“Bitch, you’re my soulmate”

a/n: this would not leave my brain and I had to get it out. To be clear, I do not condone cheating in real life!!! but there is something so delicious about the forbidden nature of it, of the secrecy and illicit yearning. Please do not read if that makes you uncomfy, I totally understand!! I also added the songs I listened to while writing this to a playlist if anyone is interested :)

The first time you met Dr. Michael Robinavitch you were a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first year pediatrics resident beginning your emergency medicine rotation. He wasn’t the chief of the department back then–no, Adamson was still alive and kicking, instilling his paternal wisdom to all who worked under him and keeping Robby’s head on straight. 

Robby was lighter then, not carefree, per se, but less burdened by grief and trauma. You were quickly enamored with the man, his warm demeanor and soft eyes drawing you under his spell. For your part you tried to play it cool, shyly avoiding eye contact and stumbling over your words when you had to present to him. 

Robby was less subtle. It started with lingering looks filled with a fondness no one else was able to pull out of him; extra words of encouragement (“did so good in that trauma, hon,” and “nice pickup, smart girl,”); unnecessary (but welcome) touches on your shoulders, arms, nape of your neck, the small of your back. 

It didn’t take long for him to take you home, to have you sprawled across his bed naked. Your legs thrown over his shoulders as he fucked into you, thighs slapping hard against your ass as he pistoned his cock into you over and over. And it didn’t stop there; you spent most nights folded into various positions under him, on your knees, or on top of him. The sex was incredible, obviously. Robby was nearly two decades older than you and had been fucking for all of them. His experience was vast and he never failed to make you see stars, whether by his cock, mouth, fingers, or an unholy combination of the three. 

You never defined your arrangement. You’d heard about his reputation, about his tendency to stick around just long enough to get someone hooked before cutting ties and getting the hell out of dodge. You were prepared for that, and maybe a tiny part of you thought you might be different. 

And it was casual, for the most part. Except when you started calling him Michael instead of Robby, like it was a secret only the two of you shared. And for the key he’d given you to his apartment, for you to use when he wasn’t around because he knew how much you loved his shower and in-unit laundry. Or the trips you’d take up to his cabin, where he’d make you dinner after a day spent in the lake, hair still damp as you sipped the expensive whiskey he kept there. Or the time he’d taken you to his college buddy’s wedding, introduced you as his girlfriend, masquerading as the perfect boyfriend all night. Other than that, though–totally casual. 

But things got bad when Adamson died. Michael was devastated, that much was clear, though he didn’t exactly open up to you about it. He faded into a dimmer version of himself, a sunken husk of his former self just going through the motions to survive. 

You kept seeing each other, for a while, but it was different. You were now a purely sexual pursuit, the informal little dates and trips to his cabin abandoned for quick fucks in the on call room. The sex was now a means to an end more than a communal experience. It was detached, void of the exhilarating high you shared before. He rarely invited you over to his place anymore, and when he did, he didn’t stick around, the sheets beside you long cold by the time you woke up.  

Eventually, Michael did what he’d done to dozens of men and women before you. He pushed you away, not meanly–you knew what he was like when he was mean, had enjoyed it, even, at times–but with indifference. He stopped asking you to come over, stopped the flirting between cases, stopped calling you down for consults just to see your face. Soon enough you were just another co-worker, and he’d moved on to his next flavor. 

It hurt, of course it did. Even though you never defined your relationship as anything more than casual sex, you cared about him. Tried to support him through this time the best you could, the best he would allow you before he started lashing out. Had given far more of yourself to him than anyone else. Maybe you loved him. Maybe you thought you could fix him. Maybe it was some secret third thing that you’re still not sure how to articulate. 

You continued like that for a while, acting like two strangers who hadn’t seen the most intimate parts of each other, cordial to onlookers despite the taut tightrope you felt like you were walking every time you spoke to him. 

That is, until Pittfest, when he’d shown up on your doorstep, sad brown eyes begging you to make him forget, if only for a few hours. You obliged, leading him by the hand to your bedroom. You let him take you apart, use you however he saw fit. He spread you over his lap and spanked your ass until it was hot, then spent hours between your legs, devouring your cunt until he was dripping with your juices and your thighs were rubbed raw from his beard. His cock plundered your tight walls thrust after thrust, hot ropes of his cum painting your insides, your heated ass an hour later; your pretty tits the next morning. 

Then acted like nothing happened the next day. 

That was a wake-up call that he wasn’t coming back. So you moved on. Met a nice guy–an accountant–who treated you well, took you on vacations, talked about the future with you, in a way that made it clear he saw you in his. After being together for a year, he proposed, and you’ve been married now for 6 months. 

And Michael had too. He found himself a nice woman, closer to his age, and settled down, put a ring on her finger and bought her a house. You didn’t know much about her, but from all accounts she seemed like a lovely woman. You were happy for him, really, you were. There was absolutely no pit of rancid jealousy pooling low in your stomach. Not at all.

This history rushes through you as you catch sight of him at PTMC’s annual fundraising gala, an event you were required to attend if you wanted any chance to upgrade some of the more expensive, 10-year old equipment in your department. You’d tried to get out of it–not just because you were likely to see Michael in a non-work setting, but because you’d never been one for schmoozing; it just wasn’t your bag. You wished these people would donate out of the goodness of their hearts, not because the hospital promised to dedicate a wing to them. 

You hadn’t been able to completely avoid Michael these past few years, you did work at the same hospital after all. You’d seen him somewhat regularly, though far less than you did when you were a resident. As an attending, you weren’t often tasked with answering consults in the ED–residents usually took the brunt of the workload. You stayed upstairs most of the time, only wandering down to the Pitt to oversee the more complex cases, which you were thankful for.  

It’d been about four months since your last interaction. You’d just gotten back from your honeymoon, a trip to Paris that was supposed to be romantic, idyllic. And it was, at least to everyone on the outside looking in. 

You made your way down to the ED, Dana directing you to the physician assigned to the case, which happened to be Michael. He was different, less restrained when he spoke to you. He looked you in the eye–a courtesy you hadn’t been afforded in some time–he joked, put his hand on the small of your back as he maneuvered you away from an incoming gurney. He was flirting. Not in a crass way, not in a way that anyone else, really, would notice. But you did. Because you knew him, knew how frosty you’d become to one another over the years. 

You stuttered your way through, thrown off by Michael's change in demeanor. You approved the transfer to peds and his plan of treatment before quickly excusing yourself, heart racing–not because you didn’t like this side of Michael, but because you did. 

The exchange sat heavy on your tongue that night as you sat across the table for your husband, the lovely dinner he’d prepared tasting acrid in your mouth. You’d never mentioned your relationship with Michael to your husband–not because it was a secret, but because it seemed too complicated to explain in the beginning, and eventually enough time passed that bringing it up now felt awkward. It was unnecessary to tear open the wound when it had already scabbed over. Why upset the peace now? 

Which is why your stomach clenched as he approached the punch table you were stationed at, where you were scoping out the gala from afar. He looked good, really good. It wasn’t often that you saw him dressed up; he much preferred his scrubs and cargo pants to starched slacks and fitted shirts. Tonight he was styled in a perfectly tailored black suit, crisp white dress shirt underneath, and a silky black tie nestled against his neck. The soft swell of his tummy was sinful under his suit jacket. His hair wasn’t styled, exactly, but it was wrangled into something more kempt than his usual mussed look, and his beard was neatly trimmed, the graying strands more pronounced than they were years ago. 

He came to a stop about a foot away from you, close enough that you could smell the spicy, woody scent of his cologne; the same cologne he’d been wearing for years. The one that permeated the sweaters you’d borrow; that lingered on your sheets after he spent the night; the one that mingled with his sweat and musk as he hovered over you, taking you again and again and again. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” he smiled, and it looked so much like the one he used to flash you back then; the one reserved for you and you alone. A pang of sadness zipped through you for a brief moment before you collected yourself. 

Shaking yourself of your haze, you rolled your eyes, “this is a mandated event for all attendings,” you reminded him, arms wrapping tight around yourself as if it would provide any sort of defense, “you knew I’d be here.” 

“Yeah, doesn’t mean you’re any less of a sight for sore eyes,” he leaned forward to whisper in your ear, over the din of chatter. It’s not close enough to be indecent, but it is close enough to make your heart stutter. He was laying it on thick tonight.   

“That’s an awful nice thing to say to someone you’ve been avoiding for the better part of two years,” you said, perhaps a bit pettily. 

He takes that in stride, jaw shifting side to side as he considers his next move. He settles on, “Where’s the husband?” 

You took a deep breath. The last thing you wanted was to engage in small talk with Robby. You didn’t want to talk about the husband, the wife; didn’t want to re-expose the wound you’d worked so hard to heal. But you didn’t want to make a scene, either, so you answered politely, “He couldn’t make it. Had a fishing trip planned with his buddies, couldn’t miss it.” 

“Ah, what a shame, I was looking forward to meeting him,” he said with a smug look on his face, disappointment nowhere to be found. 

“Another time,” you said noncommittally, “what about your wife?” 

“She had a… prior engagement,” he said vaguely, not attempting to go into anymore detail. He cleared his throat, his confident composure flickering for a moment, “Listen, I was hoping maybe we could talk tonight. Privately. I wanted to… I just, I want,” he sighed, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, “I just wanted to talk to you tonight.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mic-” you coughed, quickly correcting yourself, “Robby.” 

“My name is still Michael, you know. You can say it without retching," he said coyly, smirk hidden behind his whiskey glass. 

You shook your head, “I think I’ll stick with Robby. That’s the version of you I get now.” 

“You can have whatever version of me you want, sweetheart,” he muttered into his glass, quiet enough that you wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t standing so close. The pet name set your body aflame, blood boiling at how familiar he was acting. You moved to walk away, but he stopped you, hand reaching out to your arm, cupping your elbow and thumbing over the soft skin at the juncture. His hand was heavy, the warmth of his skin radiating through your body, the rough texture achingly familiar. This was getting out of hand, and fast.

“Please, I just… I have some things I want to get off my chest,” he said, “Been wanting to talk since I saw you at work a couple months ago. Before that, too, if I’m honest.” 

You shook your head again and took a step back from him, creating some much needed distance. “Look Robby, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but… we’ve both moved on, right? I mean, what’s your goal here?” you asked. 

He blew out a puff of air, expression slightly exasperated, “What if I want to be friends?” 

You scoffed, “I don’t want to be your friend, Robby,” you said, shaking your head, “I don’t know how to be,” your throat was tight, unwelcome tears gathering fast. You tried to blink them away, didn’t want him to see the effect he was having on you. 

“I’m happy now, okay?” you said, hoping it sounded genuine. He looked wounded, those big cow eyes of his soft and sad. You reached for his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze as you continued, “I hope you are too.”

Your head is spinning as you turn away from Robby, but you don’t get a second to catch your breath before you’re swept into a conversation with Gloria and a handful of donors. You smile and make nice, talk about the important work you’re doing in peds, the lives you’re saving, how you could save more if you greedy assholes would just donate your networth without having us do this whole song and dance. 

You’re pulled into conversation after conversation, a hellish waltz choreographed without your permission. You’re dizzy by the time you’re able to extricate yourself, slipping out of the ballroom and down the corridor looking for a brief moment of respite. 

Peeking into rooms as you pass by, you finally come to a stop outside of a library. Not a Beauty and the Beast type, but a modest room filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that are just the right amount of dusty. You step inside, looking around nervously as if some talking candelabra is going to jump out and scold you for snooping. 

Leather-bound classics stand out to you as your fingers flit over the various titles, Wuthering Heights, Frankenstein, Little Women, and, ah, Pri- 

“First edition Pride and Prejudice, these people must be loaded,” Michael said, startling a yelp out of you. 

“Sorry, honey, didn’t mean to scare you,” his hand settled heavily on the curve of your waist, the warmth of it seeping through the satin of your dress. He’s close–how did he get so close? 

“Michael…” you warned. 

“What was your favorite quote from the movie again?” he ignored you, hand kneading your flesh over your dress. 

He inched closer, body pressing solidly against your back, “you have bewitched me, body and soul,” he recites huskily, drawing your earlobe into his mouth and biting down. You gasp, the sensation zinging through you and straight to your core. He descends on you, then, placing hot kisses along the column of your neck, sucking at the flesh with the slightest pressure–he knows he can’t mark you up. Not yet.  

Your knees are weak. You need to stop him, have to tell him no, but your body is a traitor, betraying you at the most inopportune time. Your eyelids flutter closed, your hands finding purchase on the shelf in front of you and gripping hard. Tiny mewls and whimpers escape your lips involuntarily, Michael’s lips finding your sweet spots like he’d never forgotten them. 

“missed those pretty sounds, baby,” he whispered, and you’re abruptly broken out of your reverie, sense coming back to you in shameful waves. 

You turn around, your face all but pressed against his broad chest. He’s got you caged in, one arm leaning against the bookcase next to your head and the other still anchored to your hip. His eyes are dark now, and he’s got the look. The look that says he wants you, and he’s not going to stop until he has you. The look that has been your downfall time after time over the past 6 years. 

“What are you doing, Robby?” you asked, bracing your hands against his chest, trying to create some semblance of distance. “You have a wife. A good one, from what I hear. You want to throw that all away?” 

“I’m not sure I’d be throwing much away,” he murmured, a solemn look on his face. 

You shook your head, scoffing, “fine, so you want me to throw everything away?” 

He looks at you, hand snaking from your waist up to your shoulder, grazing the swell of your breast lightly on the way. His hand settles at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, fingers resting against the side of your throat. “I just think,” he said, fingers squeezing lightly, “that you’re not nearly as happy as you want everyone to believe you are.” 

“And what gives you any right to make that assumption about me? About my marriage?” you asked breathily, your brain already gone fuzzy from the slight pressure he’s applied to your throat. 

He shrugs, “I think that you’ve curated this picture perfect marriage that makes everyone fawn over you, that looks good on mortgage applications and Christmas cards, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?” he asks, hand releasing your throat and cupping the nape of your neck. He tilts your head up, the angle achingly familiar. His lips are so close you can almost feel the roughness of them against yours. Almost.  

“You might be able to hide it from everyone else, but I know what you look like when you’re happy; when you’re satisfied,” he said, arrogance wafting off him in waves, “There’s no fire; no spark. I mean, does he even know how to fuck you right?” 

You laugh incredulously, not really wanting to get into this with him right now. “We have perfectly good sex, Michael.” 

“See? That, right there. Not ‘mindblowing’, ‘incredible’, or ‘passionate.’ You didn’t even call it ‘making love’ which, while cliche, would have at least been romantic. You said ‘perfectly good,’” he shook his head in disappointment. “Really, sweetheart, that’s what you’re settling for?” There was that signature Robinavitch condescension laced throughout his words, and you hated that you were getting wet because of it. 

“You have me all figured out, do you?” 

“Kind of, yeah,” he said, no arrogance this time–just honesty. “Because I’m in the same boat,” he looks at you, his big brown eyes filled with too much sincerity, and something else harder to place; something more resigned. 

“I think we can have a good time,” he continued, “We always have before.” That, at least, was honest. No grand promises of leaving his wife, you leaving your husband, and running away together. 

“Yeah, is that what friends do?” you asked breathily. 

His head dips down to nose along the edge of your jaw, “c’mon, when’s the last time you were fucked properly, honey? Hm?” You gasp as he slots his leg between your thighs, knee pressing up against your cunt. 

“Michael, we can’t,” you huff out, willing your hips not to grind against the firm muscle. “Someone could come in…” you mutter weakly. You choose not to interrogate why you’re more concerned about someone wandering in and less about infidelity. 

His hands grab at your waist, shucking your dress up and guiding you back and forth over his thigh. A moan keens out of you, the pressure exquisite against your clit, “when’s the last time someone fucked every last thought out of your pretty little head, left you fuzzy and gooey after bein’ fucked so dumb?” he asked, and you could smell the whiskey he’d been nursing all night on his breath–the way the rich, smoky scent tangled with his natural musk was intoxicating.  

Your head lolled back against the bookcase, hips moving against him without resistance now, his big hands keeping your pace steady–not letting you think about it too much.  

“Does he know that you like your ass slapped raw, that you beg for it till you're crying?” You cried out, face heating because no, he didn’t know that. There were things about you to which only Michael Robinavitch was privy, sexual proclivities you’d only ever felt safe to explore with him. 

“Does he know how quickly you’d fall to your knees when I’d tell you to kneel? How you’d take my cock down so far down your throat that you couldn’t breathe?” he asked, rutting the hard line of his cock into your hip. 

The pleasure is dizzying, the sensations the only thing you can think about. But then the pressure between your legs is gone, a loud whine escaping your lips before Michael slaps his hand over your mouth, muffling you. “As much as I wanna hear you scream my name, we can’t let these nice people know what a filthy fuckin’ whore you are,” he grunted, nudging your panties to the side before plunging two fingers into your cunt, hooking them up to rub at that sweet spot on your front wall. 

You could feel the cool metal of his wedding band against your entrance each time he buried his fingers deep inside you, the contrast against your hot skin sending shockwaves through your body. You should feel ashamed at how turned on you are by it. 

His hand was heavy against your mouth, his skin salty against your tongue as you panted hot breaths into it. His nose traced the apple of your cheek as he continued muttering obscenities into your ear. “He know what a good little cumslut you are? How you love being painted with my cum? How you’d guzzle it down by the gallon if you could?” the questions were coming faster now, your brain unable to fully comprehend them; certainly unable to answer them. 

Without warning his thumb starts rubbing tight little circles against your clit. Your knees buckle, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you grind yourself against his skilled hand. The press of Michael’s strong body was the only thing keeping you upright and not a puddle on the floor. 

You’re right there, standing on the precipice of your release, the staticky feeling extending throughout your limbs as your orgasm approaches. One more swipe over your clit would send you tumbling over the edge. 

“Fuck, honey, he doesn’t even know what to do with you, does he?” he said, disdain thick in his throat, before wrenching his fingers from your pussy, your orgasm fading fast away. 

“No no no no nooooooo,” you whined, scrabbling to catch his wrist and failing. Your eyelids were heavy, barely open as you gaped at him, unable to form words to protest this indignity. 

He lifted his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean before he settled your dress back into place. He squeezed your hips as he leaned in, mouth hot next to your ear, "I'm staying at the Omni tonight. Room 341."

And then he's gone.

You're left slumped against the bookcase, chest heaving, legs fighting to keep you upright. Your thighs are still sticky with arousal, the ache of your denied orgasm heavy as you move on uneasy legs back to the ballroom.

You’re stuck in meaningless, performative diatribes with potential donors for another hour and a half before you’re able to slip out. Michael, you’d noticed, had made his escape at least 30 minutes before you, the sneaky bastard. You hadn’t yet mastered the Irish goodbye, still feeling guilty for leaving people hanging. 

Against your better judgement, you find yourself entering the hotel's address into the uber destination box; swiping to pay before you can think better of it. Leaning back against a column, you close your eyes and take deep breaths of humid summer air, a futile attempt to steady your nerves. 

“I know you weren’t going to ditch this place without seein’ me first,” a wry voice calls out. 

You smile, recognizing Jack immediately. You’d gotten close with him over the years, Robby’s self-destructive behavior a solvent that had closely bonded you two, and was loath to dissolve just because you and Michael had. 

“And miss what I’m sure is going to be a riveting status report on dear old Michael Robinavitch? I could never,” you grinned at him. 

He shook his head, laughing, “Am I that predictable?” 

“Painfully,” you deadpan. 

He put his hands up in a defensive posture, “I just came out here to check on you. I saw that Robby cornered you at the punch table.” Yeah, and in the library where he fingered the living daylights out of me before leaving me high and dry, you thought sourly. 

“I’m fine, we’re fine,” you waved dismissively,  “Just reminiscing on the good ol’ days,” you said, which wasn’t technically a lie. 

But Jack looked less than convinced. To your surprise, though, he didn’t jump to pick apart your half-truth. Just leaned against the column opposite you, arms folded as he considered his next words. “He’s been out of sorts lately,” he said, trying to provoke your interest, “picking up more shifts, staying late, doin’ anything to avoid going home.” 

You don’t bite, knowing this is a loaded topic, knowing that Jack was leading you somewhere you weren’t sure you wanted to go.  

“He’s a grown man, Jack,” is what you manage.  

He nodded his head, agreeing, “Yeah, he is. And you’re a grown woman.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, your patience wearing thin. 

He looked at you, not quite disappointed but disquieted, like he knew what track the train was headed on, and was hoping it wouldn’t wreck. “Just…make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into, kid. You know I want what’s best for you. For both of you.” 

You nod, “Thank you Jack, I’ll keep that in mind. It was good to see you, we should grab a drink and catch up sometime,” you said as your Uber pulled in. 

He bids you farewell as you trek to the car, hesitating only a second before sliding into the backseat.

You took a deep breath, then knocked on the door three times. You’re halfway to second guessing when he answers the door. He’d taken off his suit jacket, the shirt beneath untucked and unbuttoned at the collar, showing off the coarse hair on his chest. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms now bare, and his tie had been loosened, the knot now sitting low against his sternum. 

You’re on him before he can say anything, one arm thrown around his neck and the other yanking him forward by the tie, lips crashing against his in a desperate kiss. It was an uncoordinated mash of lips and gnashing teeth, hard and unforgiving, spit gathering at the corners of your lips and drooling down. His lips were slightly chapped, the roughness a delicious friction against yours.  

“Woah there, honey,” Michael said against your lips, catching you as you tumble into him–and the room. You're pressed against the door as soon as it's closed, his hands moving up to cradle your head, fingers wrapping around the back of your skull and thumbs brushing against your jaw. 

“You’re an asshole,” you mumble against him, unwilling to part from his lips for a second. Your tongue swept across his bottom lip, begging him to open up and taste you. Michael held you still, licking into your mouth with languid strokes, trying to assert control over your frantic pace. Your lips were slick and swollen as you tried your best to slow down, to let Michael guide you like he always has. God, you missed kissing him. 

“Yeah?” he asked, fingers tightening around the strands of hair at the base of your skull, pulling enough to hurt, “thought you liked me mean?” The low buzz of pain was dizzying. He tilted your head to the side, exposing your neck and trailing wet hot kisses down the length of your neck, teeth grazing lightly your carotid, pulse racing. 

A hand moved behind you, skilled fingers unzipping your dress and letting it fall to the ground unceremoniously, and you were left only in your lacy black bra and panties. Then his hands are on you, rough palms kneading the globes of your ass roughly, pulling them apart and sinking his short nails into the flesh. 

“You just left me there,” you whined, head thrown back against the door, hands hastily untying his tie and moving to unbutton his shirt. It’s clumsy work, your shaking hands slipping against the shiny buttons, whining petulantly until Michael intervenes, batting your hands away with a laugh and taking care of it himself. 

“Just wanted to remind you how good we are together,” he said as he shrugged his shirt off, “wanted you to come to me on your own.” 

Your hands run over the newly exposed skin, savoring the feeling of his hairy chest against your palms. Trailing lower, you palmed his cock through his pants, wet spot noticeable at the tip. You jerked him slowly, hand just barely wrapping around his girth. He was warm, even through the fabric, and the feel of him in your hand only heightened your anticipation. 

He captured your lips once more before moving down to your tits, groping them roughly through your bra before pulling the cups down, hot mouth sucking the hardened bud harshly. “So pretty, baby,” he moaned into your chest, licking and sucking your nipples, tongue swirling around one while deft fingers pulled and twisted at the other. Your pace on his cock slowed, mind fuzzy at the attention he was paying your tits, his hips rutting lazily against your open palm. He’s too good with his mouth, and you can’t help the embarrassing sounds that escape your lips. Your chest is soaked by the time he’s had his fill, the spit slick nubs growing cold from the air. 

“Missed this so much,” he said, placing kisses to your tummy, right above your panties, teeth pulling at the waistband and letting it snap back against your skin. 

“Yeah? Prove it,” you said breathlessly, hand pushing down on his shoulder until he’s on his knees looking up at you. “With pleasure, sweetheart,” he said, content to give up a little control if it means getting his mouth on your sweet pussy. 

He wasted no time, yanking your panties to the ground and throwing your leg over his shoulder, burying his nose in your cunt, and inhaling your scent deeply. His tongue delved between your folds, sopping up all the slick gathered there, “taste as good as I remember, fuck,” he moaned into you, licking and sucking at your folds, tongue laving over your clit. He wasn’t teasing–no, he wanted you to remember just how good he made you feel, how helpless you got when you came on his tongue. 

He ate you like a man starved, like your cunt was his lifeblood, and he didn’t ever want to forget the way you tasted, the way you felt against his tongue. He pushed your other leg over, widen your stance for him. He traced your entrance before thrusting his tongue in deep, curling and fucking you with a fervor that made your knees weak. You ground your hips against his mouth shamelessly, the image of him below you sinful, eyes glazed over and beard dripping with your wetness. 

“Feels so good, please, fuck, right there Michael,” you cried, hands gripping his hair tight, shoving his face impossibly deeper into your pussy. Your denied orgasm from the library was coming back with a vengeance, your thighs trembling as the coil tightened in your core. 

He moved back up to your clit, his rhythm unpredictable as he switched back and forth between flicking your clit with short little strokes and massaging it in tight circles. The sensations were too euphoric, the pleasure blistering as you approached your orgasm, “I’m gonna cum, Michael, please keep going, please let me cum,” you begged. 

He pinched your thigh, hard, and pulled away just enough to give you direction, “look at me when you cum on my tongue, honey, let go, I got you.” 

You tried, eyes heavy as you looked down at him, jaw taut, working hard against your pussy. Your orgasm hit you hard, waves of pleasure radiating to every inch of your body, toes curling and mouth open wide in an obnoxiously loud moan.  

“That’s my girl,” he groaned into you, licking up every drop of cum leaking from your pulsing hole, “so fucking good for me.” 

You were boneless against the door, barely holding yourself up as Michael cleaned you up, not letting a drop of your spend go to waste. You pushed his head weakly, clit abused and sensitive from his devious assault. 

He kissed the inside of your knee, your inner thigh tenderly before getting up, knees cracking faintly. You pulled him close, tasting yourself on his lips as you kissed him messily. His hands travelled down, grabbing at the back of your thighs and hoisting you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he walked you to the bed.  

He deposited you on the bed, stepping back to take in your debauched form before descending on you again, kissing up your stomach, nipping at the skin around your hipbones, your ribs. You reach back and finally discard your bra before moving to paw at his belt, desperate to get him out of his pants and into you. “Need you to fuck me, Michael, need to be close to you,” you whimpered, resolve broken; pride nowhere to be found. You had succumbed to Michael’s overwhelming magnetism; you felt like a tiny ball of metal being drawn to an industrial sized magnet, unable to resist, all sense or reason absent from your mind when he touched you.  

He doesn’t make you wait, shucking off his pants and boxers, cock springing out painfully hard. You forgot how pretty he was, thick and long, tip a rosy pink color. He was wet from the amount of precum he’d been leaking, shaft sticky with it. Veins protruded along his shaft, ones you remember feeling against your tongue, especially the one on the underside of his cock, the one that made him putty in your hands when you ran your tongue along it. Your mouth watered at the sight of it, vowing to get a taste before the night was over. 

He sat on his knees before you, grabbing your legs under your knees and pulling you towards him, the back of your thighs resting atop his spread ones, hips lifted slightly off of the bed. He stroked his cock a few times before slapping it against your puffy clit, the plap plap plap reverberating throughout the room. You moaned, thrusting your hips up to chase the friction. 

He ran his cock through your sopping folds, tip pressing gently against your entrance before gliding up to your clit, then back again. “You gonna let me fuck you raw, honey?” he asked, cock slipping messily against your cunt, “Gonna let me fuck a baby into you?” 

Oh. That was new. The moan that left your lips was borderline pornographic, “please Mikey.”  

His hips stuttered, groaning at the nickname he hadn’t heard in years. “Put it in for me, baby, show me how bad you want it,” he huffed out, grabbing your hand and putting it on his cock. You stroked him a few times, the weight familiar in your hand, before notching him at your entrance and rocking your hips forward slowly against the tip. You continued like that for a while, fucking youself steadily on the tip of his cock. Michael was big, and even the tip stretched you out deliciously.

It didn’t take long for his patience to snap, though, his hand replacing yours as he pushed in deep, inch by inch. The stretch was familiar and new all at the same time; each inch spearing you further onto his cock, the fullness so satiating you couldn’t speak. Michael was equally speechless when he fully sank into you, the feeling of your walls fluttering around him dizzying after so long without you. 

“Feels like coming home,” he groaned, hands finding home on the back of your soft thighs and hooking your legs over his shoulders, pressing you deep into the mattress as he fucked into you. The drag of his cock through your walls made you delirious; you could feel every vein, his head rutting against your g spot at just the right angle. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his forearms–the only part of him you could reach–needing to touch him; to have him as close to you as possible. 

He found his rhythm quickly, pulling out almost all the way before snapping his hip back into you, the pace steady but brutal. His balls slapped against your ass with each thrust, and your pussy was squelching loud, slick coating your inner thighs and running down your ass and onto the sheets below. Michael watched his cock pump in and out of you, your arousal coating his cock in a thick, creamy ring around his base, the sight nearly enough to make him cum on the spot. 

“You fill me up so good, Mikey, can feel you in my guts,” you whimper, hand snaking down to play with your clit, your second orgasm quickly approaching.  

“Yeah, touch that pretty little clit, baby, make yourself cum all over my cock,” he said, grip tightening on your thighs, hips snapping against you faster, harder. You thought briefly about how you were going to explain the bruises. 

Another sharp thrust hit that sweet, spongy spot and you’re done for. Your blood felt molten as it rushed through your body, white hot shocks racing down your spine. Your back is arched almost uncomfortably, your mouth open but unable to make any sound as the waves crash over you. Your fingernails dig into his forearms, little crescent shapes nearly breaking the skin. The aftershocks are just as powerful, pleasure zipping through you with each thrust. 

You’ve barely recovered when he manhandles you onto your front, his strong hands pulling your hips back against him. Your back arched, forearms barely keeping you from faceplanting into the sheets. One hand settles on your shoulder, dragging you back onto his cock with each thrust, and the other tangles in your hair, pulling the strands tight, the pain and pleasure mingling together exquisitely. Your hips move back to meet his, fucking yourself back against him, desperate to make him feel as good as he’s making you feel.   

“Shit, missed this pussy so much, baby,” he grunted, “I think she remembers me, remembers how good this cock made her feel.” 

He shifted again, draping himself over your back and bracing himself on his forearms, one one either side of your head. He was so deep like this, the tip of his cock jutting up against your cervix with each thrust. All you could do was lay there and take it, the feel of his soft belly against your back a soft contrast to the punishing slam of his hips. One hand snaked between your body and the bed, ring and middle finger finding your clit and rubbing fast circles on it. It felt so good. 

Tears formed in the corners of your eyes, the mix of sensations and hormones garbling your emotions. “Am I good?” you asked, eyes bleary and throat raw, a part of you begging to know that you’re doing good, that you were as good as he remembered. That you weren’t risking everything for a mediocre lay. 

“So good, baby, takin’ it so good, always so good for me,” he groaned, hand grabbing your jaw and pulling your head to the side to kiss you. It was sloppy, mostly teeth clanking against each other, but you savored his lips on yours nevertheless. 

“Gonna let me cum inside?” he asked, pace faltering just a bit, “yeah? Gonna give me a kid? What would your husband say?” He’s fading fast now, hips grinding against your ass in short, hard thrusts. 

“Nine months from now, when a kid with my nose–fuck–my eyes pops out? What would he think, knowing I pumped his pretty little wife full of my seed?” 

You moaned, pleasure too great to feel the shame, “please, please cum inside me, Michael!” His fingers pressed hard against your clit and you were cumming again. It was less intense than the first two, but no less pleasurable. It was a warm pulse that emanated from your core, flooding your limbs and making your body sag against the mattress, spent. 

“I’ll give it to you, baby, give you anything you want,” he cried out as he came, spilling rope after rope of hot cum into your cunt. He gave you a few more thrusts before pulling out, watching as globs of his cum dripped out of your hole. Using his cock, he scooped up the spend and fucked it back into you, “gotta make sure it sticks, right, honey?” he said, a wondrous look on his face, like your cunt dripping with his cum was a holy sight. 

You turned around and sprawled out against the sheets, head fuzzy and floaty, but aware enough to whine out, “want a taste,” sulkily. He huffed out a laugh at you, but shuffled up the bed anyway, bracing an arm on the headboard as he fed the tip of his softening cock into your mouth. You suckled at him, licking the residual cum from his tip, eyes closed in bliss. You would have been content to stay that way, but Michael was sensitive after his orgasm, and couldn’t take much of your warm mouth on his cock, though he was loath to admit it. 

“Alright, honey, gotta get you cleaned up,” he said, extricating himself from you despite your disgruntled whimpers. 

And this is what always made 'casual' with Michael so difficult. He fucked you within an inch of your life, and then had the audacity to be so attentive, so achingly tender afterward. He cleaned you up, warm washcloth dabbing softly across your sweat-dripped brow, swiping gently between your folds and thighs. He made sure you drank water, reminded you about the importance of peeing after sex. Even carried you to the bathroom and bathed you–washed your hair, your body, rubbed you down with lotion afterward.

Settled back in bed, you were tucked up against him, leg thrown over his hip and chest pressed against his side. Your fingers trailed over his furry chest, fingers deftly grasping the star of his Magen David between your fingers, thumb brushing against it softly. It seemed wrong, like the cool metal should scald your flesh for your sacrilege. But maybe that was just your religious trauma talking–that, or your extensive knowledge of vampire lore. You’d both gotten married under your respective religious auspices–you had a lovely service in a beautiful church; you heard Michael had a traditional ceremony at his synagogue–had even seen the video of them doing the Hora. Yet here you were, committing the greatest marital sin; betraying your Gods and your lovers in one fell swoop. 

But you didn’t much believe in any god anymore, so you weren’t sure why you were having this borderline existential crisis over the blasphemous act you’d just engaged in. Maybe because it was comforting in a sick sort of way–you knew what to do with shame, especially the religious variety. You were less certain about how to handle the rotten desire you felt welling up inside you; the bone-deep longing to wake up next to Michael in the morning. 

Pushing the thoughts away, you asked, "why do you still wear it?" You knew he had a complicated history with his faith; that he had, on more than one occasion, cursed God’s name and decried his existence. 

He remained silent for a moment, then fingered the delicate chain resting between your breasts, thumb stroking lightly over the crucifix pendant. “Probably for the same reason you still wear this,” he said coolly, and you thought, briefly, that he was evading the question. 

“It’s from my bubbe,” he answered quietly, “the last thing I have from her, actually. And there’s a bittersweet nostalgia to it, too, I guess. Reminds me of a version of myself that believed in a higher power.” 

You understood that more than you cared to admit. It was also uncharacteristically vulnerable for Michael. You found yourself wanting to give him a piece of yourself in return. 

You covered his hand with yours over your necklace, “this was my dad’s,” you whisper, thumb stroking over his knuckles, “reminds me of being little, of singing in the choir at church. Wish things still felt that simple.” He nods, understands the feeling, if not the exact experience. 

"I think… I think I got married because I thought it was something I should do," he confessed quietly, staring straight up at the ceiling. "I woke up one day and saw that I had nothing to show for my life. No wife, no kids. Not even a dog," he laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. "I care about her, really, I do. But it's how you'd care for a good friend. I want what's best for her, want her to do well, but... it's just not…” he swallowed thickly, turning to look you in the eye, “I don’t love her."

Your heart raced, chest filling with inconvenient feelings that you were desperate to push down. You weren’t sure how much more of yourself you could expose before you reached the point of no return. Perhaps you’re already there. You settled on a safe answer, a deflection, "that seems like something you should tell her.” 

He laughed softly, “yeah, I guess so,” he said, hand moving to cup your cheek, “but I’m telling you.” 

You shook your head, eyes closing to avoid his penetrating gaze. This had never been part of the deal with him. Sure, your pillow talk had been more intimate than the typical hookup–you told him things you’d never told anyone else–hadn’t told your husband–but that didn’t extend to your real feelings for one another. This time was reserved for morose revelations; a twisted confessional between two people comfortable to wallow in the depravity of it; who knew the other wouldn’t avoid their gaze the next morning.  

“Tell me you love him,” he said, voice strained, “look at me and tell me you love him.” 

"I do love him," you said, eyes still closed, mustering up as much conviction as you could manage. Which, admittedly, wasn't much.

A beat. 

"Then why are you still here?"

"Fuck you," you pushed against his chest weakly, pulling back just enough to create some space. 

"hmm maybe in a little bit, didn't bring my viagra with me," he joked halfheartedly. 

“Be serious, Michael,” you bit out, making a real attempt to remove yourself from him now. You turned around, scooting to get out of bed only to feel his arms encircle your waist, pulling you back into him, his chest pressed solidly against your back. His grip was loose; you knew you could leave if you really wanted to, which made your complacency that much more infuriating. 

“I’m trying,” he said, “we’re done fucking, you could have easily walked out the door 45 minutes ago. But you’re still here, and I have to think that means something.” 

You don’t say anything. His breathing is heavy, the puffs of air sweltering next to your ear as he hits you with a gut punch, "I never stopped thinking about you." 

“You can’t do that, Michael,” you said, throat tight; tears pricking your lash line. 

“I never stopped thinking about you, about how how badly I fucked things up,” he continued. 

You laughed wetly, “Stop. You can’t just, just come back into my life after making it clear, for years, that you’re not interested in anything with me, that all I ever was to you was a good fuck.” 

“That’s never been true,” he said resolutely, “I know we never talked about it, but you know it was more than that.” 

It was quiet for a minute, then, “I’ve been going to therapy, for about a year now,” he said, “I’m doing better. I’m not perfect, obviously,” he laughed, the sentiment clear: I’m here cheating on my wife, so I’m not totally depleted of poor coping mechanisms. 

“I was fucked up after Adamson, after Pittfest. I treated you like shit when all you wanted to do was help me, when you were the only one who did help me. I’m sorry for that, how I treated you. You didn’t deserve that, and I’ll spend however long I need to making it up to you,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice made your heart ache. 

“I’m not telling you this so you’ll forgive me. I just, I want you to know I’m trying to get better. I’m trying to be the man that you deserve.” 

You shook your head, refusing to fall into this trap again. “I appreciate the apology Michael, I really do, but I can’t. We can’t. I’m married, you’re married.” 

He laughed bitterly, “Why do you think I'm staying at this hotel?” he asked, not giving you the chance to answer before he continued, “she kicked me out, said I’ve been distant. Said she didn’t want to be stuck in a loveless marriage.” 

The air is sucked from your lungs, brain not comprehending the words fully until he finishes, “I want to get a divorce.” 

He turned you around in his arms, hand cradling your cheek as he asked you again, “Do you love him?” 

“I want to,” you said, eyes closed tight against the tears falling, “I want to so bad. He’s good for me, we like each other, we agree on everything. It should be perfect,” you said, breaths coming out fast and ragged, your next words ripping from your throat unbidden, “But all I want is you.” 

You’re crying now, face burrowed into Michael’s chest, the scent of him overwhelming your senses. “I don’t-don’t know what to d-do,” you sobbed, the conflicting feelings of shame and relief pummeled into you full force. He ran his fingers through your hair, pressing kisses to your hairline, “It’s okay, baby, it’s gonna be okay. We’ll figure it all out,” he whispered. 

You’d never admitted that you didn’t love your husband to anyone–had barely admitted it to yourself. It was a secret you held close to your chest, one that you were going to take to the grave because you thought it was too late; you’d made your bed, and now you had to lie in it. 

But it felt so good to let it out, to have someone to share in that truth, to fully admit it to yourself. Things had gotten harder after the honeymoon, when things weren’t shiny and new. You both settled into routine, and it was harder to ignore the growing distance between you. You liked each other just fine, but maybe that was part of the problem. You felt more like roommates than lovers most of the time, your lives separate in so many ways. He hadn’t even asked you if it was a good time for his fishing trip–not that he had to ask for permission, but it would have been nice for him to consider you. Or maybe you’re just trying to lessen your guilt, to justify the unjustifiable. 

Either way, what’s done is done, and now that the admission has been made, you have a choice to make. But that wasn’t exactly easy, either. 

“How am I s-supposed to believe that you w-won’t do it again? Leave when things get hard?” you hiccuped, fear gripping your heart in a vise. You want so badly to believe him, to surrender to him, but you can’t stop that little voice in your brain telling you he’ll never stay. 

“You can’t,” he said solemnly, “and I’m sorry about that. That I’m not someone you can trust anymore, that you’re going to second guess my commitment to you for a long time. But I want to try, I want to be with you, and I can only hope that you want to be with me too.” 

“You make it sound so easy,” you said weakly. 

“Not easy. But I’m willing to do the work, however dirty. Because I love you.” 

Your breath hitched, teary eyes looking up at him in shock. His thumb brushed against your cheek, eyes honest as he looked you in the eye.  

“Yeah?” you asked

“I meant it, what I said in the library. You have bewitched me, body and soul,” he whispered, moving to hover over you. “And I love, I love, I love you.” He kissed you then, soft and slow and sweet this time, every unspoken sentiment making itself known between your lips. 

“I love you, too,” you whispered back, the words tasting sweet on your lips instead of sour for the first time in a long time. 

He settled between your legs, cock resting against your cunt, still wet with your combined cum. You winced, “I don’t think I can do another one, ‘m too sore,” you whispered, not wanting to ruin the moment. 

“Shh, it's okay, honey, just want to feel you, be close to you.” 

He slipped in slowly, savoring the way your walls wrapped around him, the warmth comforting. He buried himself in you, hips sitting flush against yours. He settled his head on your chest, ear resting against your heartbeat, his body a comforting weight on top of you. You sat there for a while, stroking his hair and replaying the night in your head. 

“Did you mean it?” you asked quietly, “about putting a baby in me?” 

He was silent for a moment, the air charged with uncertainty, both of you trying to suss out the other, neither wanting to upset the fragile peace between you.

Finally, “yeah, honey, I meant it.” 

You blew out a puff of air, “yeah, okay. Shit. We should talk about that,” you laughed, and so did he. 

“We have plenty of time, baby, plenty of time.” 

The tension eased, the silence between you comfortable. 

A million thoughts raced through your mind, not the least of which was you lose them how you get them. Things weren’t perfect–far from it–but he was trying, and you wanted to try with him. 

Maybe that was enough.

a/n: thank you for reading!!! this got way more emotional than I was expecting, so thank you if you actually made it all the way through <3