist to your stomach, flat and steady, holding you against him while his mouth learned what made your breath change.

You tried to swallow. It came out as a sound instead.

Jack’s grip around your wrists tightened. Not a warning. A response.

He liked that.

You knew because his breath shifted against your neck. Because the calm line of him behind you went a little less calm. Because his hand pressed you more firmly back into him, making sure you felt exactly what listening to him had done.

Your eyes opened. The kitchen cabinets blurred in front of you. The cabinet with the mugs. The bowl cabinet with the green mug still sitting in the wrong place because neither of you had bothered to fix it.

You should have found that funny.

You would have, if Jack’s mouth had not opened against your shoulder. If his teeth had not skimmed just enough to make your knees loosen. If his free hand had not slid to your hip and pulled you back again, slower this time, letting you feel him through all that gear, all that restraint.

“Jack.” His name came out thin.

He hummed against your skin. Not a question. Not yet. He knew what you wanted. That was the problem. He knew, and he was taking his time with the knowledge. His hand dragged slowly over your stomach, then back to your waist, then lower to the band of your shorts. He did not go beneath it yet. He only rested there, fingers spread, the heel of his hand warm against the place where your body had gone tight with waiting.

You pulled against his grip without meaning to. His hand around your wrists did not move. The reminder went through you like a spark.

You were not trapped.

You were held.

There was a difference, and Jack knew exactly how to make you feel it.

His mouth came to your ear. “Tell me.” 

Only two words. Soft. Rough at the edges.

You closed your eyes.

The old instinct rose—joke, dodge, say something difficult enough to make the wanting less obvious. But your shirt was on the floor. His vest was against your back. His hand was at your waistband. And you were tired of pretending you were not shaking.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder. A reward. His hand slipped lower into the waistband of your shorts. Slowly. The first real touch made your whole body lock. Jack held you through it. One hand around your wrists, the other moving with maddening patience, his mouth warm at your neck, his breath uneven now.

He did not ask again.

He trusted the way you leaned into him. He trusted the way your head tipped back against his shoulder. He trusted the way your fingers curled helplessly in his grip instead of pulling away.

And because he trusted you, you gave him more.

A breath. A sound. His name, softer this time.

Jack moved as if he were learning you by touch and already knew he would remember every answer. Every shiver. Every little hitch of breath. Every helpless attempt to chase his hand when he slowed down.

“Easy,” he murmured.

Your body listened before your pride could object.

A low sound moved out of him, almost a laugh, pleased and dark and far too close to your ear. He liked that too. He liked it when you listened.

You could feel it in the way his grip tightened around your wrists. In the way his mouth became less patient at your neck. In the way his body leaned heavier into yours for one second before he reined himself back in.

“You’re doing so good.” The praise sank into you, warm and devastating.

Your head fell back against him. The ceiling light caught in your vision. Soft gold. Too bright. Too ordinary for this. His kitchen. His counter. The open dishwasher still breathing out the last of its heat.

Jack’s hand moved again. The world narrowed. The hard vest. The radio is brushing your shoulder. The duty belt against the back of your thigh. His mouth at your throat. His breathing is no longer even.

He brought you closer slowly. So slowly, you almost did not recognize what he was doing until your hands tightened in his hold and your legs started to tremble.

Your breath broke. “Please.”

The word slipped out raw.

Jack stopped kissing your neck. Everything in him seemed to listen. His hand did not stop.

Not yet.

“Please what?”

You made a sound that was not quite an answer.

 He slowed. Cruel. Controlled. Patient enough to ruin you.

Your forehead nearly dipped into the counter in front of you. “Jack.”

His mouth touched your shoulder. “That’s not an answer.”

Your face burned. Not shame. Something warmer. Something that made the wanting sharper because he was making you stand inside it and speak.

“Please don’t stop.”

His breath left him rough against your neck. There. That got to him. 

The knowledge made your knees weaker.

Jack gave you what you had asked for, and your whole body went soft and tight at once. Your wrists strained in his hold. His grip steadied you immediately, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth returned to your neck and his fingers worked over you in slow, tight circles.

You were close enough now that the room started to slip.

The tile beneath your feet. The cabinet in front of you. The hum of the refrigerator.

All of it blurred around him. His hand. His vest. His voice in your ear. “That’s it.”

You shook against him.

He felt it. 

He gave you more. 

Then, just as your body started to tip toward the edge, just as your breath caught and stayed caught, just as your fingers curled helplessly behind your back—

Jack stopped. Completely. 

For one impossible second, you could not process the absence. Then you made a sound so desperate it should have embarrassed you.

It didn’t.

You were too far gone for that.

Your body tried to follow his hand.

Jack’s arm came around your waist immediately, holding you still, holding you up, his mouth pressing to your shoulder in something almost tender. “Easy.”

You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”

“I’ve got you.” He murmured.

“You stopped.” 

His mouth curved against your skin. “I did.”

You pulled at your wrists, helpless now, frustrated enough that your eyes burned. “Why?”

His hand rested flat over your stomach. Still. Warm. Maddening.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Because you begged so pretty.”

Heat rushed through you, full-body and humiliating. 

“And I want to hear you do it again.”

For a second, you could not answer. You could only stand there with your hands still held behind your back, Jack’s vest pressed against your bare skin, his arm firm around your waist, his breath warm at your ear. The kitchen felt too bright for what he had done to you. Too normal. Cabinets. Counter. Open dishwasher. The last spoon was still sitting in the rack like neither of you had any intention of finishing what you started.

You whispered his name.

Jack’s mouth touched your shoulder. “Turn around.”

Your pulse jumped.

His grip loosened around your wrists. For a second, you did not move. Not because you did not want to. Because the absence of his hold made you feel strangely weightless, like your body had forgotten what to do without his hand telling it where to stay.

Jack noticed. His fingers brushed once over the inside of your wrist before he let go completely.

“Slow.”

One word. You obeyed. You turned carefully, bare feet shifting against the cool tile, counter at your back now, open dishwasher to your side, Jack in front of you.

He looked almost unfairly composed for a man whose breathing had gone rough against your neck moments ago.

Almost.

His vest was still half-unfastened. The tan shirt beneath it clung to his shoulders. His hair was mussed from the protective glasses shoved into it. There was dust on his boots. A shadow along his jaw. His eyes moved over your face first, then lower, and the effort it took him to bring them back up made your stomach twist.

“There,” he said softly.

Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you. “What?”

Jack stepped closer. His hands settled at your waist. “I wanted to see your face.”

The sentence should have been tender. It was. That made it worse. His thumbs moved once over your skin, slow and warm. He watched you take the touch. Watched your lips part, your shoulders lift, the way your body could not decide whether to lean into him or brace against the counter.

Then he bent slightly.

“Jack—”

His hands tightened at your waist. A warning. A promise.

Then he lifted you.

The counter was cold beneath you.

You gasped at the sudden shock of it, the stone pressing against the backs of your thighs, cool enough to make your whole body jolt. Jack stepped between your legs before you could close them, his gear brushing you, his hands still steady at your waist.

The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The television in the living room had gone to some muted commercial you could not place. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked again, cooling metal, soft and domestic and absurd.

Jack stood between your knees like he belonged there. Like he had always intended to put you there.

Your hands moved toward him before you thought better of it.

He caught your wrists. Fast.

Your breath stopped.

Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Not yet.”

You made a soft, frustrated sound.

His mouth curved. “Hands on the counter.”

You stared at him. “You just let me turn around.”

“And now I’m telling you where to put them.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re very bossy.”

Jack guided your hands to the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.

His fingers pressed over yours until you gripped it. “Hold here.”

Your hands curled around the counter. The stone was cold under your palms.

Jack waited until he saw your fingers tighten. Then he let go. “Good.”

The word went through you with humiliating ease.

Jack saw that too. His gaze sharpened. “You’re going to be a problem now.”

You tried to breathe normally. “You already knew I was a problem.”

“I knew you were mouthy.” His hands slid to your knees. Slow. Firm. “This is different.”

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs as he eased your legs wider. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain. Every inch of space he made felt deliberate.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “You love my mouth,” you said.

Jack stopped. For half a second, the entire kitchen went still.

Then his eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Amused. Worse than amused. “Yes.”

The answer was immediate. Too immediate. Your pulse stumbled.

Jack’s thumbs moved once over the inside of your knees. “But right now,” he said, voice low, “I’m interested in what it does when I tell you to be quiet.”

Oh.

Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.

Jack’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “There she is.”

Your face burned. “That was mean.”

“No.” His hands moved higher on your thighs, slow enough to make your thoughts scatter. “That was honest.”

The kitchen air felt cool against your bare skin. Jack felt warm everywhere he touched you. The vest shifted when he leaned down, hard fabric brushing the inside of your leg before he caught himself and adjusted.

Still controlled. Still careful. Still somehow making every careful thing feel worse.

His fingers found the waistband of your shorts. You went still. Jack noticed. His gaze lifted to your face. “You good?”

Your throat worked. “I’m good.”

His thumbs slipped beneath the soft fabric. “Hands stay.”

Your fingers curled harder around the counter.

Jack drew your shorts down slowly. Not because they were difficult. Because he wanted you to feel every second of it, the fabric dragged over your hips, your thighs, catching briefly beneath you until he lifted you just enough to ease it free. The movement was smooth and effortless, one hand at your waist, one at your thigh, his body still between your knees, the vest brushing your skin whenever he leaned close.

You stared at the ceiling because looking at him felt impossible. That did not help. The ceiling was too ordinary. The kitchen light was too warm. The dishwasher was still open. Your shorts slid down your legs and fell somewhere near his boots.

Jack did not move for a moment. He just looked. 

The quiet of it made your pulse beat everywhere. “Jack.”

His hands settled back on your thighs. “I’m here.”

The answer came immediately. Grounding. Ruinous. His thumbs moved slowly over your skin, and he eased your knees apart again, reclaiming the space he had made before.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He lowered his head and kissed the inside of your knee.

Soft. Patient. A beginning.

Your head tipped back against the cabinet.

Jack’s voice came low against your skin. “You asked so nicely before.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “I was desperate.”

“I know.” The smile was in his voice.

You hated that. You loved that.

His mouth moved higher. Still not enough. Your hands twitched on the counter.

Jack noticed without looking up. “Hands stay.”

Your grip tightened immediately.

The reward came as another kiss, slow and warm, higher than the last.

You let out a shaking breath. 

Jack looked up at you. Focused. The kind of focus that made rooms go quiet around him. “Then take it.”

The words emptied your lungs.

Jack lowered his mouth. 

The first touch made your whole body jerk. Your fingers clamped around the counter. The cold stone bit into your palms. Your shoulders hit the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, and Jack’s hands tightened on your thighs to keep you there, open and still and absolutely nowhere near in control. 

“Oh, my God.” The words broke out of you before you could stop them.

Jack paused. Barely.

You felt the shape of his smile against you. “Quiet.”

You inhaled sharply.  

Then he did it again. Slower this time. Like he wanted to feel the exact second you lost the fight with yourself. Your head tipped back against the cabinet. The kitchen light went soft and gold behind your closed eyes. Everything narrowed to Jack between your thighs, the rough brush of his vest against your leg, the pressure of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to listen with his entire body.

You tried to move.

Jack held you still. Not harsh. Firm enough. A reminder.

Your hands stayed on the counter. Barely.

His thumb stroked once over your thigh, approval without words, and the gentleness of it almost made you unravel faster than the rest. You made another sound. Smaller. More helpless.

Jack hummed low, pleased, and the vibration went through you like a spark.

Your eyes flew open.

He looked up. That was worse. His mouth was still close. His eyes were dark and steady, watching your face like he was reading every answer you gave him. “You like that?”

Your voice had vanished. You nodded.

Jack’s hands stilled.

 The silence pressed hot against your skin. Right. Words.

“Yes.”

His mouth curved. “Tell me.”

Your fingers dug into the counter. “I like that.”

He rewarded you immediately.

Your breath broke.

Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs, adjusting you closer to the edge, and the movement made the counter colder, him warmer, the room smaller. You wanted to touch him so badly your hands ached around the stone. 

One hand slipped. Only an inch.

Jack lifted his head. “No.”

The word was quiet. Your hand froze.

He did not look angry. He looked pleased. Terribly pleased. “Where do your hands stay?”

Your face burned. “On the counter.”

His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh. “That’s right.”

He waited until your hand curled back around the edge.

Then his tongue found you again. A reward. A ruin. You were a mess within seconds. Not gracefully. Not prettily. Completely. Breath snagging. Thighs trembling. Shoulders pressed against the cabinet. Hands locked around the counter because Jack had told you to keep them there, and somehow that command had become the last solid thing in the room.

Jack took his time. Of course he did. He had learned that patience ruined you, and now he was proving it. Every time you thought you knew the rhythm, he changed it. Every time your body started to rise toward something, he softened. Every time you whispered his name, he gave you enough to make you do it again.

“Jack.”

His hands tightened. You heard his breath change. Felt it. He liked his name like that. You knew it now. 

You used it. “Jack, please.”

He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against your skin. “Please what?”

You let out a broken little laugh, almost angry with how badly you needed him. “You know.”

“I do.” His mouth brushed higher. Not enough. Not yet. “I want to hear you.”

Your head fell back. The cabinet was cool against your shoulder blades. Your own breathing sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Please don’t stop.”

Jack’s hands flexed. There. He liked that. The knowledge made you ache.

 He gave you more. The room slipped sideways. The hum of the refrigerator disappeared. The TV disappeared. The open dishwasher, the cooling spoon, the late afternoon light across the tile — all of it blurred into sensation.

Jack’s mouth. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice, when he murmured, “Good girl,” like praise, was another way to touch you.

Your hands started to loosen from the counter. You caught yourself.

Jack saw anyway. “That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hold on.”

You did. Your fingers curled around the edge until your knuckles ached. Your thighs trembled under his hands.

He brought you close slowly. Too slowly. You could feel it building, feel yourself tipping toward that bright, impossible edge he had denied you once already. Your breath came in pieces. Your body tried to move with him, tried to chase, tried to close around him.

Jack held you open. Held you still. Kept you there.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He lifted his eyes to yours. The sight almost ended you by itself. Still in gear. Still composed enough to look up like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Not composed enough to hide the roughness in his breathing. 

“What do you need?” The question was quiet. Devastating.

You swallowed. The begging came easier this time. Too easy. “Please.”

His mouth touched your thigh. “Please what?”

Your cheeks burned.

You did not hide. Not this time. “Please let me.”

Jack went still. His eyes darkened. For one breath, all the smugness slipped, and what was left underneath was hunger so sharp it made your fingers tighten on the counter.

Then his mouth curved slowly. “There it is.”

He kissed your thigh. A reward. “Again.”

You shook your head once, breathless. “Jack.”

“Again.” His voice was rougher now. Less teasing. More affected.

And because you could hear what it did to him, because you could feel that he was not nearly as untouched as he pretended, you gave him the words.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me come.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. Then he lowered his mouth again. This time, he did not stop. Your whole body went tight. The counter edge cut into your palms. Your breath caught and stayed caught. Jack’s hands held you through the first shudder, then the next, one arm pressing over your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted you while the rest of you broke apart around him.

You heard yourself say his name. Once. Twice. Too soft to be a scream. Too ruined to be anything else.

Jack stayed with you through all of it. Not rushing. Not moving away. His mouth is softer now, his hands gentler, easing you down instead of dropping you.

Your body went heavy. Boneless. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and the kitchen came back in pieces.

The hum of the refrigerator. The detergent smell. The cool counter under your palms. The sound of Jack breathing. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then the lower part of your thigh.

Then he looked up at you. His hair was mussed. His mouth was wet. His vest was still on. And he looked unbearably pleased with himself. “You still good?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “I think you know I’m not.”

His mouth curved. Warm. Smug.

So comepletely Jack, you almost laughed.

 “Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

He rose slowly, stepping back between your thighs.

His hands settled on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching you. He leaned close enough that the vest brushed your bare skin again, and you shivered even now.

Jack noticed. His smile deepened. 

You closed your eyes. “I hate the vest.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your laugh came out weak. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Jack’s mouth brushed yours. Slow. Deep. A reward and a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark again.

Your hands slid from the counter toward him. This time, he let you touch the vest.

For one second.

Only one.

Then his hand closed gently around your wrist. “Not yet.”

Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb moved over your pulse. “I’m not done with you.”

The words landed low.

Your hand was still caught in his. Your fingers had barely touched the vest before he stopped you, and somehow that single second had made the wanting worse. Rough fabric beneath your palm. The hard line of the strap. Heat beneath it. Jack beneath all of it.

You stared at him.

Jack stared back. His thumb moved once over your pulse. Not soothing. Not really.

A reminder.

The kitchen still felt tilted around you. Your body was loose and shaking from what he had already done, your thighs still bracketed around him, the counter cold beneath you, the cabinet cool against your back. Everything smelled like detergent and sweat and Jack. The open dishwasher had stopped steaming now, but the clean scent lingered beneath the sharper edge of his gear.

Your voice came out thin. “You’re not?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”

Your fingers flexed in his hold.

He looked down at the movement. Then back at your face. “You want to touch me.”

It was not a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His eyes darkened.

For a second, the smugness softened into something heavier. Hungrier. The kind of look that made you realize he had been holding himself together too. Not unaffected. Not even close. Just disciplined enough to make you think the ruin had been one-sided.

It had not.

The proof was in the tension along his jaw. The roughness of his breathing. The way his hand tightened around your wrist before easing again, like he had to remind himself not to rush just because he wanted to.

Jack leaned in. His vest brushed your bare skin.

Your breath caught.

He noticed. “Soon,” he said.

Your eyes fluttered. That one word felt like a promise and a punishment. “Jack.”

His mouth touched yours. Not a kiss. Almost. “Hands up.”

Your pulse kicked. “What?”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “Above your head.”

The kitchen seemed to go quieter.

You were still sitting on the counter, still trembling, still trying to recover from him, and now he wanted your hands where he could see them. Where you could not reach for him. Where he could take that final inch of control before giving anything back.

Your fingers curled once against his.

Then you lifted your hands.

Slowly.

Jack guided them the rest of the way, his palm firm around your wrists as he pinned them above your head against the cabinet.

The wood was cool behind your knuckles.

Jack’s body filled the space between your thighs. His gear brushed you everywhere. The hard vest. The duty belt. The heavy weight of him still mostly dressed while you were bare and breathless on his kitchen counter.

He looked at you like that did something to him. Like he had meant to keep the upper hand and had not accounted for the sight of you listening this well.

His mouth moved against your jaw. “Still good?”

You nodded once. “I’m good.”

His grip settled around your wrists. “Stay there.”

Your answer came out as a breath. “Okay.”

Jack kissed you then. Slow at first. Deep enough to make your hands flex above your head, your wrists pressing into his palm, your body shifting toward him before he had given you permission to move. His mouth tasted like heat and restraint and the ruin he had pulled out of you minutes ago.

Then the kiss changed. Something in him shifted. The edge of all that careful patience wore thin. His free hand slid down your side, over your hip, beneath your thigh, drawing you closer to the edge of the counter with one controlled pull. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter dragged cool beneath you. His gear scraped softly, buckles and fabric and belt, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen.

Jack’s forehead touched yours. His breathing was no longer even. Not even close.

 “You sure?” The question was rougher now. Less composed.

 You looked at him. Really looked.

At the dark focus in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way he was still holding himself back because your answer mattered more than his urgency.

Your chest tightened. “Yes.”

His hand tightened around your wrists. “You want this?”

“Yes.”

Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Like the answer hit him somewhere deep. When he opened them again, the smugness was gone. What remained was worse.

Need, disciplined down to a blade. “Say it.”

Your breath caught.

His mouth hovered over yours. “Tell me.”

You swallowed. The words felt different now. Less like begging. More like choosing.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Jack went still. The whole kitchen held its breath with him. Then he kissed you hard. Not careless. Never that. But harder than before, deeper, the last of his patience burning down to something urgent and raw. His hand stayed around your wrists, keeping them above your head while his other hand moved between you.

You heard the shift of his belt. 

The low rasp of a zipper.

Your whole body went tight.

Jack felt it immediately.

His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.”

He pushed his pants and boxers down only as much as he needed. No more. The gear stayed. The vest stayed. The boots, the belt, the tan fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. He was still dressed like he had walked in from training and found you in his kitchen, and that fact made everything feel sharper. More desperate. Less polished.

Jack’s hand came back to your hip.

He looked at you. Waited.

Your wrists flexed above your head. “I’m good,” you whispered.

His gaze softened for one breath. Then he moved closer. He pushed into you slowly, stealing the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the cabinet.

Jack stopped. Completely.

Every muscle in him seemed locked with the effort of it. “You okay?”

“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Breathless. Certain.

Jack’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Good.”

Then he moved. Slowly at first. Controlled even now. He gave you time to feel every inch of the change, the stretch of being held open to him, the pressure of his body against yours, the hard edge of his vest against your chest every time he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to move your hands down on instinct, needing to touch him, needing something to hold onto besides the cool cabinet and his command.

His grip tightened around your wrists. “Not yet.”

A sound left you. Frustrated. Needy.

Jack’s mouth found your neck. “I know.”

He moved again, deeper this time, harder, and the whole room tilted. Your legs tightened around him. His breathing broke. A real break. Low and rough against your throat.

You caught it even through the haze. “There,” you whispered.

Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. “What?”

Your lips parted around a shaky breath. “Right there, Jack. Please.”

He drove into you again, harder, and the words disappeared from both of you. The counter creaked softly beneath you. The cabinet knocked once against your wrists. The spoon in the dishwasher shifted with a tiny metallic sound that should have been funny and was not, because Jack was moving now like the control he had used to wreck you had finally turned on him. 

Still measured. Still focused. But rougher. More urgent. His mouth found yours again, catching the sounds you could not swallow. His hand kept your wrists pinned above your head. His other hand gripped your hip, dragging you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the vest brushed and pressed and turned every thrust into another reminder of how this had started.

You were shaking again.

Already.

Jack felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a flash of smugness cutting through the roughness. “Already?”

You would have snapped at him if you could breathe. Instead, you made a broken sound and pulled against his grip.

He held you there.

“You did that on purpose,” you managed. 

“I did.” His voice was rough. Pleased. Not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be.

That made you smile despite yourself. “You’re not as calm as you think.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the room narrowed to that look.

Then his hand released your wrists. “Touch me.”

You did not need to be told twice. Your hands came down fast. One grabbed the edge of the vest. The other slid to the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, finally, finally holding on to him the way your whole body had been begging to since he walked through the door.

Jack groaned.  A real sound. Low. Uncontrolled. The sound ruined you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “There he is.” 

Jack caught your mouth with his. The kiss turned messy. Hotter. Less careful around the edges. His hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched you higher on the counter, changing the angle until your nails dug into the back of his neck and your whole body jolted against him.

The gear scraped against your skin.

His vest. His belt. The rough line of fabric and equipment. The hard, practical pieces of him still on while his control came apart under your hands. He was still dominant. Still the one setting the pace. But now you could feel what it cost him. Every breath. Every rough sound against your mouth. Every time his rhythm faltered because your hands found another strap, another edge, another place where his body was warm beneath the gear.

“Jack.”

His forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve got you.” The words came rough. Almost broken.

“You keep saying that.”

His hand tightened on your hip. “Because I do.”

Your chest pulled tight. For one second, the heat went soft at the center. Then he moved again, and you lost the thought completely. The kitchen blurred. Your hands clutched at him, one fisted in the vest, one at his neck, holding him close as he drove you higher. The refrigerator hummed somewhere far away. The counter was cold beneath you. His mouth was hot against yours. His breathing filled your ears.

 His praise came low and rough, no longer polished, no longer smug in the same way. “That’s it.”

Your eyes closed.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers tightened.

“Just like that.”

Your body answered every word.

Jack knew it. He used it. He kept one hand at your hip and brought the other to your jaw, making you look at him when your head started to fall back.

“Stay with me.”

Your eyes opened.

He was close. You could see it now. In the tension around his mouth. In the way his breath caught every time you pulled him harder against you. In the way the rhythm turned rougher, less perfect, more honest.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek. “I know.”

“I’m—” You tried. 

“I know.” His mouth touched yours. “Let me feel it.”

The words tipped you over. Your whole body went tight around him, hands clutching at the vest, mouth open against his, his name breaking somewhere in your throat as the room disappeared in a rush of heat and sound and Jack holding you through it.

Jack’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath breaking hot against your mouth.

“Oh, fuck.”

Your hands tightened in the front of his vest. “Jack.”

His grip dug into your hip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he was there with you, right there, as gone as you were.

“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice wrecked now. “Oh—fu-fuck.”

The sound of him losing control almost tipped you over again.

His mouth brushed yours, messy and barely there.

“God, you’re doing so good,” he breathed. “So good for me.”

You clung to him, his vest rough beneath your hands, his body tense and shaking against yours.

“Jack,” you whispered again.

That was what did it.

His eyes closed. His breath caught. His whole body went tight, and then he buried his face against your neck with a rough, broken sound.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “Good girl. Good—God, baby.”

His hand tightened once at your waist. Then loosened. His body stayed pressed to yours, still shaking in small aftershocks he could not quite hide. For a moment, there was no command. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack breathing hard against your throat, vest rough beneath your hands, his body warm and heavy and finally, completely undone.

His mouth pressed to your skin. His body went still.

For a long moment, there was only breathing.

Yours. His.

The hum of the refrigerator returning slowly. The cooling dishwasher. The ordinary kitchen gathering itself around the wreckage of what had just happened on the counter.

Your hands stayed on him. One in his hair. One curled into the vest.

Neither of you moved. Then Jack laughed once. Soft. Rough. Disbelieving.

His forehead stayed against your shoulder. “You okay?”

Your laugh came out weak. “I think my soul left my body.”

His shoulders moved with a quiet laugh. The sound warmed your skin. “Still good?”

You nodded against him. “I’m good.”

His hand, no longer commanding, slid slowly up your back.

Gentle now. Careful.

The dominance loosening into care before you could fully come down from it.

He lifted his head and looked at you.

His face had softened. His hair was a mess. His mouth was warm and swollen from kissing you. The vest was still on, crooked now, one strap half-loose, the POLICE patch no longer centered.

You reached up and touched it with two fingers.

Jack looked down. Then back at you. His mouth curved. Smug again. Barely. “You still hate the vest?”

You stared at him. Then at the vest. Then back at him. “I need you to understand that I am currently too vulnerable to answer questions.”

Jack laughed, low and warm. His thumb brushed your cheek. “That bad?”

You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “Worse.”

His smile softened. “Come here.”

“You are already kind of in my personal space.” You exhaled a laugh. 

“Come here anyway.”

This time, there was no command in it. Just him. You leaned into him, and Jack gathered you carefully against the front of all that gear, one arm around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. The vest was still hard against your skin.

Somehow, in his arms, it felt softer.

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“You did so good,” he said quietly.

Your eyes closed. That praise hit differently now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Warm.

You let out a slow breath against his neck. “Don’t be smug.”

Jack’s mouth brushed your hair. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“A little.”

You laughed, boneless and breathless.

He held you tighter for a second, like the laugh mattered.

Behind you, the dishwasher clicked one last time.

Your eyes opened.

“The spoon,” you whispered.

Jack went still. Then he started laughing against your shoulder.

You felt it more than heard it. Deep. Quiet. Helpless.

You smiled into the side of his neck. “Your dishwasher is still open.”

“I know.”

“You’re breaking kitchen safety rules.”

Jack lifted his head enough to look at you.

His eyes were still dark, but softer now. “You want to finish unloading it?”

You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then at the vest. “Absolutely not.”

His smile came slow. Warm. Entirely too pleased. “Good answer.”

You ended up in Jack’s bed after. 

Not right away. 

There was the shower first, warm water and his hands gentler than they had been in the kitchen. He washed the places where the counter had pressed into your skin. He kissed your shoulder under the spray. He wrapped you in a towel without making a joke about how unsteady your legs still were, which you appreciated enough not to mention how smug he looked about it.

Then one of his shirts.

Then water.

Then bed.

The room was dim by then, the late afternoon light gone blue at the edges of the blinds. You were curled against his side, cheek resting over his heart, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheet. Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, up and down, steady enough that your breathing had started to match his without you meaning for it to.

He had been quiet for a while. Not distant quiet. Jack had different kinds of quiet. You knew them now.

This one was warm. Settled.

His fingers paused at the center of your back. “Hey.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him.

His face was softer than it had been in the kitchen. Hair damp. Jaw relaxed. No gear. No vest. No command in his voice now.

Just Jack.

“Hey,” you said.

His thumb moved once against your side. “You okay?”

You smiled faintly. “I’m good.”

He nodded. No hovering. No second-guessing. Just belief. Then his gaze dropped to where his hand rested against your back. For a second, you thought he might make a joke. Something about the vest. Something about the spoon. Something dry enough to pull you both back onto safer ground.

He didn’t.

His voice was low when he spoke. “Thank you.”

Your brow softened. “For what?”

Jack’s hand stilled. His eyes came back to yours. “For trusting me like that.”

The room went quiet around the words. Not empty. Full.

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

Jack looked almost careful now, like the sentence had cost him more than any command he had given you downstairs. Like this was the part where he had less armor. No tactical vest. No smugness. No easy way to turn the weight of it into heat.

Just him, telling you he knew what you had handed him.

You shifted closer, your hand settling over his chest. “I do trust you.”

His jaw moved once. “I know.”

His fingers resumed their slow path over your back, but his voice stayed rougher than before. “I just don’t want to ever take it lightly.”

Oh.

That landed deeper than you expected.

You pressed your cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.

“You don’t.”

Jack’s arm tightened around you.

Not much.

Enough.

You felt his mouth touch your hair. “Good.”

You closed your eyes.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The house was quiet. The kitchen was downstairs with its open dishwasher and its abandoned spoon and the counter you were still not emotionally prepared to think about. The vest was somewhere else now. The boots. The belt. All the hard edges stripped away.

But Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back.

And when he kissed the top of your head again, it felt like the softest part of everything he had meant all along.

“Hey, Harvey wanted to see you,” Your assistant says, poking her head through the glass door of your office. You look up from the file you’re reviewing, giving her a small smile.

“Okay, I’ll be there in a second,” You say. “Thanks.”

She nods, closing the door and walking off down the hall. You finish reading the page you’re on, then you push your chair back, buttoning the single button on your blazer and smoothing it down. 

You knock on the door, gaining his attention before stepping inside. 

“Abbot,” He greets, as though he’s seeing an old friend for the first time in years, as opposed to a colleague whose office is just down the hall from his. “I need a favour.”

“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” You say, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs across from his desk. “The last time I did you a favour I almost had to spend the night in jail.”

He rolls his eyes. “I told you that I would’ve bailed you out.”

“Not exactly the point,” You say. “What do you need?”

“You know the Mercer case that I’ve been working on?” 

“The one that just went to trial?” You clarify, wanting to make sure you know what he’s talking about. He nods. 

“The jury was still deliberating,” He adds. “But the defense is trying to get a mistrial.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep yourself from smirking. “What did you do, Harvey?”

He narrows his eyes, shaking his head, pointing at you for a moment. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then drops his hand back into his lap. “You know what? Doesn’t matter, I need to take tomorrow to deal with it.”

You lean back in the chair, nodding. “Not a problem, I can hold down the fort here.”

“That’s not it,” He counters. “I have a trial scheduled for tomorrow—the Jones case. It can’t be postponed.”

“Why would it have to be postponed?” You question. “I thought Mike was the leading counsel on that?”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, he was. Came down with some kind of…bug this morning, so I told him I would handle it.”

“Ah, poor kid.”

“It’s bulletproof,” He adds. “And I actually think you’ll be able to defend it better than Mike or I ever could.”

“Oh!” You exclaim, sitting up, realization kicking in. “You want me to prosecute your case.”

“You’ve read the file. All the hard work has already been done for you.”

“I’ve read some of the file,” You correct. “It’s a lot of material, Harvey. It would be stupid to swap counsel this late.”

“Not when the new counsel is you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” You say. “What happens if you delay?”

“Like I said—I can’t delay, so it doesn’t matter,” He counters. “The trial needs to happen tomorrow, one way or another.”

You sigh. “Fine. I’ll take your case.”

“You’re amazing,” He says, then he drops his voice a notch, teasing. “Don’t tell Jack I said that.”

“Why?” You ask, standing up, leaning against his desk, cocking your head. “Scared of him?”

“Scared of my ex-girlfriend’s objectively terrifying ex-military husband?” He questions, shaking his head. “Nah, why would I be?”

“Can’t think of a reason myself.”

He scoffs, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “Hey, speaking of Jack, there’s something else you need to know about the case.”

You gesture for him to go ahead. 

“Your husband is a proposed expert witness,” He says. “I’ll give the opposing counsel a call, let them know, give them the option to postpone if they really want. But I doubt they’ll take me up on that.”

“This is why I don’t do you favours,” You groan, but you’re only half-serious. As far as potential courtroom issues go, this one is relatively minor. “Making me prosecute a case where I have a clear conflict of interest, come on, man.”

“You can handle it,” Harvey promises. “I’ll owe you one.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

You shoot Jack a text, letting him know that you’ll be at the office late. Not that it matters, since he’s already at the hospital for the night and probably won’t get back to you for a few hours. You catch yourself up on the files that Donna gives you, memorizing every detail that the folders contain, making sure you don’t miss anything. You don’t get home until after midnight. 

You walk into the courtroom early the next morning, surveying the people that have already arrived. There’s a few seated in the rows, and the defense is already at her table with the defendant, going over a few last minute things while they wait. 

They look up when you set your belongings on your own side of the room, pulling out files, notebooks, and a couple pens before putting your bag on the floor beside you. Then, you approach them, a professional smile on your face as you reach your hand out. 

You say your name as you shake the lawyer’s hand. “I think Harvey talked to you last night about me taking over?”

She nods. “He did, yes. Nice to meet you. I’m Claire, this is Thomas.”

“Right, of course,” You say, shaking his hand as well, despite how badly you want to ignore him. “Glad we won’t have to delay this any further, Mr. Jones.”

Claire speaks before he can. “It’s been a very difficult process for my client.”

“I’m sure it has,” You say, not letting an inch of your underlying malice towards him show. “Luckily it should be a straightforward case, hm?”

You turn around after that, walking back to your side, not bothering to take a seat since the judge will be called in any minute. The room falls completely silent when he walks in, taking his spot at the front. 

“Please be seated,” He says, but you and the defense stay standing. “I’ve been informed there was a last minute change in counsel.”

“Yes, your honour, I will be handling the prosecution today in lieu of my colleagues,” You explain. “I have reviewed all the files and am prepared to represent the case myself.”

“And the defense was made aware of this change?” 

“We were, your honour,” Claire says. “We have no objections.”

You inhale before speaking again. “Before we begin, there is one matter pertaining to a witness in today’s trial that my taking over may complicate, which has also already been disclosed to the defense.”

“What would that be, counsellor?”

“A proposed expert witness, Dr. Jack Abbot, is my husband.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“How does the defense wish to proceed?” He asks, glancing towards them, putting a pair of glasses on as he does. 

“We wish to proceed as planned, your honour,” She says. “We believe the prosecution and said witness capable of remaining unbiased, and we don’t want another delay.”

“Then let’s begin.”

The case starts out the way it always does—with you. 

You give your opening statement, telling the jury the story you memorized last night about Abigail Carter—the defendant’s ex-wife. You talk about who she was without him. You tell them about how she loves to volunteer, her many hobbies, and how much time she devotes to her nieces and nephews. 

“On March twelfth of last year, Ms. Carter visited the emergency department at Westbridge hospital after sustaining potentially life-threatening injuries,” You explain, confidence and professionalism radiating from you as you pace in front of the jury. “The evidence will show that the defendant, Thomas Jones, assaulted her that night.”

Your hand drifts towards the defense table, watching as their eyes follow it, a few of them already showing disdain for the man sitting there. By the time you’ve finished presenting your side, most of them look about ready to call the verdict then and there, your case airtight and perfectly executed. 

The defense gives a decent case, but it’s nothing compared to yours. 

“For our next witness, the defense calls Dr. Jack Abbot to the stand,” Claire says, and you focus on keeping your eyes forward. 

He steps into the witness box, wearing black scrubs with a white shirt underneath, almost certainly at the request of the defense. You pay him the same amount of mind you would with any other witness as he gets sworn in. 

“Can you please state your name and occupation for the record, please,” She says. Jack shifts, coming a bit closer to the microphone. 

“Jack Abbot, attending emergency medicine physician at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre,” He says. 

“And how long have you been an emergency physician, Dr. Abbot?”

“Fifteen years,” He answers, his eyes flicking to you for half a second. “Give or take.”

“Over the course of those fifteen years, how many patients with traumatic injuries have you treated?” 

“Thousands,” He says. 

She nods. “Your honour, we offer Dr. Jack Abbot as an expert in emergency medicine.”

“No objection,” You say, well aware of his expertise in the area. 

The judge nods. “The witness is recognized. Proceed.”

“For the purpose of disclosure, let the record show that Dr. Abbot and the prosecution-” She adds, saying your first and last name before continuing. “Are married.”

You watch as the jurors eyes drift between the two of you, but you don’t react. Jack looks almost amused, eyebrows slightly lifted as he sits up a little straighter. 

“Dr. Abbot, you’ve reviewed the medical records of Abigail Carter from March twelfth, twenty-twenty-four, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And the photographs documenting the injuries?” 

“I have, yes.”

You open the file, revealing the detailed medical documents and photos. Claire paces in front of your desk, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a pen. You bring your notebook closer, ready to jot down any important pieces from his testimony for the cross examination. 

“Based on your education, training, and experience with traumatic injuries, were you able to form an opinion on whether or not Ms. Carter’s injuries are consistent with a fall? Specifically the injuries sustained on March twelfth.”

You can see how much Jack hates this.

“I was,” He says. 

“And what would that opinion be?”

His jaw ticks. “They could have been sustained in an accidental fall, yes.”

He looks towards you again, an action that no one in the room misses. You’re writing down nonsense on the page in front of you, since his answer isn’t remotely shocking to you. 

“What features support this conclusion?”

He rolls his shoulders back. “The bruising pattern on the ribcage is consistent with impact against a blunt surface, like a floor or countertop.”

“So, based on that, as well as the rest of the medical records, can you definitively say that Ms. Carter’s injuries were caused by an assault?” 

“No, I cannot.”

She waits a beat, then she gives the jury and judge a dazzling smile. “No further questions.”

The judge looks to you. “Counsellor.”

You push your chair back, buttoning your suit jacket at the bottom, walking towards the witness box. Jack follows your movements, his posture relaxing now that you’re the one he’s talking to. 

“Good afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” You greet. 

“Jack, please,” He says, a charming smile on his face. The room laughs lightly, a brief respite from the tension-filled silence, and you realize that you can work this in your favour. 

“Jack,” You correct, altering the course of your questioning in your head. “As the defense already acknowledged, you and I are married. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” He says. 

“How long have we been married?”

“Objection,” The defense says, standing from her chair. “Relevance?”

“I’ll answer for him,” You say, not waiting for the judge to speak, because you know it’ll be sustained. “Two years, after three years of dating prior to.”

You deliberately pull your left hand out of your pocket, subtly revealing your wedding ring to the jury. “In the five years we’ve been together, how many times has one of us taken a fall that resulted in potentially life-threatening injuries, requiring us to seek medical treatment at an emergency department?”

You intentionally avoid just saying ‘from a doctor,’ because you’ve definitely had a few minor wounds that he’s treated over the years, glasses on while you sit at the kitchen table, watching as he works. 

“Objection, relevance,” She stresses. 

“I’m laying foundation, your honour,” You counter. “And the defense was the one to bring up my marital status in the first place.”

“Overruled. Please answer the question, Dr. Abbot.”

“Zero,” He says. His confidence wasn’t rattled by the defense, but he answers your question with a definitive tone that he didn’t use with her, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. It reminds you that the person on the stand has always been on your side, and continues to be in this very moment. 

You fall into a rhythm with the questions, his answers consistently working in your favour. Not because he’s lying, or even bending the truth—but because you know what to ask and how. He knows how to answer. 

“In the fifteen years you’ve been an emergency physician, how many times have you seen the same patient for traumatic injuries more than once or twice in a year?”

“It happens, but it’s abnormal.”

You hum. “Are there any conclusions you would potentially draw about a patient coming in so much? That they’re clumsy, perhaps?”

“More like their injuries aren’t accidental.”

“So, if you saw the same patient, say, eight times within a single year,” You continue, making your way back over to your table as you talk, steps slow and calculated. “Always presenting with a traumatic injury of sorts, that would be peculiar, would it not?”

“I’d definitely have some concerns.”

You slide two identical pieces of paper out of your file. “Your honour, I’d ask that this be marked as exhibit fifty-six for identification.”

The clerk marks it. The courtroom stays completely silent, awaiting your next move. You pass one of the copies to the defense, watching as her eyes scan the words on the page. Most lawyers have an excellent pokerface, and she’s no exception—but you see the muscles in her jaw tense. She sets it down on the table, giving you a small nod. 

You face Jack again, giving him a copy, too. “Jack, I’m showing you what’s been marked as People’s exhibit fifty-six. Do these documents look familiar to you?”

He slips his glasses on. Your stomach flips. 

“They’re medical records for Abigail Carter from previous urgent care visits,” He answers. 

“And you saw these as part of your review for this testimony, correct?”

“Correct, yes.”

“Could you tell me how many times Ms. Carter visited various urgent care centres in the area between March twenty-twenty three and four, please?”

“Eight times.”

“Which, as you stated earlier, is enough to cause concern,” You state. “Did you rely on these records to form your opinion about the cause of Ms. Carter’s injuries?”

“I did, yes.”

“Your honour, the People move to admit exhibit fifty-six into evidence.”

There’s no objection from the defense. 

“Sustained,” He says. 

“Let the record show that Abigail Carter visited five urgent care centres eight times over the course of twelve months,” You elaborate, facing the jury again. “Always presenting with a traumatic injury, some worse than others. Could you tell me what the chief complaint was on December second, twenty-twenty-three, Jack?”

“Blunt multisystem trauma,” He says, not even needing to look at the page. 

“That’s the same chief complaint that she presented with at Westbridge Emergency Department on March twelfth, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“In your expert opinion,” You say, emphasizing the word, not wanting the jury to forget who he is. “Could these injuries have resulted from various assaults against Ms. Carter?”

“Absolutely.”

“What suggests that as a possibility?”

He gestures to the page as though it’s obvious, because it is. You just need him to say it out loud. 

The impact of your cross examination is palpable when he's finished. “No further questions, your honour.”

“Would the defense like to re-examine?”

“We would, your honour,” Claire says, pushing herself to her feet. Jack interlocks his fingers, setting his hands in his lap, a small smirk on his face as she approaches. He does his best to remain professional as she questions him again, but his mind is reeling from your examination, eyes drifting past Claire a few times to look at you. 

You keep writing things down, and he can’t help but wonder if you’re doing the thing you’ve told him about before, where you recite song lyrics, grocery lists, anything to make it seem like you have many thoughts about what you’re hearing—when in reality you already know you’ve won. 

He purposefully sticks around to hear the verdict, sitting on the opposite side of the room, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to himself or you. Your posture is straight as the jury shuffles back into the room, passing the decision to the clerk. He notices that you’re playing with your wedding ring, spinning it around your finger, the action mostly hidden due to how you’re holding your clasped hands. He can see the way your thumb shifts, back and forth, turning it with each movement. 

It’s not nerves—it’s anticipation. And no one else would be able to pick that up except for him. 

“We, the jury, find the defendant guilty…”

Your face barely changes. 

Your eyebrows raise a millimetre, maybe two. The muscles in your neck and jaw lock as you hold back a smile, like you always do when you get the ideal outcome in court. You stop playing with your ring, fingers going completely still. Jack feels himself fighting a smile too, especially when it’s all over, and you immediately turn around and engulf Abigail in a tight hug. Pride floods his chest and limbs.

She’s thanking you over and over, you shaking your head, not accepting the praise. He sees your lips move, but he can’t hear what you’re saying over the volume of the people around him. He steps out of the courtroom and into the hallway, making himself scarce along the wall as he waits for you.

You come through the doors half an hour later, briefcase in hand and purse over your shoulder. He steps out from his spot against the wall, seeing you dissolve into the version of yourself that he gets to see at home, a bright grin on your face as you walk towards him. You stick your hand out, and he chuckles, gripping it with his own. 

“Thank you for your testimony, Dr. Abbot,” You say, purposefully looking at his wedding ring, as though you’re noticing it for the first time. “Ah, your wife is a very lucky woman.”

Jack nods, his usual smirk on his face. “I like to think so.”

“It’s a shame you’re married,” You continue, still not dropping his hand. “I was going to ask you to dinner.”

He hums, sucking in through his teeth. “That is pretty unfortunate.”

“I imagine she wouldn’t approve,” You say, lips twitching as you finally let go, adjusting the strap of your bag. 

He shrugs. “I might be able to persuade her.”

“Is that so?” You ask, eyes practically twinkling as you look at him, making his knees weak. “Well, I would hate to keep you, Doctor. But let me know if she comes around, will you?”

“Absolutely, Counsellor,” He says, watching you turn and walk down the hallway, pulling your phone out of your bag. He feels his own buzz against his pocket a few seconds later, and he pulls it out, seeing your name on the screen. 

Fig & Ash, seven o’clock?

You arrive at the restaurant after him, still wearing your pantsuit—now with three fewer buttons done up on your blouse, showing glimpses of your chest. He stands, pulling your chair out for you, his eyes adoring as you approach. You give him a soft smile, placing a hand on his chest as you peck his lips. 

“Hi,” You murmur. 

“Hey,” He says, kissing you again before letting you take a seat, pushing your chair into place. Your usual drink is already on the table, and Jack picks up his own once he sits back down, holding it up. “Congratulations on your win, sweetheart.”

You clink your glass with his. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could’ve.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” You muse, sitting back, shifting your legs underneath the table until the side of your foot touches his, tapping against it a few times. 

Jack taps back. “Gotta’ admit, it was pretty cool to see you do your thing like that.”

“Cool?” You repeat, a touch incredulous. “That isn’t exactly what I was going for.”

“Wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

Your eyebrows raise in suggestion as you take another sip of your drink, setting it down slowly, then folding your arms over your chest. Jack’s eyes stay on your face despite your very distracting cleavage. 

“Then what did you mean, Jack?” You ask. “Please, keep things explicit for the records.”

He clears his throat, matching your posture, muscles pressing against the white button down he’s wearing. 

“You know what I thought,” He says. 

“I don’t think I do,” You counter. “Maybe you could show me instead?”

“How would you suggest I do that?”

“I’m sure you can figure it out for yourself,” You say, shrugging, pushing your chair back and standing up.”I’ll be in the bathroom for when you do.”

You slip your blazer off as you stride towards the back of the restaurant, throwing it over your arm just as you round the corner. 

Jack smiles, shaking his head as he reaches for his wallet, tossing a sufficient pile of cash on the table. He shoves his chair back, standing up and following in your footsteps, spotting your blazer hanging from one of the door handles. He doesn’t bother knocking before pushing it open, seeing you leaning over the sink, touching up your lip gloss.

“Why bother?” He asks, flicking the lock, voice gruff. You look at him through the mirror, feigning innocence. 

“It looks nice,” You counter, capping the lid and sliding the tube into your pocket. “Don’t you think so?”

He comes up behind you, rough hands slipping beneath your shirt, grazing the sensitive skin on your stomach. 

“‘Course I do,” He mumbles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You always look nice, doll.”

He nips at your earlobe. You gasp, the inhale quick and sharp, fingers gripping the edge of the sink. He pulls you back towards him, mouth trailing down your neck. He runs his hands along the waistband of your slacks, undoing your belt, then your fly. He’s watching you the whole time, his gaze fucking electric on you in the mirror. 

“Eyes on me,” He murmurs, pushing your underwear aside, grazing your cunt. You jolt against him, peeling your eyes off the hand that’s down your pants, meeting his hazel eyes instead. He nods. “Good girl.”

“Jack,” You whimper, keeping your voice down. 

“I know,” He says. “Be patient.”

You swallow, nodding, not daring to look away from him as his fingers crawl along you. His other hand squeezes your side, curling into your skin, bound to leave marks. He dips two fingers inside of you, thumb swiping past your clit, making you tighten your hold on the counter. He’s still watching you, a smirk crossing his face. 

“I'm so fucking proud of you," He says. "Wanted to show you how much back at the courthouse."

You make a noise—something between a hum and moan—when he brushes against your clit again, pumping his two fingers up and down, bending them with each motion. 

“‘Should’ve,” You say, breathing already getting heavy. “Distraction is a very useful—ah!”

He inserts a third finger, cutting your sentence short, basically proving your point with a single move. 

“That so?” He asks, twisting inside of you, stretching your walls just a touch. 

“Mhm!” The sound is clipped, your chest heaving as you adjust to the added pressure, pressing one of your hands against the mirror, bending forward. He grabs your chin, tilting your face back up. He finally presses his thumb against you, rubbing up and down for a few strokes, then circling your clit. A whine escapes you, trailing off into a shuddery exhale. 

“Wonder if you’d lose more if half the room wasn’t so busy staring at you,” He taunts, his pace agonizingly slow, with no intention of speeding up anytime soon. “Bet some of ‘em didn’t even hear a word you said.”

“Probably not,” You pant. “But even if they did I’d still win.”

“That’s fucking right,” He mumbles, tracing along your jawline and down your throat. He rests his hand on your shoulder, fingers sitting against your collarbone. He presses the crook of his thumb into the side of your neck, applying the perfect amount of pressure to make your head spin—literally. 

He pulls his fingers out of you, making you whimper. He steps away, his absence freezing on your back, until he reaches the side table on the opposite wall. He swipes the decorative candles and fake plant off, then he sits down on top of it, thighs and cock bulging against his jeans. You spin to face him, almost drooling at the sight. 

He pats his thigh. “Come ‘ere, pretty girl.”

You move to straddle him, but he tuts, shaking his head. 

“Other way,” He corrects, widening his stance, guiding you between his legs, your back once again pressed to his chest. He puts his hand over yours, setting it over your throbbing cunt, pushing your own fingers inside of you. “Gonna’ watch you get yourself off for me, doll.”

You lean into him, but he keeps his hands planted on his upper thighs, not touching you at all. Your thighs tighten when you start, already sensitive, heat coiling in your stomach as you move. 

“Jack, baby,” You moan, picking up the pace, sweat starting to bead along the nape of your neck. 

“Fuck me,” He grunts, shifting closer until you can feel his cock pushing against you. Your back arches, your free hand clawing at his thigh, squeezing tightly as your orgasm builds. Jack takes in the way your chest lifts with each desperate, gasping breath, the overwhelming urge to see more hitting him. His arms loop around you, gripping your shirt on either side, ripping it open, sending buttons scattering across the floor. You barely react—already knowing that he’ll buy you an even nicer blouse in exchange for the one he’s just ruined. 

Your breasts move with each flare of your ribcage, perfectly timed with the whimpers that you’re making, eyes closed and head tilted back, resting on his shoulder. He tilts your face into his neck, the touch sending shockwaves down your arms. Your moans vibrate against his skin, the sound muffled just enough to make sure no one outside can hear you. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” He says. 

He sees the moment your orgasm hits, your thighs closing around your hand, fingers still moving as you ride it out. He circles his arms around you as you cry out against his neck, biting into him to stay quiet. He holds you there for a minute, letting you come down, breathing ragged and uneven. He can feel your heartbeat against his forearms, the sensation driving him fucking insane. 

“Stand up for me,” He whispers, lips against your ear. You listen, legs wobbling, his one hand on your hip to keep you steady. He undoes the fly on his jeans, shifting them and his boxers down single handedly. He turns you around, using both hands to pull your pants and underwear to your ankles. You step out of them, slipping your pumps off too, following his lead when he has you straddle him this time. Your knees press against the tabletop until you’re resting on his thighs, taking some of the pressure off of them. 

“Let me mess up that lip gloss,” He says, tilting his chin up. You lean down, kissing him softly at first, but it devolves quickly. Your mouths are half-open, the action a mixture of lips and tongues, both of you breathing heavily. Jack takes hold of your sides, blindly positioning you over him, the movement second nature. You grind down, and he groans against your mouth at the feeling of you around him. 

He buries his face into your chest as you bounce, arms around his neck to keep yourself upright. He leaves bruises all over your skin before looking up at you, mesmerized. Your lip gloss is streaked across your cheek, and he’s left some of it on your chest, but he’s sure it’s all over his face too. He leans back against the wall, slightly dazed, legs twitching as he gets closer to finishing. 

“Fuck,” He exhales, still watching you. He could look at this view for the rest of his life. “Holy shit, baby—fuck, I—I’m close.”

You moan. “Need you to finish inside me so bad, Jack.”

“Soon, soon, you’re taking me so well,” He says, grunting when you pause at the bottom of your bounce, tilting your hips towards him, shifting back and forth on his dick. “Oh, jesus christ, yeah, fuck—just like that, pretty girl.”

Pressure builds in your thighs and stomach again, your eyes glaze over, and you tighten around him. It sends Jack over the edge, grunting as he finishes inside of you, thighs twitching. You grind down again, hard, moaning when it makes him jerk upwards. 

“You wanna’ come again, baby?” He asks, blinking a few times until his vision clears, the haze starting to lift. 

“Please,” You beg, already so close—you just need a little more. He lifts you off of him with an ease that makes your mouth water, setting you on his thigh, the contact with the rough denim of his jeans enough to make you gasp. He trails kisses up your chest, neck, and along your jaw. 

“Can I go down on you?” He asks, lips against your skin. 

“Fuck, do whatever the fuck you want to me,” You breathe, hastily climbing off his lap. He stands, and you expect for him to have you take his spot, but he just pushes you against the wall, already kneeling by the time you process it. 

He lifts one of your legs up, resting it over his shoulder, holding onto your thigh and bracing himself against the wall with his other hand. The feeling of his tongue on your clit is dizzying, white dots scattering across your vision as you thread a hand through his curls. He closes his lips around you, sucking while still flicking his tongue up and down. 

“Fuck, ah—shit, Jack!” You whine, bucking your hips against him, begging for more. “Oh—oh my god, holy fuck, don’t fucking stop, please.”

He pats your thigh in affirmation, mouth a little busy at the moment. 

Your words fade into helpless whining, not a single coherent sentence making it past your lips. He moans against you, making your eyes roll back in your head, fluttering closed. 

You come shortly after. Jack stays where he is, pressing a few kisses to your inner thighs, carefully putting your leg back on the ground. He sets you down on the table, cleaning you up, kissing your temple and muttering praises as he does. He pulls his pants back up, then starts unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the white tank top he’s wearing underneath. He hangs the button down on the hook behind the door for you, then helps you get dressed. He picks up the remnants of your shirt, tossing them in the trash, a smirk on his face the entire time. 

Once the shaking in your legs dies down you put your shoes back on, standing up and walking over to the mirror. You pull the tube of lip gloss out again, carefully putting it on your lips. Jack frowns. 

“After all the work I put in to take it off,” He grumbles, teasingly, making you smile. He comes up behind you again, kissing your cheek. “See you at home?”

You nod, smiling. “Yeah, I’ll be right behind you.”

“Looking forward to it,” He says, passing you his shirt, watching as you pull it over your exposed chest. “I don’t think I’m done with you just yet.”

A/N - series???? maybe??????? lmk :)

some tags:

Truthfully Jack shouldn't be surprised in the slightest. It's far from the first time you've done this. His clothes go missing left and right. His t-shirts, his boxers, his gym shorts, and most frequently his hoodies—his favourite hoodie especially, which is the catalyst for his current search. 

"Hon, have you seen my hoodie?" He asks as he moves down the hall on his crutches.

"Which one?" 

"My favourite—" He cuts himself off as he turns into the living room. Sure enough, there you are. The culprit has been caught red handed—wearing the very item of clothing he’d just been scouring the bedroom for. "The one you're wearing."

You turn your head and peer at him from over the back of the couch. There's not an ounce of guilt on your face. He would go as far as to say you look amused—perfectly content and snug in his hoodie. He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s offered to buy you one of your own. The same brand, same size, same colour. His efforts, however, have been fruitless, but it doesn’t deter him from posing the question again and again.

"Would you let me buy you your own already?" He asks.

"It wouldn't be the same.” That’s exactly what you say each time he offers, so he can’t say he’s surprised to hear the reasoning again.

Jack crosses the room and lowers himself onto the couch beside you, setting his crutches against the arm of the couch. Even though he doesn't entirely understand, he doesn't mind, not really. It's endearing, and he's pretty certain part of the appeal is the reaction he gives. The push and pull.

Well, that and his scent. That little tidbit of information hadn’t been easy to get out of you, not with the amount of teasing you knew would ensue, but you had admitted it once. Quietly, avoiding his gaze, and twiddling with the hem of one of his shirts. 

You like his scent—you find comfort being enveloped in it. It was sweet, and he hadn’t poked fun in that moment, not with how fast he chubbed up in his pants over your bashful admission. But he hadn’t exactly let you off scot free since then. 

"It would be the exact same." 

"No it wouldn't," you insist, shaking your head.

"It wouldn't?"

"Nope, not at all."

"Pretty sure that thing hasn't been washed in awhile," he remarks as he reaches to tug at the sleeve.

"Yeah, that's kind of the point." You roll your eyes. The dots connect.

"Okay, weirdo, no need for the attitude." He lifts his hand to flick your nose, watching as it scrunches up. 

“I’m not weird,” you protest, and he laughs.

“Right, you just like lounging around in my unwashed clothes.”

“You’re not being nice to me,” you say, crossing your arms.

“Why should I be nice to a thief, huh?” He fires back, before adding teasingly, “stealing my clothes to fulfill your sick and twisted needs.”

“You have other hoodies!”

Silence falls over you. Neither of you say anything for a moment—two. Then his eyes rove up and down your frame.

"You're gonna make me pry it off you?"

"I'd like to see you try."

In the next instant he's on top of you, caging you against the couch. You squeal, and flip over to try and crawl out from beneath him, but he lays himself over you, effectively trapping you.

You huff, and kick your legs but it's no use. "This isn't fair!"

"This all could've been avoided if you let me have my hoodie."

"I think you mean our hoodie," you correct. As he sits up his hand skirts the hem of it. "Wait, wait, I'm not wearing anything underneath!"

He quirks a brow. "That's not the discouragement you think it is, sweetheart."

It sets his wandering hand on another course entirely, one that brings his broad palm down and into the space between your thighs. He slides hand along the curve of you. A ragged breath escapes him when he's met with the velvet heat of your bare cunt.

"Oh so this is what you wanted all along?" When you neglect to respond he removes his hand only to bring it back down in a smack to your ass. You jolt, mumbling something into the throw pillow.

"Yes?" He prompts again, rubbing his palm over the tender skin. He waits for your answer another moment before lifting his hand.

"Yes...!" You concede with a shudder, and when his hand lowers, slowly this time, he tucks his fingers between your legs. Even if you had tried to deny it, your body betrays you. The slickness that coats his fingers gives you away without need of an utterance from your lips.

"My pretty girl just wanted some attention, is that it?" He circles your clit, smiling as your hips twitch. “You only ever need to ask. ‘m not gonna hold out on you.”

“I need you, please,” you mewl, and it sends a wave of heat straight to his groin. He can't wait a moment longer, and he's sure you can't either. He fumbles to shuck his pants down along with his boxers, just enough so he can free his cock. 

Hovering over you, he lowers himself back down as he sinks into you. You tense up beneath him. A low groan pours from his lips. His chest presses to your back, trapping you beneath the solid heft of him. There’s nothing neat or tidy about the way he fucks you then. It is a messiness that comes only from unbridled desperation. 

His lips at the nape of your neck, nose tucked against sweat damp skin. He inhales. Maybe you aren't the only one who has a thing for scent.  You're barely coherent anymore—rendered dumb from the very moment his voice dropped into that low and sultry tone. Mere insinuation was often enough to turn you to a helpless puddle of whimpers and babbles. 

One arm remains wound around your waist, hand snug between your legs while two fingers strum your clit. He ruts into you from behind. Whatever tiny inkling of rhythm he had to begin with disintegrates when your cunt starts to pulse and constricts around his cock. He moans, hips faltering before he buries himself to the hilt and lets himself go. His eyes shutter, and hot air fans against your skin as he breathes out another moan. 

“Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, rocking his hips as he comes.

He forgets himself—completely blissed out. Then you wriggle beneath him, letting out a gentle whine. He peels his eyes open only to lean down and press another kiss to your neck before extracting himself from you. He watches as you turn over, your chest heaving and eyes heavy lidded. 

“Can I have my hoodie back now?”

“Absolutely not.”

A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.

What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?

But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.

They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.

His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."

You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.

The gun clicks.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."

Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.

It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.

You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.

He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.

But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."

And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.

Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.

He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.

Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.

Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.

His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.

"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."

Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.

"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."

You've even got Smurf fooled.

They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.

While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.

Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.

And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."

Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."

"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."

His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.

In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.

But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."

It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.

The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.

They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.

You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.

Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.

And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.

The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.

And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.

He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.

Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.

"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."

He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.

Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.

"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.

"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."

You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."

He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.

He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.

"Wait."

Andrew freezes.

At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.

His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.

He's a monster. He's a fucking—

And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.

You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.

Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.

Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.

Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.

And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.

It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.

Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.

But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.

The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.

And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.

He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.

Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.

He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.

It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.

"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.

You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"

He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.

It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.

Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.

He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.

You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."

Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'

And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.

you watch as he pushes his stool forward, his head and shoulders lowering between your legs. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, positioning himself closer to your pussy, his gaze roaming over your skin.

he presses a warm peck to your inner thigh. "there," he murmurs. "let me take care of you, honey. do you trust me?"

"yes," you reply, and you barely have time to exhale before he's pressing a feather-light kiss to your clit, making you gasp. "doctor abbot?"

his chuckle vibrates against your skin as he lifts his head just enough to meet your wide-eyed gaze. "just making sure everything's working right," he mutters, the clinical distance in his tone at odds to the way his tongue flicks over your clit in a quick, teasing stroke.

his hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. "relax," he orders, lips brushing your inner thigh again. "let me show you what your boyfriend should've been doing."

then he lowers his mouth to your cunt properly and licks a hot, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. "what– what's this test for?" you breathe out, your chest heaving with arousal.

his mouth moves against you, tongue taking broad, languid laps. "it's called the clitoral glans test," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "to see how responsive you are. and you're being a very, very good girl, i must say."

it's not long before you're leaking all over his tongue, your slick pooling onto the paper sheets. "sweet girl," he praises. "taking my mouth so well. your boyfriend ever do this to you?"

you exhale shakily, the shame gnawing at you again as you shake your head. "no... he... he said he doesn't like doing it..."

his tongue swipes over your hole again, almost thoughtfully lapping up your juices, the ones that spilled out of you just for him. "he doesn't like it, huh? well, he's an idiot, honey, because you taste incredible."

"t-thank you," you stutter out at the praise, your hips bucking up against his mouth. "ah- sorry-"

"no apologising, sweetheart," he says, his breath hot against your folds, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin for reassurance. "i like your desperate little movements. keep going, honeygirl. let me see just how responsive you are." then his tongue is back between your legs, stroking slow, up and down, as he gauges your reactions.

"and don't you worry, honey," he says conversationally between licks, as if he wasn't making a mess of your pretty little cunt, "you make another appointment, i will be teaching your boyfriend how to eat your pussy very thoroughly, no matter how much he says he doesn't like it. cunt like this deserves to get eaten."

Fast you had been moving, but clearly not fast enough.

Should've just walked away with the damn thing instead.

"I would have to think about you to feel one way or another," you state before glancing to her. "But I don't."

When you return your attentions to the glossy screen in front of you, an amused smirk tugs at her painted feline lips. Even Santos was less of a challenge than the likes of you, which she deemed surprising. You seem so sweet with Robby, so perhaps it's female authority which you take specific issue with, then. Baran imagines she won't need to dig terribly deep to discover just why that is.

Internalized misogyny is certainly one possibility, but since you're so friendly with Dr. McKay, and even the charge nurse, Dana, it leaves her curious as to whether it's simply due to resentment. Resentment...because you think when female figures well above you in the workplace grant you strict instruction, it's really meant to be a slight. Because you believe that they're slyly attempting to 'mother' you.

"Is it because you take personal qualms with my being a proponent of using AI, so as to expedite the process of charting, or something else?"

Sure does love $10 words, doesn't she? Maybe if you smack her over the head with the tablet, she'll finally leave you be.

"Nope, I think that just about covers it," you quip.

She sighs while taking a small step forward—wholly closing the gap between the two of you. "I only wish to help. To—"

You turn abruptly toward her. "You may not have any problem with making yourself obsolete, Dr. Al-Hashimi, but I value my job and right to work. Every time we use AI, we're further teaching it how to get rid of us. And until your little 2% error rate shrinks to that of zero, I consider it an incredibly dangerous tool."

"That is why proof-reading is essential—"

You throw your head back and laugh mirthlessly. "Because never will anyone ever get lazy or sloppy, end up skimming through a chart rife with typos and misdiagnoses at the end of a double, and kill a patient because they were in a rush to get home. It's something that will grow in fervor and cost multiple lives before an end is finally put to it. There's no place for it here. Not in emergent medicine, and certainly not at PTMC."

You toss the tablet down with a thud. "But I'm sure I won't have to worry about it for much longer, because I assume that if you get your way, you'll make its use conditional to our employment here."

She ignores the way her palm twitches from your insolence. "To begin with, I don't have that kind of pull. I'm an employee, just like you. Secondly," she begins while leveling you with a stoic gaze. "I encourage all of you to do what works best for your particular methods. If that's traditional charting, then so be it. I merely want to give some of us an opportunity to reclaim our lives outside of work. Burnout is a very real problem in the medical field, as you well know."

Much like a cornered dog, you can feel your hackles rising. Glancing toward an exam room, you force a smile. "I have patients to get to. Excuse me."

With arms folded behind her back and a pulse that has now skyrocketed, Baran watches you walk away.

She tries one last time at the end of your shift. What she means to do—what Baran desires—will only serve to benefit you. In so many wonderful ways.

She just needs you to give her a chance first.

"Come have a drink with me after work," she offers softly.

You bite back a sarcastic laugh. This woman has no idea how to take a hint, does she? "I don't drink and drive."

Baran releases a long, calming breath. "Bars do have non-alcoholic drinks. I'll order you a Shirley Temple. Or a cup of ice water, if you prefer."

She'll order for you, huh? God, she really can't help but to call all the shots, can she?

You open your mouth to retort, but she speaks first. "I'm not trying to be your enemy. I want us to get along, and for me to be someone you feel safe in coming to—whether with questions, concerns, or because you simply need help. It's important as an attending that you find me approachable. Otherwise, if you refrain from seeking me out when, say, Dr. Robinavitch is otherwise detained, those errors you were so concerned with earlier will still happen, but due strictly to your own pride."

Maybe if you go you can bust a bottle over her head. There's something about this woman and her making you want to commit battery...

"Dr. Robby always makes time for me," you shoot back while sliding your bag over your shoulder.

Leaning against the locker next to yours, Baran crosses her arms. "Yes, he does seem to have that quality: prioritizing you." She leans in. "He wouldn't be the only one if you would simply talk to me; open up a little."

Your locker clicks shut and your eyes flit between hers.

You've been professional with her, as well as cordial. Or...as cordial as you can manage, anyway. But friendly? Gag. Things will only get more difficult for you around here, however, if you let this tension develop into pure strain.

"When I've finished my water, I'm leaving."

A smile curls her lips. "Then we have a deal."

You step past her and roll your eyes.

"Should we take your car or mine?" she questions—almost giddily.

Baran knows she's pushing her luck, but she has you so close now.

"I'll follow you," you reply. "I want my car with me for when I'm ready to head home."

Once the bartender has plopped down a cup of ice water slick with condensation onto a worn coaster in front of you, Baran's invisible timer starts to tick.

"And for you?" the female bartender asks the older woman seated next to you.

"I'll have a cosmopolitan, please," she replies politely.

You snort while taking a drink.

She glances to you curiously. "Is my choice of drink amusing to you?"

You lick cool water from your lips and her eyes narrows slightly. "Between it and your Lululemon jacket, I just think it's predictable."

She turns back to the bar. "On second thought—"

The bartender has just lifted a colorful glass bottle when she looks at Baran over her shoulder.

"I'll have Jack Daniels. Two fingers. Neat."

She turns back to you, expecting to find that she's made an impression. Instead, you merely shake your head.

Difficult to please, then.

She takes that as a challenge.

Once she's been afforded her drink, she takes a slow sip. "So," she begins while setting her glass down. "What made you want to go into medicine?"

Predictable question or not, you don't want to open up and grant her the answer because it's emotional and deep and blah. Why did you agree to come here again?

You hold your plastic cup near and it crinkles quietly in your hand. Feeling uncomfortable with looking at her when you answer, you keep your focus on swirling ice-cubes instead. "I don't blame people for wanting a job where they clock in, earn a paycheck, and clock out. So I don't think I'm better than anyone else. All jobs have a purpose. Including the Starbucks barista who makes people's days better by fixing their morning coffee for them. I don't even think I could do that."

She remains quiet, noting how important it seems to be to you to not come off as judgmental. Except when it comes to her and her somewhat controversial workplace methods, apparently.

"But there just...came this day a few years ago—and many days followed it—where all I could do was think about how decades from now, I'm going to look up and see that I've done nothing with my life. I don't know if I'd say that it's smart to wholly dedicate yourself to a job. It can't hold you at night or love you back, and given what we do, it's also often thankless. With that said, though, I still wanted something that made me feel fulfilled. So fifty years from now, when my body starts to go, I can look back and know that I made a difference. Not to the world or anything, just...to someone."

Baran observes how your hands tremble slightly when you take another drink.

Vulnerability is difficult for you.

"I think that's a very sweet, and an admirable answer," she states while reaching forward and settling a palm atop your thigh. "But please, don't ever push your own self aside for the hospital. For any place of employment." Her thumb begins rubbing soothing circles. "I always say that if the highest seat in the land is replaceable, then all of us are as well. As terrible as that may sound, it can help put things into perspective when need be."

She only removes her hand when she goes to take another sip of her Jack.

You feel like you can breathe easier once the contact is broken.

Hesitantly, she decides to cross over into what is presumedly considered no-man's land with you. "May I ask, is your issue with me specifically, or female authority in general?"

You sputter.

"It's just that I've observed you with Robby, and you seem to have little issue with him, even when he's laying down the law, so to speak. But he does seem quite fond of you."

Your brows furrow. "I—I don't have issues with—"

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable, or pry where I'm not welcome to, but... Oftentimes, I find it can be due to a strained, or estranged relationship with a young woman's mother which serves as explanation."

"She's not in the picture," you snap. "And it's none of your business."

Baran takes a beat, and her eyes flit to your now bouncing leg—her suspicions now confirmed. "All I want is to understand you. To form a connection, because like I said previously, it's paramount to me that I be a safe person for you to come to."

"I go to Robby if I need help," you snip.

You're withdrawing, and quickly.

She needs to fix this.

Settling a hand atop your forearm that rests on the bar, she grips it gently. "I'm not trying to argue with you. I just mean to reassure that if and when I do give instruction, it's because I only want the best thing for you, and our patients. Not because I am trying to mother."

Noticing how your shoulders tense, she withdraws. One last comment—which could very well bring this evening to a close—and then she'll wave her white flag. "Unless that's something you're searching for in the workplace?" She runs a slender finger around the rim of her glass. "People like to joke about a work wife or husband. But a work mother or father can perhaps be beneficial as well. To those adrift and requiring direction, that is. Especially if they're starting out."

Baran knows it's unprofessional, and that she's traipsing into dangerous territory, but this is the only chance she's going to get to change both your lives for the better, if you only let her.

She studies you from beneath her lashes. "Is Robby that to you? Husband? Father? Perhaps both?"

The realization suddenly dawns on you in that moment. She couldn't give two shits about you. You're not who she came here to get to know about, as she claims. "If you're so interested in Robby, you could just bother opening your mouth and telling him that you are yourself."

You down the last of your water before sliding off your barstool. "Instead of wasting my time by pretending like you care about me," you spit.

Sliding your bag onto your shoulder, you turn to leave.

And Baran is thrown into a whirlwind of panic. "No," she yelps. "This has nothing to do with him."

You keep heading for the door.

"This is about my preoccupation with you," Baran finally blurts out.

And you halt in your steps.

"P-Please," she stammers. "Sit. Just... Let's talk. You refuse to give me a chance to have even one decent conversation with you."

Slowly, you turn back to her on your heel. "Preoccupation?" you ask with a raised brow and crossed arms.

That certainly sounds anything but good for your job. So, what, then? Has she been observing you? Counting off any and all tiny mistakes you make to later hold them against you? Is she playing some sort of sick game where she toys with her food before tossing it at HR to finish?

Baran gently pats the seat you previously occupied with a forced smile.

With a huff and a roll of your eyes, you toss your bag onto the bartop before reluctantly seating yourself again.

Plucking the tiny red straw from her drink, she runs it over her tongue while staring at you before idly fiddling with it between her hands. "I take it you've only been with men?"

This is the most bizarre fucking conversation you've ever had with a superior before.

If anyone has grounds for a HR report now, it's you. You're sure Robby would just be tickled pink if you went that far.

"What does that—"

She regards you with a sudden, steady gaze. "I'll attempt to ask again, but clearly this time: do you need a work mother? Would that please you to have; to rely on daily?"

You blink dumbly. "What?"

Her lips twitch, and she slides a slender leg between each of yours that're propped on the bottom of the stool. "I didn't invite you out to discuss anything but yourself."

You glance toward the door, and she deflates minutely. Returning your attentions to her, you squirm. Your curiosity as to what sent her to PTMC, and away from her previous place of employment, has come to an end.

Sexual harassment. It's why she wanted you out of the workplace and alone with no witnesses.

Why does no one ever want you for the right reasons? Is this all you deserve?

Tears sting your eyes. Not so high and mighty now. No. Now you just feel afraid. "If... If I don't do what you want—"

Her eyes grow wide and she begins waving her hands in a panic. "No, no, no. Of course not! This isn't some... Some quid pro quo where you either humor me, or I make your work life a living hell for jilting me."

She scoots to the edge of her seat and takes each of your hands in hers.

You note how soft and warm they are. But still can they hurt you...

"Y/N, all I've wanted for weeks is a proper chance to talk to you. I understand your hesitancy, but I pride myself on professionalism. You have nothing to fear from me."

You chew your bottom lip nervously.

"If I asked you to accompany me home, would you be agreeable to that?" Baran inquires carefully. "Just so that we can talk in a more comfortable, and private environment." She caresses your cheek. "Would you like that?"

"I'm not sure..."

Tonight isn't turning out how you thought it would in the least. Is she just a woman with a crush? Or a bad actor? Apart from the AI hoopla, she's always come off as friendly and warm at work. Not that you've much given her the time of day to be as much toward you.

Maybe... Maybe she deserves a chance?

She nods while dropping her hand back into her lap. "How about this: you can follow me out of here and if on the way there, you turn off to head home, then we go our separate ways with no hard feelings and complete understanding. If you do come with me back to my apartment, you're still free to leave at any time you choose. Whatever makes you feel comfortable and safe is what I want you to do. Don't worry about me and my feelings whatsoever."

Your mind flies through so many scenarios. So many of them ending in termination of your employment. But others... You've never kissed a girl before. Studying her shyly from beneath your lashes, you question how she can possibly be serious about this.

Hesitantly, you pick up your bag. "Do you promise?" you ask quietly. "That I'll be okay?"

Her heart sinks. Baran understands your fear of retaliation on her side, but she knows her motives and intentions.

Never could she harm you.

Brushing her knuckles along your cheek, she smiles and nods. "You have my word, sweetie."

It's far more boho than you had previously imagined. There's long, frilly curtains which hang before floor-length windows, dangling lanterns that glow softly when Baran flips on a light switch after tossing her keys into a ceramic bowl near the door, and to your right, a kitchen that includes a stainless steel fridge. And littered throughout the space as a whole are tapestries, rugs, pottery, and plants.

"Not what you thought it would be?" she asks amusedly while shrugging off her jacket.

You hang your bag on a large hook by the entryway. "No," you reply sheepishly. "Maybe I thought it'd be—"

"Less like a home, and more like a doctor's office?" she asks with a quiet laugh.

You nod silently while nervously clasping your hands together.

Padding toward you after slipping her tennis shoes off, Baran slides her hands from the crowns of your shoulders to your own after gently prying them apart. "Would you like to sit?"

You nod again.

She turns while keeping one of your hands held tightly in hers and leads you into the living room before finally plopping down onto the couch. Settling onto the cushion next to her, you cross your legs and tug at a fraying thread on the bottom of your pant cuff.

"Have you ever been with a woman before?" Baran inquires delicately.

You shake your head.

Scooting closer, she rests a hand upon your knee. "Earlier, when I asked about if you've ever desired to have an older woman to guide you, you never did reply. And I didn't just mean in the workplace to look after you professionally. I'd...very much like to outside of it as well. If you'd be amiable to that."

Scooting back, you pull a throw pillow out from behind you to hold to your chest instead. "This is weird," you mumble before pressing your mouth to the stuffed object.

Slipping a blanket off the back of the couch, she fans it over her legs. "I've spent days going over various conversational scenarios. But you're rather unpredictable," she states with a smirk. "So my preparations did me little good when faced with the reality of the situation. I apologize—truly—if I made you uneasy or uncomfortable."

Just as nervous as you, she twines a tassel from the blanket around her index finger. "The last thing I anticipated when starting this job was becoming infatuated with a resident. But the more I tried not to think about you, the worse I failed at it." Her eyes flit to yours. "You're quite remarkable."

Face half hidden behind the pillow, you shake your head. "I'm not," you say, though your words are muffled.

With your walls down like this, she finds you rather adorable, actually.

"You are to me," she replies quietly.

Your eyes flit to hers. "Still not using AI."

Baran guffaws. "Perhaps I hoped you would simply because it'd give me further opportunity to teach you."

Resting your chin atop the pillow, you grow quiet; once again unsure of what to do with yourself. And then "Why me?"

She smirks. "You seemed hard to temper. It gave me a project of sorts to think about. And," she says while walking two fingers over to your thigh. "With you being young, and wanting for maternal guidance..." she peers at you from beneath long, mascara-coated lashes. "Such a temptation was difficult to deny myself."

"So you're a cougar," you state.

A toothy grin forms from her mouth. "I hadn't thought so until quite recently." She shrugs. "I didn't feel a need to put a label on myself."

"Have you been with women before?"

Studying the patterned blanket once more, her mouth quirks to the side. "Not many. Nothing I was terribly invested in. The relationships were quite casual, in truth." Her eyes slowly roll upwards to look at you again. "Things would be vastly different between us."

From the sultry way she gazes at you, you feel your cheeks warm. This feels...quite naughty—being here with her like this. You and your attending, who's well over a decade older than yourself with a divorce and renown in the medical field, trying to seduce you on her couch while assuring you just how much she wishes to mother you...

A pleasant pulse begins between your thighs at the knowledge.

Baran grips her blanket, then tosses it behind her before scooting forward. Gently, she takes your pillow and drops it onto the floor before cupping your cheek in her hand. "Remember," she says while her full lips hover mere inches from your own. "To tell me what you want. Whether that's to stop, or for more."

You nod slightly, and then she's kissing you.

It's gradual—her lips sliding against yours before carefully prying them apart so her tongue can sweep inside your mouth. When she slides a hand up the inside of your thigh, your body jolts, followed by an unintended whine which crawls past your open lips.

She chuckles. "Do you like that?" Moving her lips to your neck, she nibbles the sensitive skin. "When I kiss you?" Her hand massages your thigh. "When I touch you?"

You loose a shaky breath. "Y-Yes."

She hums amusedly. "Would you like to go into the bedroom?" She plants another kiss upon your lips. "So I can make you more comfortable?"

You nod eagerly.

Pushed against the far wall is a king-size bed with a colorful duvet spread atop it, complete with nightstands on either side and a chest situated at the foot. Next to the door you've just entered through, a wardrobe. To the left, the bathroom.

Your surveying is cut short when Baran gets to work on unclothing you.

With a quiet eagerness, she first pushes your shirt up above your head before kneeling at your feet and forcing your pants down to your ankles.

Finding yourself at a loss for words—maybe just lost in general—you remain still while letting her continue on. You wish you could quite the storm of thoughts that rage in your head. Is it wrong? Should you stop? Could you both get in trouble?

She's a woman, she's a woman, she's a woman.

It causes you to brim with shame and guilt.

Nasty girl. How can you lust for—

"Are you alright?"

You blink. When she she stand up? Oh. She's also disrobed, minus her intimates. They're very lacy and delicate, you notice.

"What if it's wrong?" you whisper while nervously rubbing at your arm with your opposite hand.

She cradles your face between her palms. "Because we're women?"

You nod—unable to meet her eyes, you study the floor between you.

"We have loved for as long as there has been air to breathe. These politicians who try and write the rules for what everyone else can do permit themselves to use our world as their playground while proceeding to break every moralistic code there is. Before spying on us through locked doors meant to keep us safe from the harm they cause, perhaps they should sort through the skeletons in their own closets first."

She runs the pad of her thumb along your chin. "With my heritage, all men have ever done is deny me that which I am entitled to." She crushes her lips to yours before pulling back. "So I take for myself that which I want, love, and wish to have. Because no one else will ever hand it to me with a tolerant grin and spoken permission."

Your eyes brim with tears.

"Do you want me as I want you?" she asks tenderly.

You nod while settling trembling hands on her hips.

"Then let me have you," she whispers.

Kneeling between your legs again, Baran trails her tongue from the crook between your thigh and pubic bone, up to the bottom of your belly before planting hot, wet kisses along the naked skin.

With your head carelessly thrown back and one of your hands settled firmly on her naked shoulder to keep yourself standing upright, you pant languidly while white-hot heat pools between your legs.

"That's it, baby," she coos—her Bs knocking into one another, making the word sound more like 'bebe' which somehow only makes this dynamic all the more sensual—before tacking on "Let Mama take care of you."

You shudder when she calls herself that.

Pressing two fingers firmly between your dripping folds, you cry out. "You're ready," she pants. "Lie back on the bed for me, baby."

Padding over to it, you crawl atop the mattress before settling your head against the mountain of plush pillows found atop it.

You watch eagerly as Baran struts toward you, admiring her soft curves, the swell of her breasts, and her perfect olive skin.

It's so hard to believe even now, as you lie naked in her bed, that she wants you.

Sliding a knee between your spread legs, she settles her other on your right before leaning over you—leaving her breasts to hang above your face while she slips a steady hand between your damp thighs. On instinct, you lift your head and suck a rosy-brown nipple into your mouth.

Baran gasps in pleasant surprise before lowering herself to give you easier access so you may suckle quietly at her breast.

She eases two fingers inside of you and you whimper as your slick walls clench around them. "Good girl," she encourages while sliding her other hand beneath your head.

Turning the both of you onto your sides so that you're facing one other, she brings you close while continuing with her ministrations between your legs. "Shh. That's it, baby. Let me take care of you."

Sucking on her breast, your eyes fluttered closed as she rests her cheek contentedly upon the crown of your head.

Your legs falling open, she strums her thumb over your clit. "You're being so good for Mama," she murmurs before granting you an affectionate kiss on the forehead. "Just relax so that I can help you come."

You nod before switching breasts.

While she eases dripping fingers in and out of you, your heart races. Not even touching yourself has ever felt so good.

Withdrawing her digits from your cunt, you whine quietly.

"Have you ever used toys on yourself?" she asks.

You shrug. "Sometimes."

Standing, she pads over to her wardrobe before pulling open a drawer on the bottom and removing a box with a clasped lid.

When your eyes flit to her pussy, you note how her inner thighs are shimmering. "You're wet," you note with surprise.

She grins while looking at you. "It's why I'm getting them out. So we can each be pleasured at the same time."

Baran tosses a vibrator with a silicone tail and a matching remote onto the bed, followed by another that's perhaps the size of your thumb. "We'll start with these," she states.

Returning to your side, she leans back against the headboard, and you watch as she spreads her labia apart before prodding against her slick entrance with the first vibrator. Easing it inside of herself, you watch as it disappears, minus the tail. Clicking through a few settings, she settles on the fourth before setting the tiny remote aside. "Now you," she mutters before planting her palms on your knees and easing your legs back apart.

Pressing the length of her body to your side, she offers you a breast. "You can suckle from me. I don't mind."

Opening your mouth willingly, she eases a nipple inside and your lips close around it.

Sliding her hand down your stomach, she clicks on the other vibrator before circling your clit with it. The rhythmic movements make you suck all the more fervently. "That's it," she encourages breathlessly. "Do you like this? You like the way I'm touching you?"

You nod while slurping at her breast.

"Good girl," she purrs.

You lift your hips before settling again, desperate for relief to overcome you.

"You're doing so well for me, baby," she encourages. "So sweet." She slips a finger between your folds. "So perfect."

You circle her areola with your tongue and she moans.

Plucking her breast from your mouth she plants her lips against yours and gifts you a sloppy open-mouthed kiss. The vibrator now forgotten, she shoves her fingers back inside your pulsating cunt and pumps them between your slippery walls.

Each time her palms brushes your clit, you whimper in want.

"You want me to play with your clit?"

You gaze up at her beneath hooded lids.

"Is that what my baby needs?"

You nod excitedly. "Yes. Yes, please."

Popping her fingers out of you, she starts strumming at your swollen bundle of nerves instead. "Come for me when you're ready, sweetie. I want you to."

Running your fingertips down her belly and over her navel, you cup her pussy in your palm, which comes away soaked in lubrication.

"That's what your body has done to mine," she explains. "You've made Mama so very, very wet."

Maybe in a different life, hearing another woman call herself that to you would have caused you to run without stopping. But here—tonight—you want to be her girl. Her baby. Her sweetie.

You toss your head back against the pillows while squeezing your eyes shut. "A-Almost," you whimper.

Leaning her head down, she licks a wet trail from one of your nipples to the other. "That's it. Come for Mama. Come on my hand, baby."

You arch your back before settling again. "S'close," you drawl.

Strumming with ferocity, your cunt has become a wet, dripping mess of arousal. "You're so close, sweetheart," she mumbles against your forehead before kissing it. "Just a little more. A little more and you'll finally be home."

You bite down on your lower lip. "S-So sensitive."

"Oh, I know, baby," Baran says with a nod and a kiss. "I want you to come for me, sweetie. Come all over your Mama's hand. That's a good girl. Right there. Right there, baby."

Clutching the bedding beneath you, you squeeze your eyes shut before your orgasm explodes inside of you—sending shockwaves through your naked body, all the way down to your contracting cunt.

"Good girl!" She cries. "Oh, you're doing so well for Mama. Such a perfect young lady. God, look at you. You have no idea how perfect you are."

Pushing her fingers back inside you, she plunges them between your walls while you each lose yourselves in a passionate kiss where your tongues circle each other's with abandon.

Her fingering you eventually slows to a halt, followed by her pulling you into her arms.

Quivering slightly, she tugs the duvet from the other side of the bed until it's fallen over your naked form. "Thank you," she whispers.

You take a nipple back into your mouth to soothe yourself.

"My baby," she whispers lovingly while further tucking you against her naked front. "My girl."

It's been a handful of months, and you practically feel like you're floating, you always feel so light and dreamy.

Baran held true to her word, and has most assuredly become a mother figure to you, both at work and in your now shared home. Not that she wasn't forced to work for it due to your own insecurities. At the very beginning, after your first night together, you hardly spoke to her for the next few days.

And when she came to you, asking if she had done something wrong or gone too far... You sort of blew up and berated her by telling her that everyone leaves. That she got what she wanted, so she was free to go, too.

Just walk away like all the rest.

And instead of your self-sabotage working like always, she instead took you into her arms and reminded you that when she wants something, she refuses to relent until it's hers for good.

So you reluctantly let her care for you. But while still making snippy little comments—as if you were angered by her audacity to feel anything toward you but indifference—about how she'll find better, or grow bored, or finally see you for what you truly are.

All it served to do was let her in just the least bit more, though, even if that'd not been your intention. Because finally could she properly see just how deep your mother wound cut: all the way to your very soul.

The well of worthlessness within you was bottomless, but she was determined to fill it up, no matter the cost.

Because to see someone so beautiful and bright and kind hate themself so much because of what another did to them? She refused to have it. You were hers now to look after. Her purpose. The center of her universe.

She could never abandon you emotionally like another before. She'd never harm you. No, Baran would go to any length to assure your happiness.

Including one that surprises even herself.

Because while the two of you fell in love, you never drifted away from Robby. Not that she necessarily wished for you to; she knows he's important to you. But when she stood across the ED one day—about to head toward the waiting room for another patient—and caught a glimpse of him standing so close to you that his chest pressed against your side while you talked and he stared at you with eyes full of unyielding adoration... She knew she couldn't be selfish with you.

Not unless it was what you wanted.

"There's a private matter I'd like to speak to you about, Dr. Robinavitch. When you have a moment of free time, that is."

Robby grips the side of his glasses and looks at Baran over the top of them. "Free time and the Pitt don't exactly go well together, Al-Hashimi, you know that. So whatever it is, make it quick."

If looks could kill...

Forcing a polite smile, she trudges forth. "It's about your and I's favorite resident, Y/N."

Having now captured his attention, Robby sets down the tablet previously held in his hand before turning to her with crossed arms. "Is something the matter?" he asks with a raised brow.

"As I said, I'd prefer if we discussed it privately," Baran replies evenly.

He throws his hands up. "Fine, fine. Where did you have in mind?"

Shutting the door behind them, Baran heads toward the counter at the back of the Employee Lounge and casually leans back against it with crossed arms. A stance which Robby mimics.

"This is going to be a rather...unusual conversation," she begins. "And before I begin, I need you to assure me that what is said in this room remains strictly between you and I. If not for my sake, then for hers."

Already knowing he'd do anything for you, he nods while sighing with exasperation. "Yes. I promise. It stays in this room."

She nods. "I want to preface by saying that I haven't spoken to her about this yet because I didn't see the need for opening such a door if there was no...desire on your part to do so."

"Is there a stop between here and the point?" Robby asks with frustration.

She narrows her eyes. "Y/N and I have been in a relationship for the last few months."

Robby raises his brows in surprise.

Pressing the heel of his palm to one of his eyes, he shakes his head. "Moral and ethical dilemmas aside, I'm guessing this is the part where you tell me to keep my distance going forward?"

Baran feels the corner of her eye twitch. "I had considered that for obvious reasons, yes. But..." She sighs. "I also refuse to be selfish with her. Too many who came before me harmed her. In so many ways. I cannot be another one of them just for the sake of my own self-interest."

Robby slides his hands into his pockets. "Baran, I really don't see—"

"I see the way you look at her. All I ask, before my final question, is this: do you love her? Rather, are you in love with her?"

Robby grows silent for a moment. Rocking back on his heels before leveling himself on the balls of his feet, he stares at her. "Yes," he rumbles. "I'm in love with her. A feeling which you clearly understand."

She takes a beat. "I'm willing to make you an offer, then. If you are agreeable, I say the two of us share her."

Robby stills and leans forward slightly. "You propose what now?"

"I know she loves you in return. Perhaps she's never said it, but I see the guilty look on her face each time she parts from your side and comes over to me. I don't ever wish for her to feel that she needs to hide a part of herself to please me or keep the peace between us."

"This is the strangest fucking conversation I've ever had here, and given how long I've worked in the Pitt, that's truly saying something," he mumbles while pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I came to you first because I didn't feel a need—incase you were disinterested—to get her hopes up, only to find out you didn't desire this arrangement. Tonight, however," she says while taking a small step forward. "I mean to talk to her about it. Gather her feelings on the matter. Only if she agrees will I inform her of our conversation here. Because I also don't want her to feel obligated to go along with things, lest she risk hurting your feelings."

He nods. "I agree. She's what matters."

She smiles. "We have an understanding then."

Making to walk past him, Robby speaks again. "How would this work, exactly? You never specified."

Turning back around, Baran folds her arms behind her. "We would be intimate with her either at your place of residence or mine, as she's now living with me. But strictly with her. Never each other."

Robby smirks with amusement. "That much is beyond clear."

"As long as we're on the same page," she quips.

"But just so I have this straight, I can only have sex with her if you're there to...what? Supervise?"

She rolls her eyes and drops her chin, not even justifying him with an answer.

He chuckles. "That is wildly unfair, and I think you know that."

Her dark brows knit together. "How so?"

"You just said it yourself: the two of you live together. Meaning that you can sleep with her at any time. But God forbid I want to have her to myself for an evening."

She shifts from one foot to the other. "I didn't think about it like that." A sigh. "Fine. Yes. If that is what she wants is a night or two with you, then with me, then with both of us—"

"You know what a recipe for disaster putting our own wants aside for the strict sake of hers could wind up being, right?"

She shrugs—seemingly unbothered. "We figure it out as we go along. Perhaps not the best laid plan, but as long as you and I share a common goal of showering her in love and affection and...intimacy, then I think we'll have little conflict."

He nods, but with a somewhat doubtful look. "Guess we'll see."

Robby starts toward the door next, but Baran steps forward this time. "Robby, one more thing."

He turns around while running a nervous hand down the back of his head. "Yeah?"

"She has a... It's a long story, but a very complicated, turbulent, and abusive relationship with a now estranged mother. The wounds she created in our girl cut so deeply that I..." She glances away and shakes her head, ignoring the tears that brim in her eyes. "I'm trying to fix by being everything Y/N wanted but couldn't have because someone else thought it appropriate to withhold love and safety from her in exchange for hate and fear."

Baran looks at him. "I'm not just lover to her, but mother. And oftentimes, she refers to me as such—Mama—I need you to prepare yourself for hearing it. If she senses any judgement from you, she will shut down. It may take me weeks to undo that damage. To coax her back out of her shell. Sometimes, I have to rock her to sleep at night. Others, she suckles at my breasts to self-soothe. If you take issue with any—"

"I don't," he interrupts. Looking at his boots, he continues. "I understand. Mine... She left when I was young. It doesn't matter, but I get it."

He raises his head. "She'll get no judgement from me."

Baran's lips tug into a frown. "I'm so sorry, Robby."

He shakes his head. "Like I said, it doesn't matter. Just that I can relate."

She rests a palm against his upper arm. "When you feel the time is right, share it with her. Please."

His eyes flit to Baran's, which have gone soft.

"The two of you can bond over it. Heal each other's hurt. Open your heart to her—to someone who knows how fragile a thing it is, and thus will never take such efforts for granted."

She drops her hand, and Robby turns the door handle. "I'll think about it. Just...let me know what she decides."

You stare at Baran with wide eyes. "He... He what?"

She grins. "He agreed as well."

Heat creeps up and causes your nose to prickle. "So— What— Do we—" You blank.

Baran resituates herself atop the mattress so that her legs are bent on either side of you, where you sit leaned back against the headboard, and she cups your face gently between her hands. "I would like for the first time to be here. In your own bed so that you're comfortable. It'll be the three of us, and it will be however you want it to be. After... If there are nights where you would like for him to take you home with him, I encourage you to."

She brushes the pad of her thumb along your lips.

"But...what about you?"

She smiles sweetly. "As long as you always come home to me, I'm happy, baby."

Standing idly by in one of Baran's old VA t-shirts, you shift nervously from one foot to the other—watching silently, and with a pounding heart, as Robby toes off his boots and Baran hangs up her jacket in the entryway.

Today being one of your days off, you spent the entirety of it jittery, nervous, and unbelievably wet.

Had you given into the temptation of touching yourself, you'd probably be downright sore by now. Instead, however, you staved it off by telling yourself to save all your pent-up sexual energy for Robby and your Mama tonight.

The latter of which pads toward you with a beaming smile. "Hi, baby," she murmurs before crushing her lips to yours.

The kiss is long and ardent—complete with her eager tongue binding with your own before she releases you with a ragged breath shuddering between your ribs.

And then your eyes flit to Robby's, and he grants you a small, grateful smile. "Hi, sweetheart," he says quietly.

Once his heavy footfalls have led him to you, you find yourself without restraint when you throw your arms around his neck and stand on tiptoes, eager to have him close.

Baran runs a hand down your back. "I'll go get the bedroom ready for us," she says softly before stepping away.

Cupping the back of your head in his large palm, Robby groans against your warm mouth.

Breaking gently away from your kiss, he presses his forehead to yours.

"How was your day?" you ask while stumbling slightly forward—your breasts brushing against the wealth of his strong, soft chest.

"Long," he chuckles. "All I could think about was tonight."

You nod with an excited smile. "Me too."

"Are you nervous?" he inquires while running a hand down your side.

You nibble on your lower lip. "Very."

"If you've changed your mind—"

You shake your head while gazing into his eyes. Eyes which look so similar to those of your beloved Baran. "I want this."

Padding out of the bedroom in only her delicates, the both of you turn to look in Baran's direction, who's standing in the doorway of the bedroom. "It's ready."

Standing near the foot of the bed, your heart flutters between your thighs as Baran removes your panties and Robby your top. Tracing calloused hands over your now exposed skin, he brushes the pads of his thumbs over your pebbled nipples before leaning down and capturing one in his mouth.

With a wanton sigh, your back arches, and you fall back against Baran.

You submerge your fingers in his hair and run them gently through his short brown strands. Meanwhile behind you, Baran trails gentle kisses from the curve of your shoulder, all the way below your ear.

"Oh, God," you moan when one of Baran's hands brushes your unoccupied breast.

With a quiet pop, Robby releases your nipple before tugging off his black scrub shirt.

Continuing to toy with your nipples, Baran rolls them between her fingers while you untie the front of Robby's pants, utterly eager to undress him just as they each have you.

Shoving them past his hips, they pool on the floor at his feet. Stepping out of them, you hook your fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs, until he stops you.

Looking up, into his eyes, he nods toward the bed without a word.

"C'mere, baby," Baran coos while turning you around to her. Quickly unhooking her bra, followed by slipping out of her panties, she pads over to the bed and leans back against the headboard with spread legs. When she beckons you to her with a manicured finger, you follow suit.

When his knees knock against the foot of the mattress, his hands hesitate at the hem of his shirt.

"What's wrong?" you ask quietly.

Baran runs a comforting hand down your arm. "If you've changed your mind—"

He shakes his head before his eyes flit to yours. "I'm not as young as I once was, sweetheart. Once you put on weight at my age, it's difficult to get it off again."

He's insecure about his body? You've always hungered over the soft swell of his stomach—how he's seemingly relaxed into himself as he's grown older. It makes you ache with desperate want. You've never seen it as anything less than utterly desirable.

You crawl toward the foot of the bed before sitting back on your haunches. Sliding your hands beneath his flannel shirt, you push it up his chest, which he removes the rest of the way before tossing it to the side.

Your palms drag from his chest, through the smatterings of coarse dark hair found all across the fleshy planes of his front, and down his belly which hangs over the fold of his briefs.

Pressing your hands against his slight gut, you whimper from desire. "Please," you plead while tugging against the waistband which shields you from the rest of him. Resting a palm against his cheek, you brush the pad of your thumb along the apple of it. "I want to see you," you whisper.

With a slight jerk of his head, he shoves his briefs down to his ankles and your mouth waters at the sight of his semi-flaccid cock. "Oh, Robby," you sigh.

Baran spreads her legs apart then in preparation for you. "C'mon, baby."

You glance to her over your shoulder and whine at the sight of her so ready.

"Make yourself comfortable so we can tend to you."

Returning to her on hands and knees, you plop yourself down between her thighs. Pulling you back against her naked breasts, she brings her lips close to your ear. "Spread your legs wide and throw them over mine," she instructs.

Doing just that, your feet are left to dangle just above the mattress. With her own feet firmly planted and legs bent at the knees, Baran has left you wide open and ready to take him.

Robby's eyes flit from her to you. "I took a Viagra on the way over here," he remarks quietly. "It may take me awhile to..."

Your head lulls back against her shoulder.

"That's alright," Baran croons while sinking two fingers into her mouth before trailing them down, between your thighs. "We've got all night."

Circling them against your clit, your hips jerk and she wraps her opposite arm around your waist—intertwining your fingers with hers. "Shh, that's it. My good girl. Let Mama make you ready for him."

Spread open like this—so wet and naked and vulnerable—causes you to worry that you won't last long. You've been so needy for it all day.

The mattress dips beside you, and when you study him from beneath hooded lids, you observe how Robby's stomach melds to the side he's laying on. His hand rubs languidly at his cock which is gradually filling with blood how he needs it to if he's to please you.

Repositioning, he slides a hand up your right inner thigh and watches as Baran toys with your slick, weeping cunt.

"She's ready," she murmurs. "Whenever you are. She should be plenty wet enough to take the length of you."

Your pussy pulsates when she speaks like that—like you're a soft, sweet sex toy for them to use for their own releases.

Once Robby has achieved manhood, he settles onto his knees between your spread legs.

He runs a palm from your naked breast, all the way to your sensitive clit, which he brushes his thumb along the swell of. "You're sure?" he asks one final time.

You nod reverently while scooting forward the least bit, assuring him that you need this to happen.

He comes so close that the tops of his thighs brush against the bottoms of Baran's. Robby rubs the tip of his weeping cock against your entrance and you pant with eager anticipation.

And then— "Fuck!" he curses with quiet irritation.

Baran stills.

"What's wrong?" you ask through clouded eyes.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart." He glances to Baran. "The only thing I had to remember and I forgot it."

He cups your cheek while continuing to stroke himself. "Honey, I don't have any condoms on me."

"It's fine," you blurt.

Baran leans her head to the side to look at you. "Are you sure, baby? This is what you want?"

You nod while reaching for his throbbing member. "Yes. I do."

He lines himself back up again, continuing to tease your slick entrance until his tip is coated in your arousal. "I don't know if I'll be able to pull out—"

"I don't want you to."

His eyes flit between yours with uncertainty.

"It's okay," you sigh with a nod. "I want you to finish right here," you say while spreading your labia.

Robby slowly eases forward inch by inch.

You throw your head back and your eyes flutter closed. A moan escapes your lips when he's not even halfway there.

"You're doing so, so well for us, sweetheart," Baran encourages while tugging at your pert nipples. "You're taking his cock so incredibly well. Look," she encourages gently.

Your head falls forward weakly and you study how he's now only halfway submerged—the remainder of him thick and veiny, with a healthy tuft of hair sitting above the shaft.

Gently, your walls squeeze around him at the side—trying their utmost to aid you by swallowing the rest of him.

"More," Baran insists. "Let our girl have more. She needs this."

Grabbing your hips, Robby scoots forward on his knees and sinks further in.

Your walls stretch to accommodate his girth; your own self-made lubricant from your arousal causing him to practically slide inside of you.

When he finally bottoms out against your cunt, you cry from sheer, unadulterated lust from the feeling of his belly hanging between you. It covers where he's buried inside of you, as well as your pubic area it's so soft.

Gently pawing at it, Robby begins to rock his hips against yours—sending his belly slapping against your heated skin.

"Oh, my perfect girl," Baran coos while fondling your breasts. "Mama is so very proud of you for taking every inch."

You sigh while leaning your head back, wanting a kiss from her.

And she grants it to you when Baran plants her lips firmly atop your own. Swiveling her head from side to side, she makes love to your mouth while Robby fucks himself between your thighs. "That feel good?" she sighs. "His cock inside your pussy?"

You nod slowly; your body utterly relaxed. "Yes, Mama."

You worry it bothers her—having someone else here; a man—and being forced to watch him have sex with you. "D'you like it?" you mumble.

She grins, and kisses your cheek. "I like my special girl getting her needs taken care of. That is what I like," she says while sliding her hand beneath Robby's belly to circle your swollen clit.

Robby grunts, then squeezes your hips in his hands while sliding you further down until your legs are stretched so wide that you can hardly take anymore.

"So open and vulnerable, aren't you, baby?" Baran purrs while sinking a hand between her own thighs.

Sighing breathily, you pull Robby's face toward you, and you giggle when his beard scratches the soft skin of your face. "'S good," you mumble. "I like it."

He kisses your neck. "C'mere, sweetheart," he whispers while wrapping your arms around his neck.

Bringing the two of you into the lotus flower position, He groans before pausing his ministrations for a moment to reposition himself against the headboard. "I'm sorry, honey, my back is fuckin' killin' me."

Once he's made himself comfortable, Baran slides a hand down your back while pressing her bare front to your side. "Good?" she asks Robby with a raised brow.

He nods, and she returns it.

Grabbing your hips between her hands, she begins to guide you. "Just like that. Rock your hips—good. Good girl. Such a fast learner. Little faster—perfect."

She rests back on her haunches, and you keep one arm circled around Robby's neck and the other thrown over her shoulders.

One moment, you have his tongue in your mouth, and the next it's hers.

You get so lost in the sex and how their each guiding your body, that you soon lose track of who is touching and kissing you where.

"Fuck," Robby growls while taking hold of your hips again. "I'm gonna come."

Baran grips your chin in her hand, noting how you drool and the shallow pants that fall from your lips. "Are you ready for this, sweetheart? Hm? For him to fill you up?"

You nod fervently while slurring your reply. "Yes, yes, yes."

Bouncing sloppily on his cock, Robby throws his head back and groans from behind clenched teeth as he spills himself inside of you in long, thick spurts of semen.

You shudder and release a strangled cry from how wonderful it feels as it shoots into your slick, abused core that only wants impossibly for more of what he's already given you.

Baran grabs your face between her hands while cupping your cheeks. "Do you have any idea how we'll you've done?"

You smile lazily. "I did good, Mama?"

She crushes her lips to yours so hard that your teeth knock together. You mewl against her tongue while sucking it into your own mouth. "Perfect," she states with finality as a tendril of spits hangs between you.

When you slide off of Robby's red, swollen cock, his cum spills out of you and onto the sheets, his thighs, and your own there's so much of it.

You swipe your fingers along your clit and curse quietly.

"Did you come on it, baby?" Baran asks while circling her own clit.

Robby slides a hand down your side.

"A-Almost."

He sighs. "I'm sorry, honey. Just give me a bit and—"

Baran pulls you back toward her until you're in the same position as earlier. With your messy cunt displayed for him, she sinks two fingers inside of you. "You can watch. Watch how I make our girl come for both of us."

Hammering her fingers away between your cum slick walls, it coats her hand, but she seems to care naught as she switches between plunging away and quickly strumming those same fingers along your twitching clit.

"More, Mama," you plead—so desperate for your orgasm that you fear you may start crying.

"I know, baby," she comforts. "You're so close. Mama is going to get you to your release. Just relax."

Lying on his side again, Robby plants kisses along your calves and thighs and knees, watching Baran tend to you.

You gasp quietly. "Almost there."

Robby cups the back of your head in his palm. "That's it, sweetheart."

"Squeeze around my fingers," Baran commands. And your body does just as commanded. "Tight, tight, tight," she mumbles. "Good. So good."

Squirming against Baran, you squeal quietly when she strums and gently smacks your clit.

Fisting the sheets beneath you, you squeeze your eyes shut while throwing your head back against her shoulder.

Robby slips two fingers inside of you and pumps them between your hot, fluttering walls that're still so slick with his cum until you finally orgasm for them both in a torrent of tears and sexual relief.

"Oh, that is my perfect girl," Baran coos. "You did so well for Mama and Daddy," she murmurs while threading her fingers between yours.

You smile weakly while practically melting against their hands and lips, knowing that you have everything in this moment that you've ever wanted.

You and Robby jumped in the shower together afterward and you washed him first while Baran cleaned up the bed so you could all lie down after bathing.

When she enters the steamy, sudsy space, she lathers the back of your body with soap while Robby sees to the front. You simply stand between them, and allow two people whom you hardly feel that you deserve, to take tender-loving care of your vulnerable body.

"She do that a lot?" Robby asks quietly from behind you.

Now in bed, you're snuggled up between them: Robby's naked body—minus him wearing a pair of briefs—pressed firmly against your back, including the swell of his stomach melded against the curve of your spine, and Baran against your front.

Releasing her nipple from your mouth, you turn your head minutely in his direction. "Does it bother you?" you ask uncertainly.

He kisses your bare shoulder and shakes his head. "Not at all. Just wanted to make sure Baran doesn't need a tube of cream from the hospital."

After a moment of silence, you return to suckling at her breast while she cups the back of your head.

"I have a few of lanolin in the bathroom. But thank you."

Sliding his hand over your stomach, Robby lies his head down to finally try and get some shut-eye.

"Goodnight, baby," Baran whispers.

"Goodnight, Mama," you say in return. Twining your fingers between Robby's, you give them a gentle squeeze. "I love you both." Tears well in your eyes and you blink them back in the dark. "Thank you for tonight."

"Thank you," he rasps against your ear before kissing your cheek.

Baran meanwhile presses her lips softly to yours.

When you wake the next morning, it's to an empty bed and the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen. Mama is awake, but you're unsure if Robby has left for work yet.

You hope not.

Once you've tended to yourself in the bathroom, you throw on the t-shirt you were wearing last night and pad silently to the doorway of the bedroom and only open it a crack. Maybe it's not entirely right to be eavesdropping, but your curiosity simply can't be helped.

"Was it how you hoped it would be?" Baran asks.

You hear a fork clinking against a plate.

"More, I think. You don't know how long I've been waiting for her to come along," Robby replies.

"I do, because I feel the same. It just...hurts me deeply every time I think of how she was treated before. The terror she suffered."

A beat of silence before she continues. "My home was already welcoming before, but it was important to me to make it exceptionally cozy for her so she would always feel completely safe within its walls."

You hear the sound of a spatula scraping against a pan, then a quiet 'thank you'.

"I did want to lay a particular ground rule," Baran states. "No arguing between us. Not here. Not...if we can help it in general. I know you and I tend to butt heads at times, but I won't have that around her whatsoever. She's been through enough, and I consider it my job now to provide stability and structure that her life was sorely lacking before."

"She's still a grown woman, Baran," Robby says quietly.

"I know," she quips. "Out there, she is. In here, she's my girl. You know better than most how she feels, I imagine, so I hope you understand that a calm environment is what's best for her wellbeing. Work is a different story. But at home? She will not live in constant survival mode when she leaves PTMC now."

"I understand. I don't like the idea of her being unhappy anymore than you do."

A glass is settled on the table.

"How late does she usually sleep on days off?" he asks.

Running water, and then quiet.

"It depends. Last night, she was exhausted for obvious reasons. But in principle, I try to let her rest as long as she likes. Why?"

"Just hoping to give her a kiss goodbye before I head out. But I don't want to wake her if she's still asleep," Robby says.

You count up to fifteen, then exit the bedroom to the sight of Robby fully dressed for work and Baran flitting about the kitchen to prepare you a plate to eat.

"Morning, baby," she chimes. "Are you hungry?"

You nod sheepishly. "I could eat."

She grins while getting you down a plate.

Robby pats his thigh and you pad over to him before settling yourself atop it.

"You sleep okay?" he murmurs while sliding an arm around your waist and taking a drink of coffee.

You cup his stubbled cheek in your palm and nod. "I did."

"Good," Baran whispers while setting a steaming plate of bacon and eggs on a tablemat near his. She grants you a soft kiss atop your head before going to the fridge to pour you a glass of orange juice.

"Did you?" you question while sliding your hand to the middle of his chest.

"Better than I have in a long time," Robby states while giving your hip a gentle squeeze.

Bringing over your drink, Baran slides a maternal hand down the back of your head.

"I'm going to have to leave soon, though, if I don't want to be late," he murmurs with a kiss to your cheek.

"Okay," you sigh before leaning in for a kiss from his lips.

Your skin sings when his beard scratches lightly against your chin while his mouth makes silent love to your own in the early morning light. When you finally rise and step reluctantly to the side, he caresses your cheek and plants a soft, paternal kiss to the top of your head.

"Will..." you hesitate. "Tonight...will..."

Baran twines her fingers between yours. "Last night was more so to see whether this arrangement would be compatible with your needs." She glances to Robby, then back to you. "But I think, going forward, for the sake of you, that things would be best left separate but equal. So you go where your heart tells you to. One night with me, one with him, and so on."

Your curious eyes flit from Robby back to Baran.

"That works for me," he agrees. "But you're both more than welcome at my place just like you've made me at yours." He takes a step toward the door. "I'll get a copy of my housekey made tonight so you can have it," he says while nodding toward you.

You nod while smiling from ear-to-ear with shimmering tears in your eyes. "I...I love you," you mutter quietly.

Coming back to you in a rush of steps, Robby crushes his lips to yours while Baran wraps you in her arms. "And we love you," she whispers.

Tugging at the hem of your scrub shirt, Jack pulls you to the other side of him and places himself between the two of you with crossed arms as he answers all of Park's questions. Though, his inquisition turns more into grilling when his tone suddenly changes shape into that of utter stoicism which borders on downright unfriendly.

Not unusual for him, but there was a reason you had been asked to be present when he came down: you're one of very few in this hospital that a man as hard and daunting as he has a soft spot for.

Before your choosing to practice medicine, you started out your career as his receptionist upstairs. It being one of your first ever jobs, you had wanted to make a good impression, so you constantly strived to meet his needs before he even gave you orders to schedule this, or check on that, or contact so and so about such and such. Didn't take terribly long before you could read his mind by simply reading his chiseled face.

Your first day in his office started with you handing out cookies and fudge and earning a judgmental glare, but ended with him muttering a quick 'See you tomorrow' as he headed out the door.

You had deemed that a good sign that you weren't fired yet, even if he had scoffed at your cutesy stationary and glittery lanyard.

The job had initially felt a tad demeaning, though, in truth: fetching him coffee and lunch from across the street, or scheduling his haircuts and dentist appointments... Until he went from handing you cash to his black card instead once you earned his trust, and told you to 'get yourself something nice' with a wink whenever you ran his errands thereafter.

When he caught you looking at med school applications on your work desktop a handful of months later, you'd panicked and flew into a fit of apologies for using a work device for personal reasons, until he settled a large palm atop your shoulder and told you that he'd write you a glowing letter of recommendation if you were truly serious about it.

Now that he's lost you to Abbot and the ED, however, he wonders if he made the right choice. He takes little shame in being selfish to get what he wants, but he found himself unable to do so when it came to you.

Just can't help but wonder at times why ortho wasn't your chosen specialty, since he likes to believe that working under him played into your decision to go to med school. That he made that much of a positive impression.

Too bad he never got a chance to make another... Like a swollen belly and a ring wrapped round your finger to show that he had finally made a catch of his very own.

Once the patient is prepped for transport, Park nearly shoulder-checks Jack to get around him and to you before giving your waist a gentle squeeze and a murmured 'Come and see me again some time. New one just doesn't know me like you did', to which you force a nod and a feigned smile of agreement while standing back so the gurney can be taken on its way elsewhere.

When you glanced to Jack, he granted you an uneasy look before moving onto the next case which he insisted you join him on.

"Now, grab an 11 blade and I'll guide you through how to do an incision for a pleural effusion."

You turn to head in the direction of the supply cart, until Toomarian reaches you first with the required surgical tool, which you take with a quiet, grateful thanks.

Bending over the patient again, Jack keeps a steady hand against the middle of your back while his other gestures horizontally the way you need to cut. "Fifth intercostal space," Jack drawls close to your ear. "Posteriorly. Good, good."

Once fluid begins to successfully drain, you glance to him with searching eyes for what you should do next.

He's been very attentive this shift. More so than usual, which is remarkable given that Jack tends to keep you with him for at least half his cases anyway. You don't complain, though, as you're always grateful for not only the education and training, but the attention.

Greedy thing that you can tend to be when it comes to the likes of him, getting it at home clearly isn't enough for you, because seeing him in action is so much more attractive.

"Maybe I should come up with a nickname for you," Jack mumbles while studying a perfusion scan from over your shoulder.

"What?" you ask dumbly while slightly turning your head back to him in confusion.

"Angel," he jeers. "I'm sure I could do better than a damn fish."

You snort while scrolling. "You're joking, right?"

"Something different than just honey, sweetheart, baby doll..."

You sigh and shake your head. "Jack, I share your house and let you between my legs every day. You have no reason to be jealous of a silly little nickname."

"Maybe pumpkin," he grumbles while walking away, as if he didn't hear you.

Handing Jack a protein shake fresh from the fridge, he takes it from you with a peck on the lips and quiet "Thank you, sugar."

You raise a brow while fighting off a smirk that's threatening to overtake your features.

Untwisting the cap, his lips tug into a frown. "No, only sounds about half right," he remarks before taking a swig. Returning the cap to the open bottle neck, he squeezes your cheeks between his fingers—causing your lips to pucker.

You know that making a fish joke right now will only set him off further.

"Just remember whose resident you are, alright?"

You blink. "Okur," you murmur through pouty lips.

He releases you. "Might not have been mine first, but you are now," he states while diving in for a kiss.

Just to finish things up, you and Jack end up hanging around the ED for another hour while dayshift begins to file in, including their own attending who finds you before long for a curious conversation.

"Any reason he's such a miserable bastard this morning? Rough night, or did you two have your first fight?"

Tucking unused supplies back into a storage cabinet, you glimpse at Robby. "Huh?"

"Abbot," he explains with crossed arms. "I don't think I've ever seen that man pout, but when I mentioned that I was looking for some follow-up results from ortho, it's like his mood shifted in a completely different direction."

You roll your eyes upward. "I thought he was over it."

"Park do something?"

You press the cabinet shut, then slide your hands into the roomy pockets of your pants. "Around the beginning of my shift, he was called down for a consult. He called me an old nickname, and for whatever reason, it seems like it's really gotten under Jack's skin. It's stupid."

Robby grins slyly and studies you with an affectionate gaze.

"What?" you ask with furrowed brows.

Robby shrugs slightly. "It's not exactly a hidden secret that Park is fond of you. That the two of you have history."

Unfurling, a brow is instead raised in question. "I was his receptionist. That's it..."

He shakes his head. "The few times I've seen him around you down here, it seemed like something more to me. At least on his end. But I guess it's not surprising that you've failed to notice."

These men and making mountains out of molehills...

"You have no idea," he says quietly. "What it feels like to be in love with you. The kind of jealousy that it can stir up."

Like a fish gasping for air, you open and close your mouth a few times before finally shutting it entirely.

"Just let him take you home," he says while grabbing a pair of nitrile gloves. "And remind him that you're his and his alone."

He gives you a peck on the top of the head. "It's what I'd want if I were in his shoes and thought another man was encroaching on what's mine."

He's very quiet on the ride home. Constantly shifting in his seat, you watch from the corner of your eye as Jack runs a hand through his hair, then rests his forearm against the window to his left before placing his palm atop the wheel.

"You okay?" you ask quietly.

He nods while remaining frontward facing.

"You seem sorta upset."

He sighs. "I'm fine. Just tired."

You chew your lip. "Are you mad at me?"

He shakes his head, then switches on the radio to a country station. "Everything's fine."

"I just don't get," Jack grunts while pulling off his prosthetic. "Why, after all this time, he's still calling you that."

You drop your badge onto the dresser and exhale silently. "If you let on that it bothers you, he's just going to keep doing it."

"It should bother you," he complains lowly. "My damn girl."

Your lips tilt into a smile, but you make sure not to let him see it: that you find his jealousy to be entertaining. "C'mon," you say while padding around the bed and grabbing a crutch before extending it toward him. "Let's take a shower together."

"Sure you don't want a bath so that you can swim around a bit?" he asks snidely.

You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him.

Pushing off the bed, he throws an arm over the offered crutch. "Alright, that was petty of me."

You wait for him to go around you before you slap his ass hard enough to make your palm sting.

"Hey! Behave yourself back there, young lady."

You pinch it next. "No, thanks, old man."

Giving Jack head in the shower didn't exactly go as planned. Due to how long it took to help him develop an erection without the aid of medication, the water was cold by the time he was finally there.

So now he's tired, horny, and irritated. And above all, absolutely a pouty puss.

Dinner is eaten in silence, but at least he finishes the meal you place before him. While he's busying himself with cleaning up the kitchen, you scamper off to the bedroom to throw on a thin piece of lingerie that's seen minimal use since its purchase some time ago, and you wait in a staged, sultry pose upon the bed for him.

And when he pulls back the door, he turns right back around to go get his Viagra with a shit-eating grin on his face.

You're absolutely soaked and throbbing between your legs where he has his cock bottomed-out against you.

Sucking on the tender skin of your neck, Jack's full weight is lain atop your body while he gently rocks his hips against yours.

"Ah, ah, please," you pant needily with arms wrapped around his neck and legs thrown over the backs of his thighs.

Releasing your carotid with a pop, he licks his way to the other side to get to work there next. "That feel good, pumpkin?"

He nibbles on your chin, then kisses your neck again. "Hm, sugar?"

Oh, not the names again...

You know what? Whatever, you're not complaining.

"Talk to me, baby doll."

You nod while sinking your fingers into his sweaty grey curls. "S-So good. Can't get enough."

He withdraws until just his bulbous tip remains against your soaking entrance, then slams back in in one brutal thrust that causes you to cry out his name in ecstasy.

"That's my girl," he purrs. "Enjoy my cock, baby." he leans back and brushes sweat from your brow with his palm. "Because I'm definitely enjoying the pussy that belongs to me."

You squeeze around him and he dips his head to suck on the hollow of your throat.

"Think I might finally have a name for you," he murmurs while gently nipping at your breasts.

"O-Oh?" you sigh.

Bracketing his arms on either side of your head, he leans in close to the shell of your ear. "Mrs. Abbot," he growls.

Your walls flutter around his swollen cock.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" he mutters before sucking on your chin.

You nod slowly; noting how lightheaded you feel. "Yes," you whimper.

"So that's a yes? You'll marry me?" Jack bites your earlobe. "Take my name so everybody knows whose property you are?"

God, he's never been so possessive before, even in bed.

You very much like this side of him.

"Really?" you whine in disbelief while opening blurry eyes and gazing up at him.

"Really," he confirms while thrusting his hips against yours. "Awful romantic of me to ask while we're making love, huh?"

You grin with an adorably scrunched-up nose before agreeing wholeheartedly between excited giggles.

"Oh yeah," he says while roaming your soft, naked body with calloused hands. "All of this is mine."

"Jack, what the hell did you do?!" you cry incredulously from the bathroom.

Utterly sated and content, he remains lying back in bed while thumbing through an old western novel without granting a reply.

Roaming your naked skin with a tender palm, you press gingerly against the numerous hickeys that litter your body with hesitant fingertips.

They're absolutely everywhere—your neck, your chin, your breasts, your clavicle. Jack has covered you in signs of him wherever he could reach that would be visible.

Stomping back into the bedroom, you fill with fury at the sight of the lazy grin that's plastered on his smug face. "I can't go to work like this!" you shout. "It's almost July, Jack, so I can't exactly wear a turtleneck to hide these!"

He shrugs while flashing a toothy smirk. "Had to mark you as mine somehow." He settles the novel atop his bare chest. "Which reminds me." He nods toward your shared closet while maneuvering over the edge of the bed. "Your engagement ring is in there."

You throw your head back and groan in irritation... But your anger is soon supplanted by happy tears and a full heart as he retrieves the gleaming piece of jewelry before seating himself on the bed again and asking you with a practiced speech if you'll be his forever.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me, man," Robby says, nearly doubled-over with laughter as you march past with a huff to reach your locker.

You grit your teeth at the sound of him howling behind you.

"You were that jealous over a dumb little nickname?" he cries.

Jack shrugs while tossing down his backpack. "You got any cases I could page him down here for before you take off?"

Doctor Jack Abbot who has a bad habit about forgetting to leave his stethoscope in hospital.

You know that pretty well, so this morning you were prepared.

Lying in bed only in some kind of a pair of pink knee socks, looking adorable and innocent, sprawled on the bed with your legs open wide.

The moment Jack entered the bedroom, his eyes tired, body ready to go to sleep, a surge of energy went through him and he’s just standing there, taking in the way your pussy was already glistening with need.

“Oh, doctor Abbot. What a surprise. You’re here for a house visit?” You blinked twice, biting your finger with a smile.

Jack let out a soft huff of disbelief, taking a step closer, clutching the stethoscope that was hanging over his neck. When he caught a glimpse of your plan, he knew what to do.

“Yeah, Miss, you are due for your check up, and I’m here to make sure you’re properly taken care of.” His knees dipped into the mattress, watching your bare body, the goosebumps of excitement covering your skin. 

Your nipples already hard like a rock, he bit his lip in awe. 

“I feel this strange ache, doctor.” You mumbled sweetly, Jack almost came into his pants from how innocent you sounded.

“Mhm. And where?” He put on his stethoscope, placing it gently onto your chest, making your breath hitch. 

“Between my legs.” Your lashes fluttered with a blush on your cheeks.

“Oh. That’s an issue, young lady.” He muttered with his brows raised and he continued to explore your body.

Coming down to your pussy, your precious tight flower was drooling onto the sheets. What a sight to behold. 

“Looks like you’re wet here, love, does it happen often?” Jack had his serious expression on, as if she was really a damsel in distress.

“Yes. I don’t know what to do, doctor.” You were breathless.

“I need to take a closer look.” He hummed, getting on the floor, moving you to the edge of the bed with ease by your thighs. 

A soft air he blew onto your cunt, it squeezed empty, letting out a sloppy sound of helplessness.

“Aww… poor girl, looks like your hole is a little needy.” He moved the cold metal to your clit, making you gasp loudly, gripping the sheets tight. 

“Oh god, doctor!” Your sweet moan was like music to his ears.

Jack still held that curious expression, playing his role so perfectly. 

“Your clit is thumping like crazy, sweetheart.” He stated and put the stethoscope aside.

“I’m gonna do the best I can to relieve you, okay? Just relax, baby.” His large, calloused hand brushed over your pussy, dipping his fingers in your arousal, rubbing the bud of your so delicately, you almost lost your mind already. 

Your body squirmed, hips buckling forward and he used his other hand to steady you.

“Shhhh… princess, I’ve got you, don’t worry.” His voice half a whisper, you bit your lip with a hum.

One finger first, entered you gently, with precision, stretching you out nicely. Prodding every possible angle inside you, he made sure you’re ready to take another one. Now he was able to tease your g-spot, having you trembling underneath his touch.

“Jack…” you whined and he clicked his tongue.

“It’s doctor Abbot, sweetie. Come on, I know you have it in you, give in and let me hear those little moans.” His voice was guiding and you were close to losing your sanity. 

“Doctor Abbot, please.” Your moan was loud enough to echo through the room and he knew what you were begging for.

Skilfully, he swirled his tongue around your clit, his fingers, now three of them, buried deep in your folds, having you clench him so hard, and he slowly latched onto your bud, sucking on it like a man who was thirsty as hell.

Your hands flew into his hair, trying to push him closer to you, to have him drunk on your sweet naughty nectar. 

“Delicious. Tasty. Come on, princess…” his voice vibrated through your core, your back arched when you felt that well known knot forming inside your lower belly.

“Doctor— Abbot!” 

A choked scream left your throat when you creamed around his fingers, his mouth full of your swollen clit, he was sucking you with such a force, that he was sure it’ll leave a bruise there.

Riding the rest of your peak, he slowly retrieved his fingers, licking them while you were watching, each of them leaving his mouth with a soft pop.

“Good girl, sweetheart.” He grunted, giving your pussy a soft pat. 

You giggled innocently, your face flushed with a little embarrassment, tears of happiness glistening in your eyes. 

Jack moved closer to you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “A simple good morning would be enough, but you always need something special.” 

You chuckled, taking his lips onto yours, tasting yourself through his mouth. 

“Now, you’re gonna wrap those innocent lips around my cock you made so hard with your little stunt, hm?” 

And you obeyed like a good girl again, and that day he didn't leave your throat for a moment, because you were so cockdrunk that he didn’t stand a chance to catch onto his sleep. 

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.

Titus

They had gathered for his father’s 90th birthday. The old sack was close to dying, finally, so he had been adamant to cash in on just as many promises, I-owe-yous and revenge plots that seemingly fell through the cracks over the years. 

Luckily for him, his tenacious sister Ursula had taken care of all the planning, making sure that the weeklong celebration would be the goriest, gnarliest, most satisfactory of his life. Even Titus had promised to be on his best behavior, and even though that meant little, it would help them get through it gracefully at the least.

Their estate had started buzzing with people as early as nine in the morning. It somehow felt inhuman, ungodly, for so many people to be parading themselves up the driveway in their summer best, fake laughter and polite conversation filling up the breathable air with tension and distrust.

It was no secret the other families didn’t respect them. They didn’t have to, it had always been enough for them to be feared. That’s how they maintained their power. How they kept everyone pliable and loyal. But it was at these gatherings that it became unbearable for Titus to deal with the phoniness.

He could smell the discomfort on them. Would catch the slightest flinch, the tension in their bodies, the disdain hidden behind turbulent eyes. They though they were so clever, locked like vaults, but the truth was that Titus always knew.

It took everything in him to remain stoic. This was a celebration for fuck’s sake, why was no one acting like it? Why were they all cowardly and—

“Oh ma petit fille!” His father’s voice broke through Titus’s daydream. He’d gotten as far as ripping Mr. Kipling’s throat out with his pick axe, the mere thought of his warm blood bathing him the first comfort he’d felt all day.

That was until his gaze focused on the person who had elated his father with her presence this much.

His heart nearly stopped on its own, his brain desperately urging it to keep pumping, to not let him show even an ounce of distress, but it was near impossible. His sister caught onto him almost instantly and smirked lightly under her breath, stepping back so that her father could push himself forward to meet you.

“C’est moi, papa,” you replied in your perfect French as you crouched down to plant two kisses on either cheek, causing the old man to blush lightly. 

Disgusting. Titus had his gripes with his father, that much was obvious, but this, this display of affection towards you always made him remember just why he wanted the old man dead and buried.

He wasn’t your biological father, Titus had made sure of it. For a long time neither him or Ursula were fully convinced. The way the old man had doted on you was…concerning to say the least. Ursula loved you, but the mere possibility of having to fight with you for their inheritance made her spiral to the point that he had ordered a DNA test.

He would be lying if he didn’t have ulterior motives at play. You simply could not be his sister too. You were already half his age, the kid he saw grow up, cared for, nurtured and — maybe it would’ve been easier if you were related. At least all those urges would finally have to be put down to rest and he would be able to move on with his fucking life.

But an even more fucked up part of him couldn’t help but celebrate when the test came back negative. No relation whatsoever. Fair game for him to do whatever he wanted. That was if his father didn’t have anything to do with it, and unfortunately for Titus, the old man did.

“Ça va?” His father held your hands in his tightly as you answered. Last Titus knew you were in…Florence? God knows, his father was cryptically vague every time Ursula brought you up. Oh she’s in France, she’s in Tokyo, she’s…anywhere but here.

For the first few years it felt like punishment, as though the old man was doing everything in his power to keep you as far away from Titus as humanly possible. He’d even been foolish enough to try to find you one summer, had flown himself halfway across the world but by the time he’d made it to the small chalet in Switzerland, his father had informed them that you had decided to surprise him for the holidays instead.

He’d almost laid waste to the entire village that night, the bloodshed something that he’d been slightly ashamed to admit to as his family’s attorneys worked overtime to make sure no one ever knew what had truly gone down. A “freak accident” was all that got reported, not that Titus concerned himself with things like that.

“Ursula, my darling, I will take her inside to get settled, please tell our guests that I will be with them after for lunch.”

He didn’t even get to say hello to you, only managed to catch your eye and soft smile as you walked past him. You still smelled the same. Like pears and soft linens and summer. He caught himself closing his eyes, inhaling your scent before he could stop himself and it took him a long second to regain his composure.

Ursula cleared her throat. Behave. 

But whatever promises he had made to his sister were no longer valid. Not when you were now involved.

He was practically buzzing with excitement. So much so that he could not be bothered engaging in meaningless conversation with the remaining families, almost brazenly rejecting every single advance from their daughters and some of their sons. He didn’t realize that he too was playing a role this weekend, one that he’d been able to dodge thus far.

But not again.

By the time lunch was served in the outdoor courtyard, you were nowhere to be found.

Titus lingered in wings, always away from the group as he nursed his first glass of scotch. He waited, impatiently, until Ursula brought their father out onto the patio. The second he saw the old man, without you finally, he slyly stepped back into the house to go find you.

Their family estate was enormous. So much so that they had to move around in golf carts if they wanted to get anywhere at a decent enough time. The main house was no different. It was regal in a way that would easily spook anyone who didn’t have intimate knowledge of the family and their ways of life.

Titus never remembered you being intimidated by it. If anything, you had always felt like you belonged. You’d moved in after his mother passed away, the daughter of their newest housekeeper. He’d met you only once as a child, a simple introduction that he didn’t care about as he was much more interested in getting his dick wet and terrorizing every single girl that looked his way. 

No, it was only after you’d graduated from the posh boarding school his father had shipped you off to and had been allowed to come back to the estate for the summer that he really paid attention.

He had been an asshole then. You were freshly eighteen, had your entire life ahead of you, and if it hadn’t been for Ursula’s warnings and his own father’s protection, he would’ve used his power over you to claim you as his own.

Now he was thankful that had never happened.

Instead the two of you had become friends. Well, as friendly as Titus let anyone get.

You’d gotten comfortable as part of their lives. Riding with Ursula, learning how to fence with her private instructor, and even helping out with the chores of the house when their father wasn’t looking. He would not have you lift a finger, not after…well, not after their proclivities had cost your mother her life.

They’d given you everything. And in return — Titus didn’t even want to let the thoughts he was having get confirmed into reality. He knew his family, knew what they were capable of, and he simply could not allow himself to even think what disgusting and depraved things his father could possibly be asking from you.

He practically skipped up the stairs towards your room, two at a time, as he ventured into the sealed off wing of the house, one that he had frequented enough over the past few years.

Everyone on staff knew about it, they’d caught him in your room plenty of times not to know. But they were all loyal, all rooting for him to finally get the girl, get you, so they had never told his father about what they had found him doing.

Their staff were not paid to have opinions, but they certainly had eyes. To say that he’d had to replace your entire underwear drawer countless times would be a understatement. They had no idea how Titus did it, but the mess, the stickiness would get so severe at times that the only thing he could do to fix it was to simply buy everything brand new and pretend like it had always been that pristine.

The door was closed, like it usually was. His heart hammered against his chest, causing his ears to clog up. He shifted his weight from the balls of his feet to the front, desperate to not make a single noise as he pressed his ear to your door, eager for even a morsel of sound to indicate you were in your room.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Could barely contain himself. He knew this would most likely be his one chance to strike. If his father would not let him fight for you, he would take you by force, not that you would object anyway, he knew the second his hands grabbed a hold of you, any reservation left behind by the poisonous words of his father would disappear and you would be his.

His to claim, finally.

The door swung open then and he practically jumped out of his skin.

It wasn’t you. It was Alina, one of the cleaning staff.

She tried her best to maintain a plain expression but he could tell she wanted to smirk brightly at his childish display of emotions.

Fuck. 

Titus stepped away to let her through, cleared his throat and straightened himself back up, smoothing down his jacket and pocketing his sunglasses before he…he should’ve turned to leave, should’ve known where you’d be hiding if it wasn’t your room. But curiosity would always win over with him.

Your suitcase was wide open on the bed, as if you’d started unpacking and something pulled you away to a much more interesting task. 

It had always been like this for you. You drifted from one thing to the next without a care in the world, always following curiosity like an itch you needed to scratch instantly and would leave behind the second it no longer satisfied you.

How you’d managed to get through undergrad and a masters program had been beyond him. But there they were, your two degrees hanging on the wall beside countless pictures and tokens of your years living in the estate.

He loved the polaroid pictures you had taken of him and Ursula the summer before you left. His sister had been dating some venture capitalist from Italy and you had spent the majority of your time practicing your Italian with him while they lounged by the pool.

He’d almost killed him right then and there for taking up so much of your time. He wanted your attention on him instead, craved it desperately, but he didn’t speak any other languages, didn’t have a way with words like you both seemed to, didn’t know how he could communicate so much longing in a way that would not scare you away from him.

So he stayed quiet, like he usually did, and instead tried to show you through his actions.

He’d been unbelievably gentle, fleeting touches to the back of your neck to guide you in and out of rooms, a subtle hand under your knee to help you on and off the saddle, a gentle graze of your cheek with his thumb as you cried when the house erupted in violent screams and bloodthirstiness.

The Italian had been unfortunate in his wedding night game choice. It was sad, Titus had actually grown to tolerate him. But the second he understood what was really happening and the type of family he had married into, the idiot had ran straight to you, to “save you”.

Titus had disregarded the head start the second he heard you scream. He would pay the price later, rules be damned. He bolted up the stairs to this very room and found you on the floor, the man practically berating you as he called you every name in the book. He tried to explain that he was just trying to help you escape his fate, but Titus didn’t even register his words as he only saw your nightgown torn, your cheeks stained with tears and scratches tainting your soft skin.

He didn’t even think about it, only registering what he’d done when your sobs filled the room for a different reason this time.

The sad sack of an excuse was lying on you, lifeless, blood gushing from the impaled pick axe on his cranium, covering you completely in crimson.

If it had been any other circumstance, Titus would not have hesitated in devouring you whole, his tongue masterfully licking up any and every drop off your skin in penance for getting you dirty.

But his eyes finally found your own and he saw the worst sight he’d ever been privy to.

Fear.

He inched forward, hands out in surrender but you flinched back.

His heart broke.

He stood there for a long second, unsure on what to do, on how to fix this.

It wasn’t until Ursula rushed into the room and yelled at him to leave that he finally allowed himself to move.

Had his father not told you? Was this how you were finding out what kind of family they truly were? What kind of man he was?

He didn’t even have the time to explain himself as, by the following morning, you were gone.

God, you looked exactly the same. You’d obviously grown up significantly since the last time he truly saw you. Your hair was longer, wild and free, a stark contrast to the pristine Danforth image his father had tried to keep. He’d finally allowed you to stop lightening it too as it was now back to its natural dark brown. And your body? It finally made him understand why men would go off and fight in war — all so they could come back home to see how much the women they loved had changed in their time away.

Your body was curvy and plump in all the right places. No longer shy about the weight of your breasts or the way your waist accentuated your ass. You carried yourself with confidence and divinity. You were a vision, would’ve been written about by the ancient Greeks, would’ve easily had wars started for your honor if given the chance.

He glanced down at your suitcase, eager for something to steal to let you know he’d been there. But mostly in search for something he could use to deal with the tightness in his pants.

“There you are—”

He almost celebrated, almost thanked the universe for all its divine intervention until his lustful brain finally took a back seat and his faculties processed that the voice wasn’t yours.

He swallowed an annoyed groan as he turned to face the fresh, pink clad woman. He didn’t recognize her, didn’t care to honestly. She was just one of many, all equally as uninteresting, all desperate for his attention. All destined to never get it.

She took a step forward, into your room, into your private space. Titus’s jaw clenched instantly and she could tell something had shifted in the air. Her once glossy stare turned sharp, fight or flight causing her stomach to drop. She didn’t know why but she was suddenly feeling overwhelmingly exposed.

She swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Danforth, I—”

He didn’t let her finish, didn’t have the patience for it. It wasn’t the release he was searching for, but it would have to do, for now.

His hand wrapped itself around her neck and he squeezed, tightly. She struggled against him but he was stronger. Would always be stronger than these weak, whiny, desperate women that deemed themselves so worthy of breathing the same air as him — as you — that they would dare disrespect him, his family, his home, his future w—

Crack.

He barely got the chance to enjoy the way her body went limp, the familiar and comforting weight of lifelessness nothing more than an annoyance as he let his grip falter. Not even the thud of the body slamming against the carpeted floor brought him any satisfaction.

“Jesus fuck, Titus,” his sister’s shrill blended in with his boredom. “You promised—”

“I rescind my promise.”

And with that he finally allowed himself to leave your room, practically running away from his sister and what would most definitely be a chide later when everyone else had gone to sleep.

By the time he returned downstairs, the meal was over. He glanced over to the table, your seat still empty and his father not in the slightest bit concerned. He must’ve known where you were to be this calm. Who wasn’t calm at all were the Kiplings, both husband and wife whispering harshly as Titus noticed the empty seat that most likely belonged to their darling daughter beside them.

That almost made him content. He couldn’t help but smirk, putting his sunglasses back on and exiting onto the patio to pretend at the very least that he was his father’s prized son.

He’d tried to get information from his father all afternoon, but the old man was tight lipped and almost annoyingly cryptic about everything that left his mouth. It wasn’t until staff began ushering wives and children towards their respective lodgings for the week like prized cattle, and all the heads of the families retreated to the study that he caught a glimpse of you.

You’d changed out of your pale yellow dress, the one he was certain his father had made you wear as it resembled an eggshell white, a not subtle nod to your status within the family, and now wore a silky maroon gown, his favorite color on you.

His gaze followed your movements as you snuck into the kitchen, expertly avoiding every single person left in the house. But not him. You would never be able to dodge him.

He waited a second before he stood up from the leather loveseat he’d practically been bullied into by one of the heads. The man had been talking about his business, how well it had been doing the past two quarters and how his daughter was the sole heir to it all. A well endowed fortune for the Danforth’s to acquire.

He almost rolled his eyes as he stood up, making up some whatever excuse so he could leave this conversation. And he did, without so much as a care in the world. He didn’t need some dumb girl as his consolation prize, didn’t need a new “successful business” to add to his portfolio. He already had the world in the palm of his hand.

The only thing missing was you.

He didn’t enter the kitchen right away. No, he lingered again.

“¿Con qué te ayudo?”

“Mi amor, no te preocupes. Déjate consentir, es lo mínimo que podemos hacer por ti, por favor.”

“Marta—”

“Te vas a tener que acostumbrar, cariño,” he heard their head of staff chuckle lovingly yet, there was an air of sadness. “¿Ya se comenzaron a pelear?”

Titus’s Spanish was…good. Enough. But even that had him reeling. 

Have they started fighting yet?

Oh his father was definitely a horrible man.

You were here for exactly the reason he suspected and his father hadn’t even given him the chance to fight him on it, to fight for it. 

“¿Lo has visto?”

That’s what did him in. He couldn’t hold back any longer.

He pushed the door open, stoic. “¿Visto a quién?”

Both your gazes snapped to him. Marta’s cheeks blushed crimson as she excused herself from the kitchen and escaped as quickly as she possibly could while you offered him a smile, unrestrained yet tired and heavy.

“Your Spanish got better.”

“You’ve been away a long time.” He shrugged, hands clasped behind his back as if to physically restrain himself as he paced forward, closer and closer to you.

He caught your breathing picking up, how you instinctively began to play with your fingers, how you practically heaved with expectation and desire. It was subtle, but to him even the slightest twitch registered in his mind, filled his lungs with pride.

He almost smirked, almost, but then—

“Sir, not another step forward.”

He turned to the other side of the kitchen. A man, dressed in a polished suit, earpiece and most definitely a high caliber handgun strapped to the back of his pants, stood in the shadows.

“Oh yeah, did I forget to mention Duke? A gift from your father for the week.”

Titus fully chuckled then. He had been foolish to think the old man had no idea how he would react the second he realized you were their prized possession for his birthday.

He also knew right then and there that you could not speak freely, could not breathe without this neanderthal running to tell his father. This would definitely be reported the second you went to sleep and he tried to sneak through the secret passages into your room.

He finally accepted what the secret meeting being conducted upstairs had been about and his stomach burned.

“How many?” How many do I have to kill?

“God knows, well, no, your father’s handling it. They’ll ‘get a good look at me’ tomorrow for brunch and then they’ll decide. But they’ve begun conversations already.”

You were too calm. It honestly made his blood boil even more. Part of him couldn’t help but think that you wanted him to do something about it. He knew you couldn’t outwardly say it, couldn’t defy his father’s word in any way other than what you had already done a couple of summers ago, but the person that you had been beaten into was definitely not the person he remembered from back then.

You were like this now because of him and it broke his heart all over again.

“Do you want anything?” You asked him as you moved around the kitchen like you owned the place, because you did, you always had.

“What are you offering?”

“Sandwich?”

“Fine.”

He watched you, still like a statue, hands still locked behind his back. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare test his luck, his status, his power. Not in front of you, not now when you were so broken he wanted nothing more than to take the last few years back and having had the balls to run away with you.

Duke almost leapt across the room as you stepped up to Titus, plate in each hand. He was so close he couldn’t help but lean in, slightly. You ushered him back to the kitchen island with nothing more than a twitch of your brow and he obeyed, walking in tandem with you until you were caged in by the ivory marble.

The ceramic plates echoed in the quiet kitchen but neither of you cared. It was a silent taunt, a test of boundaries and orders, and when Duke didn’t pounce, you sneakily handed Titus a note.

The man before you practically beamed, pocketing the piece of paper instantly as if nothing had really happened. The two of you ate in silence, uncomfortable and charged, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered because his mind was made up. And he would be damned if he didn’t start a war in your honor.

Titus didn’t want to leave you, but when his sister walked into the kitchen and told you that their father was expecting you, he had no choice but to let you go.

Unfortunately for him, it meant his sister was finally alone in a room with him. All anger and unbridled rage.

“Leave her alone while you still can,” she commanded but he knew she didn’t mean it.

“You knew.”

“Of course I knew, don’t be so naive little brother. What did you expect would happen?”

Titus didn’t answer.

“I was able to keep her away long enough but we both know she’s his final chance at an heir, at the continuation of our line.”

“She’s not his to sell—”

“She is! She’s not yours, not mine. She belongs to him and he will do with her whatever he pleases.” She took a step forward, pleading. “You had your chance and you blew it. Now you know how much it cost her.”

His entire body itched with distress. He needed to kill something. Needed to scratch until all he saw was red and all he could feel was your soft skin under his fingers again. He knew, fuck he knew how much he had cost you, but he hadn’t seen it until today.

“So get your shit together and snap out of it.”

Two years ago…two years ago he could’ve had it all. But he had been foolish, had gotten comfortable and believed that he had time. 

Alone in the kitchen, he finally allowed himself to look at the note you left him.

Your father’s study, twenty-three.

He didn’t have time to process the words as he glanced down at his watch. That was five minutes ago. He rushed to the pantry, expertly pulling the hidden door open and running in the literal dark up the stairs.

You’d spent enough time hiding in the walls of the house to know them inside and out. You wanted him to bare witness to something, so much so that you had stated it as your first and only real communication with him in over two years.

He made sure to skillfully sprint up the stairs, sucking in his stomach to slide in between the panels and finally squeeze himself behind his father’s bookshelf. He slid the piece of cardboard you had left behind to eavesdrop to the side and pressed his eye through the hole.

You sat across from him, his father’s back to him as you both sat in your respective armchairs. 

“I don’t know why you’re shocked, you knew how he’d react,” you spoke, composed and calm.

His father coughed in response. “I had hoped he’d be less foolish.”

“Hmmm.” You took a sip of your drink. “This is good.”

“Glad you like it,” the older man leaned forward. “I’ve chosen already.”

You nodded, so out of it you could barely contain your disdain.

His father slapped you then, too hard for a dying man to be able to do. You barely flinched, only tightened your grip on the glass, not daring to spill a single drop.

“Need I remind you of your place?”

You shook your head, pliable and submissive. Oh what Titus would give to have you in that state only comfortable and taken care of, loved. 

“No sir.”

“Good,” he coughed again. “I don’t have time for your disobedience, not right now.”

“It’s not disobedience, sir,” you whispered. “I just thought they would…” you lost your courage for a second but then your gaze lifted and met Titus’s. You took a deep breath, tears falling from your eyes finally. “I thought they’d honor tradition and fight for it.”

Titus only grew angrier as he heard you call your hand in marriage nothing more than a thing, an object, something that could be bought and sold with no greater weight to it.

The old man laughed, cruelly. “Oh sweetheart, we both know why that’s never going to happen.”

“You should at least let them try—”

“He won’t try, he’ll win, and I can’t have that.”

“I’ll give you grandchildren,” you blurted out and it was as though all the air was sucked out of the room, Titus’s front tightening against his pants. “You’ll have your heir before you die.”

“I could have my heir whenever I wanted, with or without your consent,” the old man struggled to stand up but he still made the effort, towering over you with an infernal passion that even made Titus shiver. “I could have you carrying my offspring tonight if I really wanted to—”

“You couldn’t,” you replied, defiant, finally. Titus couldn’t help but feel his heart swell. “My mother was many things but she wasn’t stupid. The deal she made is still in effect. I would truly hate to see you explode before you have the chance to die a slow and painful death.”

That seemed to shut the old man up.

He sat back down, coughing more than normal. The door swung open and Duke rushed inside, his father’s nurse right behind him. They placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth which he removed for a second to tell you—

“Fine, my daughter, you’ll have your hunt.”

And with that you left the room.

Titus let you disappear back into your room to calm down. He needed to prepare, had to get ready for what would be the most important hunt of his entire life.

He practically salivated at the thought of what was to come, of the carnage and bloodshed he was about to be allowed to enact. All in the name of love, in the name of you.

“Sir,” his thoughts were cut short as the head of his security stepped into his room. “We’ve got a situation developing up in the northern boundary that needs your attention.”

He should’ve thought about it for two more seconds. Should’ve been more distrusting of anything and everything that was being said to him. But instead, he simply grunted in annoyance and followed the man onto their truck, setting off into the night.

Unbeknownst to him, dinner had been served back in the main house, all the families had been gathered as his father finally paraded you around for the other families to see.

From what Ursula told him later, every eligible male (and the old sad sacks that accompanied them) were practically drooling at you as you took your seat at the head of the table with them.

“My friends,” his father started. “It has been such a delight to have you all here with us this evening. I am thankful for your continued support and loyalty, it is only together that we can truly maintain our grip on this industry, on the world,” he tipped his glass towards you. “On our legacy.”

You finally smiled, a true smile, eyes searching for Titus around the table. But as you found nothing, your stomach dropped. Ursula noticed, concern laced on her features uncharacteristically.

The old man chuckled as your eyes met, only then did he continue his macabre speech.

“My beautiful daughter,” he pointed towards you. “Was supposed to be wed this year, but I believe I have an even better prize for you all tonight— whoever can bring me her head by dawn will get to choose one of my blood children to wed.”

Murmurs of excitement brought the night are ablaze, further feeding into the spectacle, into the grandioseness of the event. If the Danforth patriarch could give up the child he’d raised to be a part of his family, part of his blood and sacrifice her to their demonic leader all for a show of good grace and betterment of their clan, they too could let themselves be seduced by the call to make you bleed.

“We begin…” the clock struck midnight. “Now.”

You

You should’ve fucking known. Should’ve anticipated it. Should’ve at least considered it as a possibility.

You knew the old man wasn’t stupid. You knew he knew you weren’t stupid. This submissive act had fooled no one, if anything it had only made him angrier and he’d kept you alive out of spite, to play with his meal before he brutally murdered you and broke his son’s heart forever.

He could’ve let you wed three years ago. Should’ve allowed you to by honor and law. But he refused. He’d been so adamant in his punishment, so infuriated when he’d found out that he’d confined you to a prison of his own making. Isolated and alone. Destined to go through all the pain and sorrow alone. Forgotten.

Titus didn’t know. There was no way he did or else his father would not be alive still.

You wanted to tell him, were going to tell him so many times but each one got you a week in solitary confinement and after a year of living like that, you decided to stop trying.

By the second year, the trauma and pain had subsided. You had become soft and pliable, exactly what Mr. Danforth wanted. You were close to giving in, close to accepting the terms of your contract and agreeing to marry whatever dumb finance bro the old man had his sights set on for the good of the business, but then the letter arrived.

You had been holed up in their Spain estate, close to the factory and closer to where the old man kept his doctors. You didn’t know how or who slipped the first one through the crack in your door, but suddenly there it was.

You tried to rip the envelope with poise, not daring to cause a sound that wasn’t within your normal ones. You still didn’t know who you could trust, who was guarding your door, who could hear you through the microphones and cameras that they had certainly hidden throughout the room.

You waddled over to the balcony, where you knew you had a blind spot and pretended to look through the mail that had been delivered. This was normal for you, the smallest of privacies that Mr. Danforth allowed you to have since he knew everything that was being delivered to you.

Almost everything. 

It was his handwriting, messy and imperfect, but his nonetheless.

He’s getting ready to move to back stateside. Things have gone down that he’s not happy with. His health is deteriorating. Play the part. Convince him to bring you home after you graduate. Have him marry you off here. Don’t forget.

Don’t forget. How could you? How could you ever forget the promises that were made? The confessions spilled through ragged breaths, tangled sheets and petit morts?

It was two summers ago.

You had somehow found yourself back at the estate after a private plane malfunction. You were stuck for 48 hours with nothing but your carryon luggage. No security, no fuss, no nothing. Just you, the eighteen people on staff and the entire grounds.

You’d spent the first day lounging, walking through the entirety of the grounds on foot and remembering just where everything was. You’d helped clean stables, feed the chickens, work on the laundry and even cooked up a feast with Marta for lunch.

You’d opened a few bottles of wine, who cared really, you would buy new ones. Could still use credit cards at that point, a simple joy.

You were hiding away in the staff’s quarters, still drinking with the younger maids as they recounted the last few years of drama that had gone down at the estate. Oh you had missed so much.

It was bittersweet. On one hand you were glad they could still find pockets of joy and lightness while working for the Danforth’s, but on the other, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the atrocities they had to witness, a personal failing on your part to them.

But the even darker truth — you were all prisoners here. You were closer to them than you were to the Danforth’s, no matter how much they considered you family. You would never be family.

“Marta!”

The yelling brought you back to reality. Was that…?

With a scrunched brow you got up, body wobbly as you managed to make your way to the window.

It was indeed.

“I’ve never seen Titus Danforth yelling before.”

He seemed to become frozen as he looked up to see you, blinking a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

For a second he didn’t know how to act, causing you to giggle.