Thought I'd be happy but I'm barely breathing

Your favorite night of the week is Thursday. 

Thursday Nights mean your sex hotline shifts are full of Rusty’s quips, and the incessant sound of his snacking, and the freedom to do chores around your bedroom without hiding it behind fake moans and sexy lies. 

“Okay,” you say into the phone, trying your best to juggle the receiver between your ear and your shoulder as you haul your suitcase onto your bed. “Best pickup lines. Go.” 

“I’ve never needed to use one of those,” Rusty says through an amused huff. 

“We get it. You’re good-looking,” you say, rolling your eyes as you flip your empty suitcase open.

You’ve got a flight to catch in less than 6 hours; an Italian villa awaits. Your friend only owns it for one week out of the year, and you’re only staying in it because their boss wouldn’t let them take vacation time during that one week out of the year, but it’s an Italian villa nonetheless. 

You should’ve been done with packing hours ago, but it’s easy to get swept up in Rusty Day after a rough week of intense clients and not-so-pleasant calls. You never asked why Rusty decided to start booking the entirety of your Thursday night shifts for the last month now, but you’re sure it has something to do with The Call. And as much as you’ve been using the memory of that call to fuel the majority of your private time fantasies as of late, you know better than to interrupt the careful dance you’ve both been doing around it. Having him around as good, innocent company is enough. 

“Everyone at least has some kind of opener, though,” you continue, not backing down.  

“Alright,” Rusty concedes. “Sometimes I approach a woman with ‘do I know you from somewhere?’ Or ‘have we met before?’” 

You raise an eyebrow. “And that works?” 

“Most of the time.”

“Ugh,” you groan. “You must be really hot.”

“It’s a good line,” he defends as a smile shines through his words. 

“No,” you say, laughing. “Not at all.” 

“Then you do better,” he says. “I’m waiting.” 

“Do you remember who you’re talking to?” You say, gesturing toward your phone’s reciever as if he can see you. 

“I remember,” Rusty says, sighing. “Trust me. I remember.” 

You bite your lip as you try to ignore the weight of his words. “If I have a shy client—”

“—In real life,” Rusty interrupts. “If I wasn’t your client, and you were trying to hit on me, what would you say?” 

You hesitate—which is your first mistake. Hesitations are different from pauses, and hesitating in front of Rusty is equivalent to revealing your hand in a game of cards.

“Don’t tell me…” he begins, humor spilling from his words. 

“Maybe I just like to be approached,” you try as you focus on the bigger task in front of you. Your bed is cluttered with miscellaneous clothes and travel essentials you picked out ahead of time. The only trouble is making it all fit into the suitcase. 

“I could respect that,” Rusty says fairly. “If that were the whole truth.” 

You suck your teeth as you reach for your first folded stack of clothing and drop it into your luggage. “Entertaining men feels like work sometimes,” you respond. “My job gets in the way of dating too.” 

“That all makes perfect sense,” Rusty says, humming. “But I’m still waiting for the real reason.” 

You drop another pile of clothing into the suitcase and try to get them to lay neatly. “Real reason for what?” You ask, knowing that acting dumb never works on Rusty. It’s your only card left to play, though. 

“I would like to know the real reason why the woman who treats every single one of our phone calls as a chance to make me squirm, is being dodgy about the very idea of flirting with someone in public,” Rusty clarifies. 

Well. That’s as clear cut as it gets. 

You stall as much as you can, adding a few more of your bulky belongings to the suitcase until it’s full enough to move onto all of the built in desperate-measure-compartments. 

“Fine,” you say, sighing as you unzip a new area of your luggage. “I’m not as bold in real life. The line between flirting and coming on too strong is lost on me now, so I try to play it safe.”

“And…” Rusty prompts, always wanting more. 

“And,” you mumble begrudgingly. “If I really have eyes for someone, sometimes I get a little nervous and don’t really know what to say, so I’m lucky if I can even get words out at all,” you ramble. “Happy?”

Rusty doesn’t say anything. You purse your lips to contain your own bashfulness as you unceremoniously shove more items into the compartments. 

But then you hear it—a low, muffled squeak. 

You stop what you’re doing, straighten up, and clutch onto the phone handle with both hands. “Rusty,” you say, jaw dropped as your eyes grow wide with realization. “Are you laughing at me?”

Rusty’s suffocated chuckles turn into full blown laughter, childish and clumsy and giddy. Each laugh is like its own syllable—and it’s the exact kind of thing you’d usually have a quip about—but the sound of it is just too damn endearing, so the only thing you can bring yourself to do is smile in the face of it. 

You’ve never heard him laugh like that before. 

Come to think of it, Rusty has been acting uncharacteristically unguarded all night.

“I just… did not expect that,” Rusty says, interrupting your thoughts in between what sounds suspiciously like giggles. 

“Mhm,” you say, going for weary, but you can barely hide your own amusement. 

And that just makes Rusty laugh all over again. 

This time, you join him. Even though you say, “It’s really not funny,” in between your own giggles. 

“You’re right,” he says once he calms down. “It’s adorable.” 

You make a frustrated sound, but it’s mostly to cover up the way his tone rumbles through you—mocking in all the right ways and truthful in all the ways he shouldn’t be. 

“I would pay to see that,” he says wistfully. 

You shake your head to get rid of the butterflies in your stomach and go back to packing with even less regard. You’d pay to see him laugh—pay to see the shape and size of his smile and the way his eyes crinkle—but that’s not the kind of thing you should say to a client and mean. 

“Careful,” Rusty says, humming. “I might have to take your silence as a confession.” 

Huffing, you zip another compartment shut and try your best to ignore the way his words make your chest tighten. “I miss when you weren’t this comfortable around me.” 

Rusty snorts. “No you don’t.” 

“No I don’t,” you admit, sighing as you assess the remainder of your belongings. You’ve made good headway, but the rest is going to take some maneuvering. 

“What are you doing over there?” Rusty asks for the first time tonight. Five hours of conversation and you’ve both managed to avoid small talk until now. That had to be some kind of record. 

You look over at the nearest item in your queue—a small, travel sized vibrator. 

“It’s maybe TMI,” you say, wincing. The irony isn’t lost on you. 

“I think we’re past that,” Rusty says. And after a month of swapping embarrassing sex stories and mortifying secrets, he’s right. 

“I’m trying to figure out the best place to bury a sex toy in my suitcase without getting exposed by TSA,” you admit. 

Rusty hums. “Airlines do tend to have a policy about vibrating luggage.” 

“I didn’t even think about it going off,” you mumble as you reach for the toy and eye its battery compartment. 

“How loud is it?”

Instead of answering, you hold out the phone receiver to your weapon-wielding hand and press the vibrator’s power button. The toy comes to life with a loud, rumbly buzz that thrums and jumps in your palm, dancing and singing through an 8-count until you cut off its performance and place the phone back to your ear.

“What’s the verdict?” You ask. 

“I used to have a car that sounded like that,” Rusty recalls. “Insurance totaled it.”

A snort flies out of you before you can stop yourself. “It’s quieter against skin,” you defend, already moving to twist the cap of the battery compartment off. 

Rusty makes a noise of recognition—and that should be that. But then—

“How quiet?” He asks, just like before. But the words hold more weight this time. They make your heart race and your guard slip. 

“Are you asking me for a demonstration, or are you actually curious?” You ask, biting your lip. 

“A little bit of both,” Rusty says. But you need more than that if this is headed in the direction it feels like it’s going. 

“Rusty,” you warn as you sit down on your bed, packing forgotten as your toy lies eager in your hand. 

Rusty doesn’t say anything, and it’s been a while since these sorts of pauses have settled between you—heavy and full of new territory. Excitement and anxiousness start to swell in your chest. This feels different than the first time, and even more delicate, but you’re not sure why. 

After a few more seconds of silence, Rusty sighs. “I’ve been thinking…” he says carefully. 

“Sounds like you,” you say without skipping a beat. 

Rusty sucks his teeth. “I’ve been thinking about that phone call,” he clarifies.

Your stomach flips in the best way. “Me too,” you admit quietly. 

“All the time,” Rusty says, groaning. 

“All the time,” you agree, sighing in relief. 

“So now I’m thinking…”

You close your eyes as he trails off, lips already fitting around the next sentence. 

“…About the sounds I’ll make with my toy pressed up against me,” you guess, each word breathy and thick. They’re automatic, like you’ve been thinking them all along. Maybe you have. “And how much you wish it were you instead?”

“Uh-huh,” he says as he lets out a long breath. “And I don’t have an excuse this time.”

“You’ve never needed one,” you point out. 

“Well then how else am I supposed to hide how much I want you?” 

Now it’s your turn for quiet, lips parting at the sheer audacity of his words. You’ve had men confess they’re undying love to you on the job, proposing to you in easy, mid-orgasmic rambles in the heat of the moment, but Rusty’s few, simple words make you giddier than they should. 

In your defense, you haven’t been completely naive about your little work crush on Rusty. All of that intimacy and vulnerability… it’s easy to get your wires crossed, especially when good chemistry is involved. But it’s also never affected your work like this before. 

“I get the appeal now,” Rusty says in your silence. “It’s fun tripping you up.”

You purse your lips. “Is this your idea of revenge for all of my teasing?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s more like… reciprocity.” 

“Reciprocity,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. 

“Mhm,” he ensures. “I’m simply meeting your efforts with the equivalent of my own.”

Memories of Rusty’s delayed orgasm flood your mind, and pool between your legs. “Equivalent or equal?” You ask, sucking in your breath as you squeeze your bare thighs together. Just like before, you aren’t wearing much—just another oversized t-shirt, but you’ve got something on underneath. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” Rusty chuckles. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Relief washes over you, but it’s taken away in an instant. 

“I want you to come,” he says slowly. “I want you to come, so that I can hear the way your pretty voice strains and wavers while you unravel.”

The firm tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. You clutch onto your bedsheets for some semblance of composure. 

“And then I want you to come again, and keep coming, until my name is the only sound you can make,” Rusty continues, deadly gentle like a binding promise. “How’s that sound?” 

“Like I’m already clearing my bed,” you rush out as you start to move some of your belongings out of the way. “How do you want me?” 

“How do you like it?” 

The question makes you moan. Your nights are full of different men ranting and raving about all the ways they plan to ravish you, but hardly any of them have bothered to ask about your own preferences. That’s the job, though. You know your role, and you enjoy playing up the fantasy for the right price, but it’s nice not having to pretend with Rusty. 

So you don’t think twice before turning around and sinking your knees onto the bed. Carefully, you crawl until you’re somewhere near the center and far enough away from all of your belongings. The phone cord extends just far enough to rest in the sheets next to you and, with one wide reach, you’re able to press a button on the base of your landline and put the call on speakerphone. Natural static from Rusty’s line fills your bedroom and sparks the anticipation swelling between your legs. 

“When I use this toy,” you say as you sit up on your knees, “I like to grind on it.” 

Rusty hums in appreciation. “Paint the picture for me.”

“I usually slip a pillow between my thighs,” you say as you do just that, grabbing the one closest to you. You welcome the familiar spread of your hips with an easy sigh as you get settled, sitting back into a comfortable straddle. “And I dip the vibrator inside of my underwear, ‘cause it’s more likely to stay where I like it that way.” 

“Smart girl,” Rusty rasps, his own voice strained amongst shuffling of his own. The praise warms you from the inside out and your hips buck in approval. 

Unsurprisingly, your fingertips are met with wetness as you slip them underneath the cotton doting your bottom half. You use your own arousal to get the toy slick, and shiver as the cool silicone slides against your clit. 

“When you tell me to,” you say slyly. “I’ll turn it on. And I’ll rock my hips until you tell me to stop. How’s that sound?” 

Rusty groans. “Like the sexiest thing any woman has ever said to me,” he says in awed disbelief. “Do you usually get off like that?” 

“Only when I’m really needy,” you admit. Only when you can’t get someone out of your head, and a pillow is the closest you can get to being the closest you can get with someone you can’t have—someone you shouldn’t want this badly in the first place. 

“Then I won’t keep you waiting,” Rusty obliges. “Turn on your toy, and grind.”

One push of a button sends waves of steady, electric pleasure straight to your core. You gasp as it hits you, hips spreading wider as you melt against your toy and stick a hand out in front of you for stability. 

“That sound. I’ve missed that,” Rusty says before mimicking your gasp, and following it up with a fond chuckle. 

You whine in response—the only sound you can bring yourself to make. This toy isn’t special, or particularly strong. It doesn’t even compare to some of the other tools in your bedside drawer, but today it’s got you too blissed to think. Too buzzed to even move. If you could just have a second to settle, to find your bearings—

“That must feel really good,” Rusty says, both smug and amused. “Is your heart starting to race?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. As if your heartbeat isn’t pounding in your ears and drowning out everything except the low, steady tone of his voice. 

You drop your head as the vibrations continue to spread, and your pleasure continues to build. Heat crawls up your spine and smooths over your skin. 

“She’s speechless,” Rusty observes. “I’ve made my hotline operator speechless.” 

Those words hit your system with a jolt. Your hips jerk, enticing you to press down into your toy and sink further into your pillow’s embrace. The moan that escapes you is unfiltered and indulgent. 

“I could listen to you moan like that all day,” Rusty says, sighing. “But I don’t think you’ll last that long. You might not last past the end of this sentence.” 

“I won’t give you the satisfaction,” you say, voice quivering as you clutch your pillow. “Not yet.” 

Rusty hums. “There she is.” And the words envelop you like a slow embrace. 

This time, you grind down on purpose. Another moan tumbles off of your lips. Inklings of your impending climax begin to settle in your gut, and you welcome it with a small, desperate thrust. 

You usually aren’t this easy to take down. But whatever—it’s fine. Because if you’re going down, Rusty is going down with you.

“In my defense,” you say, panting as you start to find a rhythm, back and forth like a slow, sensual dance. “The thought of you always turns me into a mess.”

Rusty’s breath hitches. And that’s how you know you’ve got him. 

“Always?” Rusty asks. 

“Always,” you promise, and it’s true—even if you’re using this for your own gain. Your legs start to shake as you hold onto the dredges of your composure, but you’ve lost this round. One more whine solidifies it. You’re going to come soon, and you’re going to come hard. 

You still manage to play your pawn. 

“This isn’t the first time I’ve spent the night with my pillow and imagined it was you,” you breathe out, folding over into the cushion as your hips rut. 

Rusty huffs, and then he moans. Desperation coats the sound as more shuffling floods his side of the phone line. “I know what you’re doing,” he says weakly. 

“What do you think I’m doing, Rusty?” You barely squeak out. “Because I think I’m about to come.”

You don’t hang on long enough to hear Rusty’s response. Your orgasm surges through you like one big electric pulse, muscles tightening and pussy throbbing with each surge of ecstasy. You’re loud—and you’re not even trying to put on a show. Not even your pillow can muffle the sound of your wrecked moans and whimpers. 

And it only gets more intense. 

You come down from your peak, heart pounding and head foggy, to be met with the same steady buzz of your demise. It’s too much. It’s—

“I know, baby,” Rusty says softly, voice cutting through all of the noise. “I know.”

You whine as you try to find your bearings, digging your knees further into the bed in an attempt to sit back up. The shift takes some of the pressure off of the toy, and the attention off of your clit, but it does nothing to counteract your building sensitivity. 

“You poor thing,” he says, sighing to hide a smile you just know is there. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“Well, you and my whole floor might’ve heard of it, at least,” you say hoarsely, hands still twitching as you dig your fingers into your pillow.

“It was a good performance,” Rusty says cheekily, when you both know that this is anything but. In fact, all of this would be easier if it was. “But it leaves me with questions.” 

“Like?” You ask, taking the bait. But in your defense, you’re not exactly in your right mind. 

“Like… were your legs shaking?” He asks, words steady and riddled with faux innocence. “Did your eyes roll back? Did you get to that point of total surrender, and let it take over? Or did you squirm, trying to fight back?”

Your face grows hot as excitement starts to swell in your gut all over again. A whine slides off of your lips as you circle your hips, instinctively slipping the toy back against your clit—which is only possible due to the evidence of your own arousal. 

“Ever consider a career in this?” You ask, breath hitching as pleasure greets you again. 

“Making you come?” Rusty asks. “Mmm, I don’t know. The benefits are good, but the salary is horrendous.” 

Something between a laugh and a moan tumbles off of your lips. “At least you’d have a hot boss,” you manage to say as you start to sink forward, body searching for more pressure, and more pleasure. 

“But I heard she can be demanding,” Rusty recalls. 

You smirk as you grind down against the toy, need overcoming the remnants of your over sensitivity. “You like it,” you breathe out. 

“I like it,” Rusty repeats. “I like that she’s a surprisingly good listener, too.”

The praise makes your hips stutter. Vibrations feed your desire and cloud your mind. “I have my moments.” 

“So I’m learning,” he says, and it’s laced with that same grin that you’ve only seen in your fantasies. “I think it’s cute that you haven’t stopped humping your pillow, by the way.” 

You huff as you grind again, begging the deep simmer of your desire to boil over with a desperate pout. You’re too needy for shame, and that knowledge makes you even needier. 

“I figured you’d take the hint and join me,” you say, words strained and breathless. You want to hear his belt unbuckle and his pants unzip. You want to hear his quickened breaths and his rumbly moans. It’s been too long. 

“That’s not going to work on me,” Rusty says. “This is about you.” 

But from the airy rasp in his voice, you know it’s only a matter of time before he caves and touches himself in the name of you. And from there, all you’ll have to do is wait him out. 

“We’ll see,” you hum in between the steady rock of your hips. Between your slippery arousal and the toy’s lifespan, you’re at a disadvantage in friction and power. You need more. You need—

“Tell me,” Rusty says. “Does your toy have more than one setting?”

You don’t know whether to laugh or whine. He’s too smart for his own good, and already too perceptive about all the things that make you tick. 

Rusty chuckles. “I’m gonna take your silence as a yes.” 

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?” you mumble, even though it’s true—even though it turns you on. 

But he doesn’t bother to entertain your poor attempt at diversion. 

“Be a doll and turn it up for me?” he asks cheekily. 

Your hand gravitates to your toy on instinct, fingers slipping into the band of your underwear. “You’re lucky I like you,” you mumble as you fumble for the power button raised beneath the silicone.

“I’m your favorite,” he reminds you, as if you could ever forget. 

One push of a button proves you wrong though, because you forget everything that isn’t the intense, rev of pleasure that surges through you like a lightning bolt. 

“Oh, fuck,” you cuss underneath your breath, fast and involuntary as you fold over yourself. The vibrator persists beneath you with an increased thrum, plucking a series of small, desperate moans from your lips as your head drops to the sheets and your arm wraps your pillow for strength. Need overtakes thought and settles itself underneath your skin like a persisting flame. It’s all-consuming and unrelenting. 

“Aww,” Rusty sympathizes—but his tone couldn’t be any less genuine. “C’mon, I know you can take it.” 

You whimper as your hips buck against your toy. “I can take it,” you say breathlessly—and it’s supposed to be defiant. But the words come out slurred and thick with lust, like a mantra, and all that does is make your head spin and your face hot. 

“I can’t,” Rusty says, groaning as shuffling fills his side of the line. “When you sound like this, I can’t. I can’t even think.” 

A smile graces your lips as you take up a rhythm, hips meeting your pillow with steady thrusts. Each one makes the buzz of your arousal grow louder and deeper. “Knew you’d join me,” you mumble, even though it gets lost within the squeak of your bed and the loud whir of your toy. 

“I never seem to have any restraint when it comes to you,” Rusty mumbles back. But it’s finally followed by a little moan, and a pleasant sigh, and quickened breath. 

That only spurs you on. 

You pick up the pace as pressure starts to build in your core. The climb is coming, you can feel it with each ache and throb of your own desire. 

“That’s it,” Rusty praises, and the rasp in his voice turns you into putty. “You’re close, aren’t you?” 

How’d he—

“The pitch,” he says with heavy breath. “You get pitchy.” 

You whine in the place of words, but you don’t know if it’s out of distaste or desperation. You clutch your pillow harder. Your legs begin to shake. 

“Atta-girl,” Rusty says with a rumbly hum. “I wish you were riding me like that. I wish I was the one making your bed shake.” 

He could hear that? 

“Oh, and your toy isn’t much quieter against skin, just so you know.” 

Fuck. He could definitely hear that.

“I’m just happy to hear you enjoying yourself,” he teases. 

“Rusty,” you whine in protest as you circle your hips, ecstasy threading itself through your veins. Everything aches. Everything feels warm. 

“You’re. So. Cute,” Rusty huffs, and a breathy moan follows. “Will you say my name again? Just like that.” 

The edges of your vision grow fuzzy as you near your climax, getting close to the edge. The world starts to fade away. All you can focus on is the grind of your hips and the promise of bliss. 

“Sweetheart,” Rusty says softly, cutting through to you at your most vulnerable in just the right way. “Please? When you come, I wanna hear it.” 

Something in you snaps. 

Your eyes roll back and your jaw goes slack. Your legs tense and grip tightens. 

“Rusty.”

It’s more of a clumsy squeak than anything substantial, but it’s all you can manage before your ears fill with static and your body tumbles into euphoria. 

Each surge of your orgasm trembles through you with a jolt, like a knot tightening and unfurling over and over again. It spills out of you in moans and whimpers, and enlists your body to writhe and twitch. Pleasure swallows you whole, and stalls on spitting you back out. 

It takes a while for you to come back down to earth. 

You’re met with a well-earned ache in your thighs; a soreness from the spread of your hips; the hollow buzz of your vibrator against your bikini line, from where it slipped in the midst of your trip; and the sound of Rusty’s tired, yet elated breath. 

You should move. You should give your knees a break, and finally turn off your toy. But that last high succeeded in turning you into liquid, and it’s kind of nice sharing this moment with Rusty—both reeling and chests heaving from the aftermath. 

There’s nothing you can do to stop yourself from imagining what it’d be like if he were here right now either. What it’d be like to feel the rise and fall of his chest, and see the lazy satisfaction of your joint effort flushed across his face. 

The thought makes you grow warm all over again. And that’s… that’s probably not a good sign for the state of your ‘little’ work crush. 

“How are we feeling?” Rusty asks loosely, voice worn and weak from the beautiful orgasm you didn’t get to hear. Last time, all of that pleasure had made him quiet. But this time, he’s trying to form words, and you know he’s trying for you. 

So you grin at the sound of him and shove aside your emotional unpacking for later, deciding to readjust the phone receiver closer with a shaky hand instead. 

“Like I can handle one more,” you tease, lying just to rub in your win—but your point is contradicted when a wave of aftershocks move through you and cause your voice to crack. 

Rusty snorts. “Yeah, no,” he says tiredly. “You’re done.”

And he’s right. So you muster up some courage to reach for your toy and turn it off, and then muster up some more courage to straighten out your legs and roll off of your poor pillow. 

Once your back hits the sheets, you look down and survey the damage. Arousal has soaked through your panties and left a sticky mess between your thighs, and a light layer of sweat still glimmers on your skin. You said this the last time, but you haven’t come like this in… 

You slap your hand over your face to stop your thoughts from spiraling. 

“Rusty,” you say in sheer disbelief. 

“Mhm?” He mumbles back. 

You bite your lip as you shake your head. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me.” 

“I told you,” Rusty says, all rasps. “I’m usually on the other side of the teasing.” 

Memories of what you two just did come flooding back, and all you can do is giggle in the face of them. Leftover endorphins coat each chuckle as you say, “That was hot.”

“You are hot,” Rusty says, amusement shining through his exhaustion. “You’re…” he trails off. 

And you just can’t resist. Status quo needs to be restored, after all. 

“Words are hard,” you say sympathetically. 

Rusty groans, and then he shushes you. 

That only makes you laugh harder, but it isn’t long before Rusty joins you with chuckles too. 

“Thank you,” he says after you both settle down again, and you manage to stretch out enough to turn off speakerphone mode in favor of holding the receiver back up to your ear. “Thank you for indulging me. Thank you for letting me make you come… twice.” 

“I’ll just have to get even next time,” you say, fake sighing. 

You don’t think twice about the words… until there’s a pause on Rusty’s end. And it’s the worst kind of pause, because it’s a pause you can’t read. 

You sit up in the face of it, still shaky and achy, and instinctively hold the receiver tighter. The silence doesn’t feel bad, but it doesn’t feel good either. And just when you’re about to ruin your own rule and change the subject entirely, Rusty finally hums—like everything is normal. Like nothing has to change. 

“I’d like that,” he says earnestly. 

Ease loosens the grip of your fingers and you smile in relief, nodding the tension away. “I know you would,” you say just as easily, even though you know you’re missing something. Even though you know Rusty had more to say. 

But Rusty sucks his teeth at your quip, and everything is back to normal. 

“Question,” he says, sounding perkier by the second. “What’s with the suitcase anyway?” 

Oh yeah. 

You look over at the clock on your nightstand and cuss underneath your breath. Time management has never been your strong suit. 

“This is the part where—after I’ve slept with you and gotten what I’ve wanted—I cancel our date for next week,” you say with a guilty smile. 

“That’s why you’re packing your bags,” he says, quick as always. “You’re walking out on me.” 

Your smile grows into a real one. “Only for a week,” you placate. “I’ll be abroad—vacation.” 

“Where to?” 

“You know I can’t tell you that,” you say gently. 

And this time, when Rusty pauses, his opinions on the matter are clear. 

Your heart lurches. 

“You gonna miss me?” You tease, but the question comes out too honest. 

“I am,” he says without skipping a beat, meeting you in kind. 

So yeah. This ‘little’ work crush is definitely not little. It’s more like—

“I’m gonna say something sentimental,” Rusty says. 

You choke down the butterflies in your throat. “Okay,” you barely whisper. 

“The way I see it is, I’ve got two options,” Rusty begins with a breath. “The first one is easy—and the first one always is. I can respect your boundary and pretend like the idea of us both being in the same place at the same time doesn’t ever cross my mind. I can leave the conversation like this—no prying, no phishing, no insinuating—and call you the week after, like I always do.” 

You bite your lip at the thought. “Or?” 

“Or,” Rusty says, sighing. “I can take the second option—and this one is risky. It’s when I tell you that I’m currently abroad for work, and reveal myself as a hypocrite by not being able to give you any details either, except that I’ve got blond hair and blue eyes and a feeling that anything else you remember about me should be enough. It’s when I ask you if I can tell you the time, hoping that by tomorrow, you’ll sync up with mine, and I use your confirmation as an excuse to wonder if every woman I come across for the next week could be you.” 

Those words knock the wind out of you, leaving you to blink helplessly at the wall. There’s a lot to unpack. His appearance, for one—which you were right about—and the fact that you’ve never heard him say so many words at once. And then there’s the fact that Italy’s time zone only applies to, well, the majority of Europe. 

“Even if we were in the same time zone,” you say quickly. “The odds would be—”

“I know,” Rusty says, firm but fond. “But those odds are better than our current ones—and our current odds have never stopped me from doing it anyway.” 

You aren’t very well-versed in real love confessions, but this sounds pretty damn close to one. Or, at least it feels that way, if the warmth in your chest and the giddiness in your gut is anything to go by. 

But wires can still get crossed. This is sex work 101. Who knows if Rusty is feeling you, or just feeling the mix of oxytocin and dopamine from the aftermath of your intimacy. 

“Rusty—” you start. 

“Don’t do that,” Rusty says. “I know what I feel. The ethics of it all might be up for discussion—which is the only reason why I’m mincing my words—but I know how I feel.” 

‘Ethics’ in this case is more like ‘job security,’ which is why, even if you did have the words, you can’t say a thing. 

“So what’s it gonna be, sweetheart?” Rusty asks gently. “Option 1? Or option 2?” 

The answer is easy. It’s just the wrong one—the one that changes everything, even if your paths never cross. You know what you should say, and you open your mouth to say just that… 

But intimacy without vulnerability is just a performance, and you and Rusty are way past that. 

“Rusty,” you say, closing your eyes. “What time is it over by you?” 

You hear his smile before his voice. 

“9:19am,” he says smoothly. “But I’m sure that’s not of any importance to you.” 

You take a deep breath before opening your eyes again, and looking back at your clock. Some quick mental math is all it takes to confirm it: 

That’s the same time difference between you and Italy. 

“Or is it?” Rusty asks in your silence. 

Excitement sparks in your throat, and it takes everything within you to keep quiet, biting your lip and clenching your fists. Your cheeks strain from the weight of your smile. 

“I’m gonna take your silence as a yes,” Rusty says softly. 

And just as that news starts to settle in, another realization hits you. 

“Rusty,” you say, furrowing your eyebrows. 

“Uh-huh?” 

“We’ve been on the phone for 6 hours,” you say slowly. 

Rusty hums. “Is that right?” 

“You should’ve told me it was 3am when you called,” you hiss. “Ever heard of this thing called sleep?” 

“I got plenty of it in the daylight,” Rusty assures. “I’m jetlagged. I was going to be up anyway.” 

“But—”

“It’s cute that you care,” Rusty says, chuckling. “But I have no qualms about starting my day with the sound of a pretty woman moaning in my ear.” 

The flattery hits a little different now. 

“I’d love to keep making you flustered,” Rusty teases. “But I believe you have a suitcase to pack and a plane to catch?” 

You purse your lips. “It’s cute that you care,” you echo. 

“Well, the odds aren’t good but I already placed my bet on this,” Rusty points out. “And my return rides on your time management, first and foremost, which is a terrible position to be in.” 

This time, you’re the one doing the shushing and he’s the one doing the chuckling. 

“Goodnight,” he says pointedly. “And travel safe.”

You take another breath before saying the least incriminating, yet honest thing you can think of: 

“I hope you win big,” you blurt out. “On your bet, I mean.” 

Another pause. 

“I hope we both do,” Rusty says. “See you soon.”

I'll have Part III up next week, but I'll post a sneak peek of the next part in the DVD commentary of this fic, which will be up in a few days. This was a complete vibe shift from the first one but I hope you liked it, and that you're excited for more! I can't help but love happy endings...

The justification in his head is that you didn't need to look so pretty, getting ready for dinner.

Didn't need to wear the dress that's got his hands clenching into fists, ready to fight off whoever it is who thinks they have a chance with you. Didn't need to put on make up that makes you glow like you didn't belong in this plane of existence.

It's just a dinner date.

But you got excited. And that, in turn, got him riled up.

It's really your fault, then, that you end up bent over on the bathroom sink, hands gripping marble in a futile effort to find stability. Your reflection stares back at you.

Perfect: hair and lipstick and eyeliner just the way you want them to be...

...except your face is contorted into an expression that can only be described as messed up.

He's behind you, kneeling, mouth busy with your cunt that he revealed from beneath your short dress. Fabric bunches up above your ass, lace panties pulled to the side, leaving you defenseless and glistening with obvious want.

"Take a good look in the mirror, pretty," he murmurs into you, hot air against slick. "Gonna make you see—"

A finger prods. Your lips part, just like the hole he's sinking his knuckles into.

"—the thing that drives me fucking insane every time."

Then another digit joins and a keen mewl escapes you at the stretch.

You don't know he's staring unblinkingly from his place between your legs, memorizing the clench of you that spells a thousand lusty screams, watching your back arch for him in your search for more—greedy girl.

He takes his fingers out, delights in the little whimper. Smears the slick on your ass when he uses his hands to spread your cheeks, one cold, the other warm, opening you up for him like some fucking display.

The next part of him that sinks in is his tongue. It dips deep, before he closes his mouth around you and sucks.

That sends shockwaves down your legs, threatening to topple your perch on heeled feet.

"Watch yourself when you cum," he murmurs, low baritone vibrating against your pussy. You shiver. "Look at how pretty you are."

After that directive, he drowns into you: slurping noisily at your leaking cunt, breaking the dirty schlick sounds only to hum around your clit, abusing it with stern kisses.

It's easy to look away from the mirror, but you don't: lost in the way he's got your eyes glazed, tears ready to ruin your freshly applied mascara. The gloss on your lips and the drool starting to escape one side of it remind you of that one time he had your mouth glide up and down his cock in this very bathroom.

Makes you wonder what your face looked like when he came all over it.

The past shatters when you feel a finger swipe your slick, up, the tip of it teasing your other entrance. Just enough pressure to make you clench.

"Oh—she liked that," he laughs, the sound throaty against your folds, "Got so fucking tight."

You let out a long moan when he plays with your clit and there at the same time, the dual sensations jolting your nerve endings into a ruin so swift, your mind promptly shuts down.

All that's left is what's in front of you, and you cum just like that: witnessing the look on your face like he told you to—spurred on by his moans of good girl, good fucking girl, that's right, cum for me,—while he drinks his favorite thing in the world from the very source.

The smell of a new book and fresh coffee always made you happy.

You were curled up in your favorite armchair, legs tucked under you, a hardcover open in your lap. Across the room, Bucky was sprawled on the couch, pretending to watch a baseball game but actually watching you. The way your eyes moved rapidly over the pages, the little smile that tugged at your lips when a line hit just right, the way you'd occasionally look up, mouth already opening to share something—he lived for that.

"Okay, so," you said, not even checking if he was listening, because he always was, "the protagonist just discovered that the mysterious letters she's been getting aren't from her dead husband. They're from the lighthouse keeper… who she's never met. And he's been in love with her for years, just watching her from across the cliffs."

Bucky's eyebrow lifted. "That's… romantic? Or terrifying?"

"Romantic," you said firmly, pointing a finger at him. "It's about longing, Bucky."

He chuckled. "If I sent you anonymous letters from across the cliffs, you'd call the cops."

"You'd never writ anonymous letters. Your handwriting is too distinctive. Very 1940's penmanship."

He grinned, stretching his arms over his head. "I'll take that as a compliment."

This was your routine. You read, you rambled, he listened and asked questions that proved he was paying attention, remembering characters' names and plot twists better than you did sometimes. And whenever he came home from a mission or a trip to the city, more often than not, he'd have a paper bag in his hand with a new book inside—something he spotted in a shop window, or that the cashier recommended, or that just "looked like one of your covers with the swirly letters".

So when a new book arrived in your life—not from Bucky, but from your friend Darcy, who slid it across the coffee shop table with a wicked grin—you weren't prepared.

"Trust me," Darcy said, tapping the cover. "It's dark romance, super popular. Very steamy. You'll thank me later."

You laughed it off, tucking the book into your bag. You read everything; how bad could it be?

Turns out, bad wasn't the word.

You understood why Darcy recommended you that book. The male lead was a sergeant in the middle of the war. He ran his command like he owned it, bent rules until they broke in his favor and never once apologized for either. The heroine called him sergeant, even when they were in bed.

You got five chapters in before your face caught fire. The book wasn't just spicy… it was a five-alarm blaze. The brooding, morally gray love interest had a very intense way of doing things. The filthy way he talked to the main character felt criminal to read in your own living room. Every other page seemed to hold a scene that made your heart hammer and your thighs press together. It was thrilling. It was also deeply, deeply embarrassing.

Your usual sticky note system wasn't equipped for this. Blue for sad? No. Pink for fluff? Absolutely not. Yellow for funny? Definitely not. You found yourself staring at your little rainbow of tabs, feeling a blush creep up your neck, before finally rummaging through your desk drawer for a forgotten pad of red sticky notes. Red, you decided, would be the new code. For scenes that made you feel hot all over. For lines you'd never ever read aloud.

You read smut, but this was a whole new level. It was different from the vanilla, corny sex you were so used to—even in real life.

That evening, when Bucky came in from his run, all sweat-damp hair and soft gray henley clinging to his shoulders, you slammed the book shut so fast you nearly cracked the spine.

"Hey, beautiful." He leaned down to kiss the top of your head. "What are you reading now? Another mystery novel?"

"Nothing!" you squeaked, stuffing the book between the couch cushions. "Just—a thing. For book club. It's so boring."

Bucky froze mid-straighten, his sharp blue eyes narrowing just a little. You never said a book was boring. You could find something to love about a magazine article, and you've never hidden one from him before. He catch the flash of vivid red before the book disappeared. He knew all your tabs, and he'd never seen red before. "That a new color?"

"No," you said, far too quickly. "It's.. just a different genre. Not really discussion material."

"You told me about that nonfiction book on medieval cat paintings for forty-five minutes."

"Well, that was fascinating."

"So is this one, I bet," he said, his voice going full teasing-mode. His eyes lingered on the edge of the cushion where a single red tab peeked out like a guilty secret. "Looks like it's got a lot of highlights. New category?"

You grabbed the cushion and hugged it to your chest, blocking his view. "No category, no highlights. Just a boring book."

"Uh-huh." He didn't push, just hummed and went to grab a glass of water, but that red tab was burned into his mind.

Over the next few days, he noticed a pattern. You'd be reading completely absorbed, a glass of wine on the nightstand and that book bristling with red tabs—until you heard his footsteps. Then it would slide under the blanket, or flip face-down, or get casually covered with your phone. Once, he walked in and you literally shoved it into the pillowcase.

"Smooth," he commented dryly, hiding a smile.

"I was… fluffing the pillows."

"Right, with a novel."

The breaking point came on a quiet Thursday evening.

You were taking a shower and Bucky came in to grab his charger and stopped dead.

There it was. The book. Sitting innocently on your nightstand, no longer hidden, just waiting. And it was stuffed with red sticky notes. They fanned out from the pages at every angle, a scarlet forest of tiny paper flags. He'd never seen a book of yours marked this heavily—not even your all-time favorites. Curiosity coiled in his stomach.

He knew he shouldn't. He really, truly knew.

But there was a brand new category he didn't understand, and you've been blushing for five days straight, and god forbid, he was only human.

With a guilty glance toward the bathroom door, where the sound of running water and your off-key humming filtered through, Bucky picked up the book. It fell open easily to one of the red tabbed pages, the spine already creased from being held there. The sticky note had a tiny, hastily-drawn flame sketched on it.

His eyes found the highlighted paragraph. The scene unfolded in stark, vivid detail. The sergeant had the heroine bent over the sturdy oak desk in his quarters, one large hand fisted in her hair to keep her chest pressed flush against the wood. She was gasping, completely at his mercy as he took control with slow, punishing thrusts.

"That's it," he growled against her ear, voice low and authoritative. "Take what your sergeant gives you. You don't get to come until I say so." She whimpered, fingers scrambling for purchase, but he only tightened his grip. "Say it. Tell me who owns this pretty little body right now." "You do, sergeant," she moaned, voice trembling with desperate pleasure.

Bucky's mouth went dry. His pulse kicked up hard. The two of you had always kept things gentle and loving—slow kisses, tender touches, vanilla nights that left you both smiling and wrapped around each other. He'd held back the rougher edges of himself, not wanting to overwhelm you. But this… this was what you've been blushing over for days? The realization sent a sharp jolt of heat through him, tangled with that quiet thread of guilt for snooping.

He closed the book carefully and set it back exactly as he found it, just as the shower turned off.

You stepped out a few minutes later in nothing but your favorite robe, hair damp and skin flushed from the hot water. The second you saw him sitting there—trying (and failing) to look casual—you knew something was off.

"Why do you look like the cat that ate the canary?" You asked, eyes narrowing even as a flush crept up your neck.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish little smile breaking through. "Well… I wouldn't say the book is boring, sweetheart. I'm surprised you're into this… and you didn't tell me." He nodded toward the nightstand. "Sergeant, huh? Lots of red tabs on that one."

Your face ignited. "Bucky—"

He crossed the room slowly, stopping just in front of you. "Hey… If you want me to drop it, I will. But if you're into it… if you want me to give you what that book's been making you crave, I'm right here. You're okay with that gorgeous?"

Your heart hammered. The way he was looking at you sent liquid heat pooling low in your belly. "I… yeah. I'm okay with it."

"Good girl," he murmured, the praise sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers slipped through the belt of your robe, tugging it open with slow intent. The fabric slipped down your arms and pooled at your feet, leaving you bare in front of him. His gaze dragged over you, dark and hungry, before he cupped your chin and tilted your face up. "On your knees, sweetheart."

You sank down obediently, the carpet soft under you. Bucky stood tall, looking every bit the sergeant from those pages, gray Henley trenched across his broad chest. He thread his fingers into your damp hair, gripping firmly enough to send sparks across your scalp. "Open that pretty mouth for me, baby."

You parted your lips eagerly. Bucky freed himself from his sweats, already hard and heavy, and guided the tip along your tongue. "That's it… good girl. Keep your eyes here. Let me see you while you take me."

His grip in your hair tightened when you looked up at him and he began to move—shallow thrusts at first, then deeper, fucking your mouth with controlled power. The weight of him on your tongue, the way he hit the back of your throat, had you moaning around him. Every few strokes he held you there for a second, groaning low, before pulling back to let you breathe.

"Fuck, just like that. You look so good with my cock in your mouth." He gave a slightly rougher thrust, hair pulling taut, then eased off immediately, stroking your cheek. "Still okay?"

You nodded quickly, murmuring "Yes, Bucky" around him, the words muffled and eager, earning a soft pull of your hair.

"Tsk, tonight you should call me sergeant."

"Yes, sergeant," you corrected yourself, pressing your thighs together.

He kept one hand fisted in your hair, guiding you exactly how he wanted—never too rough, but dominant enough to make your core throb. When your jaw started to ache he finally pulled free, breathing hard, and lifted you onto the bed.

"On your back, legs open for me," he ordered.

You scrambled to obey. Bucky settled between your thighs,pushing them wide with his broad shoulders. The first slow lick up your soaked folds drew a broken moan from you. He didn't tease for long—he devoured you. Tongue plunging inside you, then circling your clit with firm, relentless strokes while two thick fingers curled deep. The wet sounds of his mouth were obscene.

He brought you right to the edge within minutes, sucking hard on your clit as your thighs started to shake.

"Not yet," he growled against you, pulling back just enough to deny your orgasm. He kissed your inner thigh, nipping softly, then dove back in. Twice more he edged you like that—building you higher each time, fingers pumping faster, tongue working you mercilessly—until you were whimpering, hips grinding desperately against his face.

"Please."

"Please, what?"

"Please, sergeant. I need to come."

Bucky hummed in approval and finally let you tip over. He sucked your clit between his lips and curled his fingers just right, holding you down as the orgasm tore through you. You came hard, crying out, thighs clamping around his head while he worked you through every pulse.

Before you could even catch your breath, he flipped you over onto your stomach and pulled your hips up, bending you over the edge of the bed. Your chest pressed into the mattress, ass raised high for him.

His palm cracked against your right cheek in a firm, stinging spank. "You've had me wondering what's got you so worked up for days." Another smack on the left side, then a soothing rub of his metal hand. "Turns out my sweet angel has a dark side."

He thrust into you in one deep stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden fullness tore a sharp moan from your throat. Bucky set a hard rhythm—hips snapping forward, the sound of skin slapping skin loud in the room. One hand fisted in your hair again, tugging your head back to arch you perfectly while the other delivered occasional sharp spanks that made you clench tighter around him.

"So wet for me," he groaned, pounding into you deeper. "Taking everything I give you like the good girl you are."

He kept the pace relentless but checked in, leaning over you to growl against your ear. "Still good, baby?" You could only manage a desperate "Yes, sergeant, please—harder," which earned you a particularly deep thrust and another firm spank.

The way he filled and claimed you completely pushed you toward the edge again fast. Bucky felt it, snaked a hand underneath you to rub your clit, whispering his command right against your neck. "Come for me again. Now."

You shattered around him with a broken cry, pulsing hard. Bucky followed right after, slamming deep and grinding through his own release, groaning your name under his breath as he spilled inside you.

He stayed buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting. Then, the dominance melted away. He eased out carefully, turned you over, and pulled you into his arms, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks and your lips.

"You okay, sweetheart?" He whispered, his voice was gentler now. His fingers were stroking soothing circles over the light marks he left on your hips and ass. "Wasn't too much?"

You shook your head, curling into his chest with a satisfied glowing smile. Bucky chuckled softly and held you tighter. "Next time you pick the scene, gorgeous. I want to hear every filthy detail you were too shy to tell me."

You reeked of fresh lime, spilt tequila, and a long, never-ending bar shift full of WASPy laughter and fleeting glances. Eye contact was apparently a privilege, and these country-cub quests were too upper-class to even think about lowering their gaze to meet your line of sight. 

You’d just locked down this new bartending gig and you were already phoning it in. There were only so many stock exchange tips you could smile through while nursing an empty tip jar, and only so much disrespect you could choke down without daydreaming about spontaneous, rich people choking incidents. It’s almost as if the guests thought you were subjecting yourself to being underpaid and undervalued for the mere chance at receiving unsolicited advice and unwelcome sexual harassment.

But tonight, things were about to get lucrative—and interesting.

You spotted interesting like a beacon of hope in a never ending crowd of polos and wrinkled khakis. Handsome didn’t do this man justice; he was stunning. Dirty blond hair… slim frame… a jaw sharp enough to cut through the bar’s endless supply of lemons and a well-fitting suit that put every other guests’ attire to shame. He stepped out of a vintage convertible, walked onto the premises with a cool confidence that made half of the room turn their heads, and strutted his way straight toward you. 

Well, straight to the bar. But… same difference.

The bar had been in a lull for the past hour and you were pretending to busy yourself by polishing glasses and wiping down the same work station over and over again. Mister Interesting took a seat in the stool right in front of you, peeling off his sunglasses and making it a point to meet your eyes with his own brilliant, bright blue. 

“Hi,” he said, sending you a lopsided smile as he rested his elbows on the granite bar top. It was the conversation starting kind of ‘hi,’ full of expectation and innocent suspense, which was a far cry from the obligatory nicety you rarely received before being bombarded with a drink order. 

“Hey,” you said in surprise, not used to being seen. “What can I do for you?” 

The man leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the counter, exposing a hand tattoo that disappeared underneath the breezy cuffs of his sleeves. “I’m glad you asked,” he said smoothly, lips quirking up farther when you lifted an eyebrow in return. “I’ve got a friend coming in soon. Haven’t seen him in a while so I’d like to mess with him.”

“And you want my help,” you said slowly, beating him to the punch. 

The man nodded, eyes lighting up with something you couldn’t place. “I’d love your help,” he affirmed. 

You looked around the empty bar and pretended to think it over. “If you hadn’t noticed,” you said with an exaggerated roll of your eyes. “I’m pretty busy. But I guess I can make an exception.”

The man offered you his hand across the table with an amused huff, and you shook it with a giddiness you couldn’t feign. 

“Here’s the plan,” he said as he leaned back into his seat. He crossed one leg over the other and slung his arm over the back of his chair. “All I need you to do is interrupt me. I’ll give you a signal, and then I’ll give you a cue.”

You pursed your lips. “Interrupt you how?” 

“Surprise me,” he said, smirking and shrugging. “When I raise and swirl my drink like this—” he pretended to hold a glass by his ear and gave his wrist a spin “—that’s your prompt to wait for your cue. It’ll be around 8:30.”

You nodded. “And the cue?” 

“Interrupt me when I say ‘always, always.’”

“Got it,” you said. And maybe it was the boredom of a long shift, or the curiosity surrounding an attractive man, but you couldn’t help but ask, “how many times have you done this?” 

He looked at you for a moment—really looked at you. His eyes sized up your strength as if the answer could make you collapse. Then, he leaned in close with a mischievous grin. “This? Too many times to count,” he said lowly. “To this friend of mine? Only twice.” 

You leaned in too. Your proximity to his cool made you forget you were a citrusy mess in a frumpy uniform. “What’s tonight’s occasion?” 

The man shook his head, smiling at an inside joke between him and himself. “The kid managed to find himself a girl.” 

“Out of his league, then,” you guessed. 

“Big time,” he said, tilting his head as he studied you all over again. “You catch on quick.” 

“Comes with the territory,” you said, gesturing to the bar top.

He shook his head again—small but firm. “You’d be surprised.” 

You bit your lip at the compliment and tried to school your expression back into its soulless customer service mode. But the man had already seen right through you, and his eyes were making a conscious decision to settle on your lips. 

“Tell me,” He said as his gaze flitted up to meet yours again. “What am I drinking tonight?”

This time it was your gaze that wavered. You let your eyes drop and scanned him in all the same ways he’d been casing you all evening. He was classy with an edge—unhurried and deliberate with every move he made. Someone like that liked to sip their spirits, and they liked to sip them slow. 

“Whiskey neat,” you said confidently. “James Bond? Or Frank Sinatra?”

He blinked at you in slow awe. “Sinatra,” he said, humming in approval as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. He thumbed through his assets before sliding a card across the bar with ease. “And keep ‘em coming.” 

You took the card and spun around, turning your back to him as you logged into your register. You thought you were being discreet when you flipped the stainless steel over to get a peek at his name but—

“Rusty,” he called, causing you to still. Smugness was evident in his tone. “I go by Rusty.” 

You took one look at his full legal name before turning back around to face him with a grin. “Suits you better.” 

The bar had grown busy. Polos morphed into blazers branded with Alma maters, nightfall brought in a new crowd of trust-funded offspring, and Rusty remained a breath of fresh air in a sea of rich trash.

You loved catching him in the corner of your eye. 

He was a vicarious relief in the face of your forced composure, and a sympathetic witness to every soul-crushing guest interaction this evening. 

Rusty would meet your gaze whenever someone said something crass. He’d chuckle into his hand whenever someone said something dumb, and he’d narrow his eyes at every inappropriate quip thrown your way. Every secret smile shared between the two of you was like doing a shot of Espolón—it warmed you from the inside out and left you buzzing like an alarm.

“He’s married,” Rusty insisted, nodding subtly toward the burly man who’d just commented on the size of your tits at the end of the bar. 

You turned your head—

“Don’t look,” Rusty said, shaking his head. “You won’t find a ring. He’s smart enough not to wear the ring—which isn’t saying much—but he wasn’t smart enough to take his wife’s photo out of his wallet.” 

“How did you even see that?” You asked, blinking in surprise. 

“Life’s all about the details, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. 

He was too charming and too handsome; too witty, and too debilitating. You forgot yourself every time you locked eyes.

So when Rusty’s friend finally arrived, you couldn’t hide your visible disappointment. 

You no longer had him all to yourself. 

“Rusty!”

The brown-haired man who called his name was closer in age to Rusty than you expected. He hustled over to the bar in a hurry, far less calm and collected than his counterpart. 

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” he said as he stopped in his tracks, pausing just to look Rusty up and down “Oh. You look great!” 

“And you look late,” Rusty replied, unimpressed. His smile melted away as he transformed into a stern mentor right before your eyes, but he still shot you a knowing glance. “Before we manage time—”

“‘—we can manage nothing else.’ I know,” the new arrival said, lowering his head before pulling out his chair and taking a seat. “I know. But I’ve been better lately! I swear, whenever you and Danny are around, it’s like the universe conspires to make me look bad.”

“You don’t look bad,” Rusty admitted, nodding at his attire approvingly. “Just immature and irresponsible.” 

The man stared at him, unblinking, before turning to look at you. “Do you see this? Do you see how he treats me?” 

You startled at the direct address. Leave it to one of Rusty’s friends to be the only other person to make you feel human all day. 

“Well,” you said sheepishly. “You were late.”

He raised his hands in defeat. “What is this, everybody pick on Linus day? Do you always have to find somebody to gang up on me with?” 

Damn… poor guy didn’t even know the half of it. 

You sent a glance toward Rusty, who immediately turned away from you with barely contained composure. 

“Any particular reason for why you had to get me here face-to-face?” Rusty asked before pointedly checking his watch.

“You have to promise not to laugh at me,” ‘Linus’ prefaced, pointing at him. “And you have to buy me a drink first.” 

“Fine,” Rusty said, sighing. “Give the pretty lady your order.” And he gestured to you with a wink. 

Your face heated up at the words as you eyed Linus expectantly. 

“Actually, wait,” Rusty said, holding his hand out in front of Linus. His smirk grew as he looked at you. “She has a thing.” 

“A thing?” Linus asked. 

You shrugged as you looked him over the same way you’d assessed Rusty. Linus was all boyish charm and steadfast naivety. He didn’t have the same style and confidence as Rusty, but he looked put together and ready to evolve. 

“It’s when I tell you that your drink of choice is a rum and coke,” you said carefully. It’s the drink he probably tried once at a college party and hadn’t betrayed since. “But you’ve outgrown Bacardi or Captain, so you try a new rum every time you order one.”

Linus’s eyes widened in surprise. He turned to Rusty with parted lips. “Did she just?” 

“Uh-huh,” Rusty said proudly. He leaned his elbow on the bar and rested his chin on the palm of his hand. Awe wouldn’t leave his eyes as he looked at you. 

“Jack Daniels,” you said, grinning as you tapped on the counter in front of Rusty. Your smile morphed into something less weighted as you turned back to Linus. “And a Flora de Caña Coke.”

“Can you make that a double?” Linus asked with a hopeful wince. 

Rusty raised an eyebrow at Linus. “You in trouble or something?” 

Linus snorted. “Not yet.” 

You checked on a few other guests before starting on the drinks, and came back to Rusty and Linus with their orders. Linus took a heavy gulp out of his glass as soon as you set it down. 

“Oh,” he said, holding out his drink to stare at it. “This is really good.” 

Rusty raised his own glass to his lips and stared at you from above the rim. He took a long sip. “She is,” he said. 

But before you could address his comment, a new wave of rowdy men walked over to the bar. “Duty calls,” you said, grimacing.

“Break a leg?” Linus offered, earning a disapproving head shake from Rusty. 

You walked over to the impatient fingers drumming on the other end of the bar top, still listening closely:

“Alright kid, spit it out,” is all you heard before the sound of Rusty’s voice got drowned out by talks of ski trips and boat purchases. 

You barely greeted the next guest before you heard Rusty break out into a loud, childish giggle that was anything but cool.

Somehow, that made him even cooler. 

The signal came at 8:27pm. 

You excused yourself from the new group of assholes who’d taken turns making not-so-subtle jokes at your expense, and settled into a spot near Rusty and Linus. 

The two were huddled closely and Linus’s gaze was intense. You tried your best to make out the conversation without getting too close and blowing your cover. 

“You go too slow and she might lose focus,” Rusty explained in a low mumble, talking with his free hand. “You go too fast and you might lose her completely. It’s all about consistency and tempo.”

“But what if she—”

“That never means what you think it should,” Rusty said, cutting him off. “If she’s receptive to what you’re already doing, don’t change a damn thing.” 

Linus nodded once. Then he nodded again. “What about my hands?” 

“What about them?” 

“Where do they go?” He asked in a hushed whisper. 

Rusty looked like he was about to laugh all over again. “What do you usually do with them?” 

“Don’t be a dick,” Linus whined. 

“You’re telling me that you don’t know how she likes to be—“

“I do,” Linus gritted in between his teeth. “But this angle is new.” 

Rusty sighed. “They go where she wants you: where she trembles, where she sucks you in, and where she aches.” 

The topic of discussion almost made you drop a martini glass. 

Luckily, Linus was too occupied with his own embarrassment to notice. His entire face burned bright red. “That was a bit much,” he said weakly. 

“Unbelievable…” Rusty mumbled, huffing as he pressed his drink up against his temple. “Did you want my help or not?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Linus said hurriedly. “Anything else?” 

Rusty sent you a glance so subtle, you would’ve missed it in a blink. It was all the confirmation you needed that your cue was coming. 

“When she’s close…” he said to Linus, leaning in closer.

“Yeah?” 

“And you’ve got her on your tongue…”

“Yeah?” Linus said shyly. 

“Always, always—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” you cut in, sending Linus a sympathetic smile as you leaned across the bar to get ahead of the noise. You turned to Rusty with as much seriousness as you could muster. “Are you the owner of a 1963 Ford Falcon Futara?” 

Rusty’s eyes lit up with genuine surprise. “Uh-huh,” he said, which was far more flirtatious than concerned. 

“The valet office is urgently requesting your presence,” you said, pointing in the direction toward the offices and studies. 

Rusty stood up. Linus reached for his sleeve. 

“Oh, c’mon,” Linus pleaded. “You can’t leave me hanging like this. Not now—not again.”

Rusty gestured to you with his hand. “It’s urgent,” he said. 

“But—

The clock hanging above the bar chimed twice to signal the half hour. 

“Shit,” Linus cussed underneath his breath. 

Rusty patted him on the shoulder. “Tell me how it went tomorrow. I’ll still be in town,” he said as he pushed his chair in. 

Linus watched him with a solemn nod. 

“To the left?” Rusty asked you, gesturing toward the offices with his thumb. 

You nodded, Rusty left, and Linus groaned. 

“I’ve gotta head out too,” Linus said with a sigh. “Dinner with my girlfriend’s parents.”

“Break a leg?” you offered. 

Linus snorted as he pulled out his wallet. “For you,” he said, sliding a $50 bill across the bar. “Thanks for the rec.”

You took the tip with a guilty smile. You almost wanted to give it back, but Linus was off with a wave and a nervous grin before you could even say a word. 

Thankfully, the bar’s patrons dwindled in Rusty’s absence. With only a handful of customers left to serve and a 12 hour shift on its last legs, you had nothing better to do than replay your interactions over with Rusty in your head. 

If you didn’t still have Rusty’s credit card, you might've assumed that this whole night had been a figment of your imagination. Big tippers? Hot, funny guys? A man that sipped his drink like he’d rather be sipping you? 

It was a far-fetched fever dream. 

So when you finally spotted Rusty’s leisurely stroll back toward the bar, you let out a sigh of relief. Thirty minutes without him and the bar had managed to make you forget you were a person again.

“Before you lump me in with all the other guys that have been harassing you all night,” Rusty said as he sat back down. “I didn’t know my conversation would stray that far left.” 

“So he doesn’t usually ask you for sex advice?” You asked with a smile you couldn’t hide. 

Rusty shook his head in slow disbelief. “No, just on everything else.”

“I would say he’s lucky to have you but…” you said, wincing. 

“But I did just convince you to mess with him for me,” Rusty said, eyeing you sheepishly. “If it helps, he always pulls through. Kid’s great under pressure.” 

You pretended to think it over, tilting your head from side to side. “It helps a little,” you said half-heartedly.

“What if I told you I spent the last half hour making phone calls and cancelling plans so that I could catch up with him tomorrow?” He asked, grinning at your theatrics. “Does that help?” 

“It does,” you said. “And It’s cute,” you added, before you could stop yourself. 

Rusty’s smile grew. “I’ll take cute.” 

A comfortable silence settled between you two, and neither of you moved to break it. Even the chatter of the guests faded into the background as you eyed each other across the bar, gazes slow and curious.  

You were getting used to Rusty’s attention now. The heat of his stare, the devotion that simmered beneath his words, and the safety of his presence. He wasn’t the first charming man to catch your eye on the job, but he was the most interesting—and the most genuine. 

And then there was the matter of his advice. The advice that made your eyes flicker between his strong hands and his full lips. 

They go where she wants you: where she trembles, where she sucks you in, and where she aches. 

What else had he been about to say?

You bit your lip at the thought. 

“Something on your mind?” Rusty asked. But his eyes flickered with something darker—something knowing and desperate. 

You could ask him… 

“I was wondering,” you said quietly, more quiet than you’d been all night. 

Rusty lifted an eyebrow as he leaned in closer. But the bar was still a bar, and it separated you two like a clear dividing line. 

This was a job—a job with rules you had to follow, which meant that acting on sexual tension with handsome guests was a huge violation. 

You released a working-class sigh and lowered your eyes to look down at the bar counter. “If you wanted another drink?” 

Rusty didn’t say anything at first. 

Then he hummed. 

“I should close out,” he said as he tapped on the counter. 

You looked up at him, hoping you were doing a decent job at concealing your disappointment.

“Need to find a hotel for the night,” Rusty further explained. He met your eyes with a reassuring smile, still holding his share of the chemistry between you two, and it almost made his words sound like an invitation. 

You hoped it was. 

“Got it,” you said quickly, turning away to ring up his bill and think through logistics. You’d be fine as long as no one saw you leave with him. Meeting up with a man you’d just met at his hotel room wasn’t the most romantic experience you’ve ever had but—

“After dinner,” Rusty called after you, as if he could read your mind. “I’d get dinner first.” 

You chuckled as you rang him up. Then, you returned to him with his credit card, a pen, and two receipts. 

Rusty’s fingers brushed up against yours as he reached for the pen. He didn’t bother to hide his smirk about it, maintaining eye contact as he scribbled his signature onto the paper. 

“Got something for you,” he said before pulling out his wallet. He retrieved a $100 bill and dropped it on top of the receipt, shaking his head sternly once your eyes widened in surprise.

“But—”

“You did a job for me. The bit about the car was genius, by the way,” Rusty said with a twinkle in his eye. “You earned it.” 

You looked between the money and Rusty, not saying a word. 

“And it has nothing to do with my pending dinner plans,” he said pointedly. “The money was always on the table. You accepted the job before I could offer it up.” 

You blinked. “So I just suck at negotiating?” 

A smile played at Rusty’s lips as he shrugged. “It’s cute.” 

Your face heated up at the words, and a goofy smile toyed at your lips. Rusty could be yours for the night. Just one confirmation, and you could be chest to chest; skin to skin. 

“Last question,” you said before biting your lip. 

Rusty’s eyes fell to the movement. “The one from before?” He asked as if caught in a trance. 

You nodded, and his eyes struggled to meet yours again. 

“What were you going to tell Linus before I interrupted you?” You asked shyly. “Always, always…”

Rusty’s lips quirked up into a half-smile, amused and confident. He stared at you before tilting his head with a small shrug. “I could show you,” he said smoothly. 

You gripped onto the counter as the words registered, lips parting at the proposition. 

But Rusty only continued to grin at you, smiling as if he hadn’t just interrupted the careful dance you’d both been doing around your shared attraction all night. 

“Are you sure?” You blurted out, gesturing to your stuffy uniform. Freshening up for sex was one thing. Freshening up for what he had in store was another. “I’ve been on my feet all day and I smell like Cadillac Margaritas.” 

Rusty shook his head. “You’ve yet to name a con, sweetheart.”

Your heart raced with desperate anticipation. “But—”

“No more negotiating,” Rusty said, stern but sweet. “Tell me what you want, and make me work for it.” 

You stared at him with a combination of shock and lust before standing tall in your decision. “I want you to show me,” you confirmed. The words came out shaky, but firm.

Rusty stood up. And with the new leverage, he leaned across the bar to hover over your ear. “Atta-girl,” he said lowly. 

The heat of his breath sent a shiver down your spine. 

He backed away as quickly as he’d made the move, and tapped on the receipt before sliding it over to you. Then he was off with a wave and a cheeky grin.

You waited until he turned the corner to look down at the customer copy of the receipt, and grinned at the neat handwriting. 

Meet me at Delilah’s diner 

Text when you leave 

You arrived at Delilah’s diner after a prolonged shift changeover, a fight with a bathroom sink, and a change of clothes. The sundress hidden in the back of your work locker had been waiting for this moment, and tonight its dreams were finally coming true. 

Your heart skipped a beat when you spotted Rusty near the back of the parking lot, half-seated on the back of his Ford like a man watching ships roll in from the dock. His face lit up at the sight of you pulling in next to him. You barely turned off your engine before he was opening your door and offering his hand to help you step out. 

“Glad you could make it,” he said, squeezing your hand as you stepped both feet onto solid ground. 

You could only stare up at him as a new wave of excitement washed over you. Nothing was keeping you apart anymore. Nothing was keeping you from this gorgeous view of him—tall and sturdy and gentle. 

“Well I had to see the Falcon Futara,” you said, already stepping closer to his vehicle as he shut your door. The body was chipped and could use a good cleaning, but you liked seeing vintage cars well-loved. 

Rusty dropped your hand in favor of leaning against his passenger side door. He crossed his arms over his chest as he grinned at you. “You were eyeing me when I walked in,” he said. 

“Everyone was,” you said, waving him off. “You have that effect.”

You leaned forward and cupped your hands on the window to peek in. The interior was more well kept than the outside. Pristine, aquamarine seats gleamed in the few streetlights overhead. 

“You do too,” he said easily. “Wit… charm… a good sense of humor… that unteachable thing that draws people in… You just have to own it.” 

You shifted your gaze to him and found nothing but earnestness in his eyes. He looked back at you as if his words were obvious, as if they were less of a line to get you to undress and more of an objective truth that couldn’t be disputed. 

Somehow, out of all the things he’d said that evening, this was the one that tipped you over the edge. You weren’t going to get through dinner if he kept talking like that. 

Rusty raised an eyebrow at your silence, but he didn’t press. “Hungry?” He asked instead. 

You stepped closer, leaning into his personal space without the bar as a barrier—or any of the other excuses you would’ve given yourself to avoid going after what you wanted. 

“I could eat,” you said, flickering your gaze between his eyes and the fullness of his lips. “What about you?”

Rusty grinned, nodding soft and slow. He snuck a hand around your waist and pulled you in closer. “Starving,” he mumbled before closing the gap between you and finally pressing his lips against yours. 

You gasped against him, melting into his embrace as your lips sparked with connection. Rusty reciprocated with a delighted hum before cupping your cheek and controlling the pace. 

He moved sensual and patient like a decadent waltz that left you reeling with every twist and turn. You met him with every brush of his tongue and every hungry press forward; every tilt of his head and every catch of his breath. He tasted like lightning and he felt like thunder. Your body burned underneath his touch, and your heart trembled with the weight of your chemistry. 

You needed more. Here. Now. 

“Rusty,” you said breathlessly, raising your hand to his chest as you pulled away. “How badly do you care about the condition of your seats?” 

Rusty shook his head as his thumb rubbed circles over your waist. “Not as badly as I want this.” 

So the decision was made. 

Rusty opened the passenger side door and craned the seat back; you crawled into the backseat and he followed. 

But you couldn’t contain your laughter when he bumped his head on the roof in the process. 

“Get your laughs in now,” he said, glaring at you playfully. 

“It’s cute,” you promised as you wrapped your arms around his neck. 

Rusty wasted no time sliding you into his lap, hitching up the thin fabric of your dress in the process. “You and that word,” he mumbled before connecting your lips together all over again. 

This kiss was more desperate. 

One hand gripped your waist and the other gripped your thigh. Rusty’s passion made your legs spread and your hips rock. You couldn’t help but squirm—couldn’t help but whimper. 

“That’s it,” Rusty said against you, grinding up to meet your desperate movements. 

The feeling of his arousal made you buzz. There was only the warmth of his tongue, the heat of his words, and the pleasure of his touch. One kiss, and you were already seconds away from melting. 

Rusty’s hand slid up your thigh, bunching up the fabric of your dress further as his hand dipped underneath. Another gasp spilled out of you, needy and urgent. 

“Love those sounds you make,” Rusty said, humming as he pulled away to press his lips against your neck. 

You whined, lolling your head to the side. 

“Here,” Rusty said like he was marking a spot. His lips and nose tickled against your neck as they grazed across the sensitive skin, breath cool and hot all at once. 

You pulled him closer, running your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “There,” you confirmed. 

Rusty moved upwards, pressing kisses along your jaw until he hit the jackpot. 

“Here,” he hummed as he hovered over your ear. 

One kiss behind your earlobe had you seeing stars. 

Rusty’s resounding chuckles dulled in comparison to the sound of your racing heart, and the feeling of your pulsing arousal. 

“Where else?” He asked next, as if his fingers hadn’t been inching closer to where you needed him most. 

You struggled to focus your eyes on him, but he looked just as gone as you did. He stared back at you with red-bitten lips and dilated pupils. He stared back at you like it pained him more to show this much restraint. 

“Show me,” he teased lowly, pinching your waist with his other hand. 

You reached for the hand on your thigh with a shy grin and pressed it against the cotton of your underwear. The feeling of his fingers made you throb against him, and the awareness of your wet arousal made you ache. 

“Now why didn’t I think of that?” He asked, grinning wider when you responded with a displeased pout. 

“Rusty,” you urged, rolling your hips into his hand. It gave you just enough pressure to spark a new wave of pleasure. You hissed in the face of it, riding the wave with another desperate grind. 

“Cute,” he said, chuckling when you leaned down to bury your head into his shoulder. The butterflies in your gut were starting to grow vicious. 

“Want you,” you mumbled, rocking forwards. “Need you.”

You felt Rusty’s breath hitch—felt him falter in the face of your transparency. 

So you exploited it. 

“I’ve been thinking about your tongue for the last hour and a half,” you said breathily, picking up your head to meet his gaze with lidded eyes. 

Rusty’s mouth parted slightly. “Yeah?” He said weakly. 

“I’ve been patient enough,” you said as you tugged at the sleeves of his jacket. “Don’t you think?”

Rusty nodded fast and leaned forward to help shrug it off. “Yes ma’am.” 

The rest happened in a flash. 

One moment you were upright, and the next moment you were splayed out on aquamarine seats, legs spread and dangling in the air. Your dress was left to pool around you like a cloud of abandoned restraint. 

Rusty slipped between your legs to kiss your forehead, and then your lips. His hands pulled at the straps of your dress and your bra on his way down, exposing your breasts to the cool air as his lips met your neck, and then your chest. 

“Gorgeous,” he mumbled against you as he pressed another kiss in between the valley of your breasts. 

You shivered underneath all of his devotion. The slow trail of fingers along your side made you whine, and the gentle pinch of your budding nipples made you gasp. Rusty turned you into putty before even getting to the main course. 

“I can’t wait anymore,” you said, huffing beneath him. You didn’t care how eager or desperate you sounded. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, kissing down your stomach. His hands moved to your legs and pressed them forward, angling your hips upwards for better access. “I know.” 

Deciding to put you out of your misery, Rusty finally pressed his lips where you wanted him most—and not even the barrier of cotton could dull the electricity that shot up your spine. 

Rusty met your eyes as he kissed you through your underwear. The blue in his eyes turned stormy as you trembled, gasping for more. 

“Can’t wait to taste you too,” he said, voice already wrecked. 

You didn’t have any more words left. Squirming was the best you could do with all of your wanting. 

But Rusty was done teasing you. He slid your panties off of you with hungry speed and dived back in, finally, finally pressing his skillful tongue to your wet, hot desire. 

“Oh,” you moaned, tilting your head all the way back as slick warmth enveloped you. Your legs spread wider, your vision blurred, and your back arched. 

Rusty took his time exploring you. His tongue slid flat and wide across all of your intricate details, narrowing down the places that made you sing. 

“Rusty,” you slurred in an octave you hardly ever reached. Your head went hazy with each lick. Each time he brushed against your clit, your ears rang with bliss. 

You almost didn’t know if you could handle having all of his attention there. The slow, consistent pressure of his tongue already had you twitching and throbbing, and the grounding grip of his hands on your thighs already had you undone. 

Your breathy gasps and pitchy moans sounded far away, buried somewhere underneath the intensity of your pleasure. The car rocked with your hips and its windows fogged over like your barely tethered mind. All you could think about was Rusty and his tongue, and the vibrations from each of his satisfied hums as you lost yourself to bliss. 

And then—

“Fuck!” 

The word flew out of you without warning. But you couldn’t be bothered to think about decency, or the sound of Rusty’s resounding chuckles, because the man was sucking your clit between his lips like a lollipop.

You scrambled for something—anything for leverage. Your fingers fumbled around for a nearby seatbelt and gripped onto it for dear life. 

You never doubted that Rusty knew what he was talking about, but you hadn’t expected him to be this good. 

Rusty smoothed one hand up your thigh and brought the other one to your lower stomach. You whimpered at the slight pressure in your core, and moaned as he sucked you in with the rhythmic massage of his tongue. 

Forget floating, you were flying. 

“Rusty,” you cried out, barely holding on. Your ears began to buzz. The world faded away. 

Rusty hummed against you—confirmation and permission all at once. And the sight of his smug gaze was all you needed to reach your peak. 

Your eyes rolled back. Everything went silent. 

And then you came crashing down—hard and fast. 

You didn’t hear everything that left your mouth, but you knew it was filthy and earnest. Every nerve in your body ached with euphoria as you writhed against him, hips bucking, legs locking, and core throbbing. You were a wreck. A beautiful, blissed-out mess made from a charming, eager man. 

And he wasn’t done with you. 

Your moans of pleasure turned into achy whimpers as Rusty lapped up the aftermath of your orgasm. 

“Ready?” He asked, only pulling away enough to speak. 

Your arms shook as you tried to prop yourself up, eyeing him with wide disbelief. 

“You wanted me to show you,” he said pointedly, lifting his head up to smirk at you. Hunger still danced in his eyes. 

“But…” you said, furrowing his eyebrows. Your mind was still rebooting. “What?” 

Rusty smoothed his hands down your legs as he grinned. “When she’s close… and you’ve got her on your tongue… always, always be prepared to take her there… All. Over. Again.”

Your favorite night of the week is Thursday. 

Thursday Nights mean your sex hotline shifts are full of Rusty’s quips, and the incessant sound of his snacking, and the freedom to do chores around your bedroom without hiding it behind fake moans and sexy lies. 

“Okay,” you say into the phone, trying your best to juggle the receiver between your ear and your shoulder as you haul your suitcase onto your bed. “Best pickup lines. Go.” 

“I’ve never needed to use one of those,” Rusty says through an amused huff. 

“We get it. You’re good-looking,” you say, rolling your eyes as you flip your empty suitcase open.

You’ve got a flight to catch in less than 6 hours; an Italian villa awaits. Your friend only owns it for one week out of the year, and you’re only staying in it because their boss wouldn’t let them take vacation time during that one week out of the year, but it’s an Italian villa nonetheless. 

You should’ve been done with packing hours ago, but it’s easy to get swept up in Rusty Day after a rough week of intense clients and not-so-pleasant calls. You never asked why Rusty decided to start booking the entirety of your Thursday night shifts for the last month now, but you’re sure it has something to do with The Call. And as much as you’ve been using the memory of that call to fuel the majority of your private time fantasies as of late, you know better than to interrupt the careful dance you’ve both been doing around it. Having him around as good, innocent company is enough. 

“Everyone at least has some kind of opener, though,” you continue, not backing down.  

“Alright,” Rusty concedes. “Sometimes I approach a woman with ‘do I know you from somewhere?’ Or ‘have we met before?’” 

You raise an eyebrow. “And that works?” 

“Most of the time.”

“Ugh,” you groan. “You must be really hot.”

“It’s a good line,” he defends as a smile shines through his words. 

“No,” you say, laughing. “Not at all.” 

“Then you do better,” he says. “I’m waiting.” 

“Do you remember who you’re talking to?” You say, gesturing toward your phone’s reciever as if he can see you. 

“I remember,” Rusty says, sighing. “Trust me. I remember.” 

You bite your lip as you try to ignore the weight of his words. “If I have a shy client—”

“—In real life,” Rusty interrupts. “If I wasn’t your client, and you were trying to hit on me, what would you say?” 

You hesitate—which is your first mistake. Hesitations are different from pauses, and hesitating in front of Rusty is equivalent to revealing your hand in a game of cards.

“Don’t tell me…” he begins, humor spilling from his words. 

“Maybe I just like to be approached,” you try as you focus on the bigger task in front of you. Your bed is cluttered with miscellaneous clothes and travel essentials you picked out ahead of time. The only trouble is making it all fit into the suitcase. 

“I could respect that,” Rusty says fairly. “If that were the whole truth.” 

You suck your teeth as you reach for your first folded stack of clothing and drop it into your luggage. “Entertaining men feels like work sometimes,” you respond. “My job gets in the way of dating too.” 

“That all makes perfect sense,” Rusty says, humming. “But I’m still waiting for the real reason.” 

You drop another pile of clothing into the suitcase and try to get them to lay neatly. “Real reason for what?” You ask, knowing that acting dumb never works on Rusty. It’s your only card left to play, though. 

“I would like to know the real reason why the woman who treats every single one of our phone calls as a chance to make me squirm, is being dodgy about the very idea of flirting with someone in public,” Rusty clarifies. 

Well. That’s as clear cut as it gets. 

You stall as much as you can, adding a few more of your bulky belongings to the suitcase until it’s full enough to move onto all of the built in desperate-measure-compartments. 

“Fine,” you say, sighing as you unzip a new area of your luggage. “I’m not as bold in real life. The line between flirting and coming on too strong is lost on me now, so I try to play it safe.”

“And…” Rusty prompts, always wanting more. 

“And,” you mumble begrudgingly. “If I really have eyes for someone, sometimes I get a little nervous and don’t really know what to say, so I’m lucky if I can even get words out at all,” you ramble. “Happy?”

Rusty doesn’t say anything. You purse your lips to contain your own bashfulness as you unceremoniously shove more items into the compartments. 

But then you hear it—a low, muffled squeak. 

You stop what you’re doing, straighten up, and clutch onto the phone handle with both hands. “Rusty,” you say, jaw dropped as your eyes grow wide with realization. “Are you laughing at me?”

Rusty’s suffocated chuckles turn into full blown laughter, childish and clumsy and giddy. Each laugh is like its own syllable—and it’s the exact kind of thing you’d usually have a quip about—but the sound of it is just too damn endearing, so the only thing you can bring yourself to do is smile in the face of it. 

You’ve never heard him laugh like that before. 

Come to think of it, Rusty has been acting uncharacteristically unguarded all night.

“I just… did not expect that,” Rusty says, interrupting your thoughts in between what sounds suspiciously like giggles. 

“Mhm,” you say, going for weary, but you can barely hide your own amusement. 

And that just makes Rusty laugh all over again. 

This time, you join him. Even though you say, “It’s really not funny,” in between your own giggles. 

“You’re right,” he says once he calms down. “It’s adorable.” 

You make a frustrated sound, but it’s mostly to cover up the way his tone rumbles through you—mocking in all the right ways and truthful in all the ways he shouldn’t be. 

“I would pay to see that,” he says wistfully. 

You shake your head to get rid of the butterflies in your stomach and go back to packing with even less regard. You’d pay to see him laugh—pay to see the shape and size of his smile and the way his eyes crinkle—but that’s not the kind of thing you should say to a client and mean. 

“Careful,” Rusty says, humming. “I might have to take your silence as a confession.” 

Huffing, you zip another compartment shut and try your best to ignore the way his words make your chest tighten. “I miss when you weren’t this comfortable around me.” 

Rusty snorts. “No you don’t.” 

“No I don’t,” you admit, sighing as you assess the remainder of your belongings. You’ve made good headway, but the rest is going to take some maneuvering. 

“What are you doing over there?” Rusty asks for the first time tonight. Five hours of conversation and you’ve both managed to avoid small talk until now. That had to be some kind of record. 

You look over at the nearest item in your queue—a small, travel sized vibrator. 

“It’s maybe TMI,” you say, wincing. The irony isn’t lost on you. 

“I think we’re past that,” Rusty says. And after a month of swapping embarrassing sex stories and mortifying secrets, he’s right. 

“I’m trying to figure out the best place to bury a sex toy in my suitcase without getting exposed by TSA,” you admit. 

Rusty hums. “Airlines do tend to have a policy about vibrating luggage.” 

“I didn’t even think about it going off,” you mumble as you reach for the toy and eye its battery compartment. 

“How loud is it?”

Instead of answering, you hold out the phone receiver to your weapon-wielding hand and press the vibrator’s power button. The toy comes to life with a loud, rumbly buzz that thrums and jumps in your palm, dancing and singing through an 8-count until you cut off its performance and place the phone back to your ear.

“What’s the verdict?” You ask. 

“I used to have a car that sounded like that,” Rusty recalls. “Insurance totaled it.”

A snort flies out of you before you can stop yourself. “It’s quieter against skin,” you defend, already moving to twist the cap of the battery compartment off. 

Rusty makes a noise of recognition—and that should be that. But then—

“How quiet?” He asks, just like before. But the words hold more weight this time. They make your heart race and your guard slip. 

“Are you asking me for a demonstration, or are you actually curious?” You ask, biting your lip. 

“A little bit of both,” Rusty says. But you need more than that if this is headed in the direction it feels like it’s going. 

“Rusty,” you warn as you sit down on your bed, packing forgotten as your toy lies eager in your hand. 

Rusty doesn’t say anything, and it’s been a while since these sorts of pauses have settled between you—heavy and full of new territory. Excitement and anxiousness start to swell in your chest. This feels different than the first time, and even more delicate, but you’re not sure why. 

After a few more seconds of silence, Rusty sighs. “I’ve been thinking…” he says carefully. 

“Sounds like you,” you say without skipping a beat. 

Rusty sucks his teeth. “I’ve been thinking about that phone call,” he clarifies.

Your stomach flips in the best way. “Me too,” you admit quietly. 

“All the time,” Rusty says, groaning. 

“All the time,” you agree, sighing in relief. 

“So now I’m thinking…”

You close your eyes as he trails off, lips already fitting around the next sentence. 

“…About the sounds I’ll make with my toy pressed up against me,” you guess, each word breathy and thick. They’re automatic, like you’ve been thinking them all along. Maybe you have. “And how much you wish it were you instead?”

“Uh-huh,” he says as he lets out a long breath. “And I don’t have an excuse this time.”

“You’ve never needed one,” you point out. 

“Well then how else am I supposed to hide how much I want you?” 

Now it’s your turn for quiet, lips parting at the sheer audacity of his words. You’ve had men confess they’re undying love to you on the job, proposing to you in easy, mid-orgasmic rambles in the heat of the moment, but Rusty’s few, simple words make you giddier than they should. 

In your defense, you haven’t been completely naive about your little work crush on Rusty. All of that intimacy and vulnerability… it’s easy to get your wires crossed, especially when good chemistry is involved. But it’s also never affected your work like this before. 

“I get the appeal now,” Rusty says in your silence. “It’s fun tripping you up.”

You purse your lips. “Is this your idea of revenge for all of my teasing?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s more like… reciprocity.” 

“Reciprocity,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. 

“Mhm,” he ensures. “I’m simply meeting your efforts with the equivalent of my own.”

Memories of Rusty’s delayed orgasm flood your mind, and pool between your legs. “Equivalent or equal?” You ask, sucking in your breath as you squeeze your bare thighs together. Just like before, you aren’t wearing much—just another oversized t-shirt, but you’ve got something on underneath. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” Rusty chuckles. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Relief washes over you, but it’s taken away in an instant. 

“I want you to come,” he says slowly. “I want you to come, so that I can hear the way your pretty voice strains and wavers while you unravel.”

The firm tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. You clutch onto your bedsheets for some semblance of composure. 

“And then I want you to come again, and keep coming, until my name is the only sound you can make,” Rusty continues, deadly gentle like a binding promise. “How’s that sound?” 

“Like I’m already clearing my bed,” you rush out as you start to move some of your belongings out of the way. “How do you want me?” 

“How do you like it?” 

The question makes you moan. Your nights are full of different men ranting and raving about all the ways they plan to ravish you, but hardly any of them have bothered to ask about your own preferences. That’s the job, though. You know your role, and you enjoy playing up the fantasy for the right price, but it’s nice not having to pretend with Rusty. 

So you don’t think twice before turning around and sinking your knees onto the bed. Carefully, you crawl until you’re somewhere near the center and far enough away from all of your belongings. The phone cord extends just far enough to rest in the sheets next to you and, with one wide reach, you’re able to press a button on the base of your landline and put the call on speakerphone. Natural static from Rusty’s line fills your bedroom and sparks the anticipation swelling between your legs. 

“When I use this toy,” you say as you sit up on your knees, “I like to grind on it.” 

Rusty hums in appreciation. “Paint the picture for me.”

“I usually slip a pillow between my thighs,” you say as you do just that, grabbing the one closest to you. You welcome the familiar spread of your hips with an easy sigh as you get settled, sitting back into a comfortable straddle. “And I dip the vibrator inside of my underwear, ‘cause it’s more likely to stay where I like it that way.” 

“Smart girl,” Rusty rasps, his own voice strained amongst shuffling of his own. The praise warms you from the inside out and your hips buck in approval. 

Unsurprisingly, your fingertips are met with wetness as you slip them underneath the cotton doting your bottom half. You use your own arousal to get the toy slick, and shiver as the cool silicone slides against your clit. 

“When you tell me to,” you say slyly. “I’ll turn it on. And I’ll rock my hips until you tell me to stop. How’s that sound?” 

Rusty groans. “Like the sexiest thing any woman has ever said to me,” he says in awed disbelief. “Do you usually get off like that?” 

“Only when I’m really needy,” you admit. Only when you can’t get someone out of your head, and a pillow is the closest you can get to being the closest you can get with someone you can’t have—someone you shouldn’t want this badly in the first place. 

“Then I won’t keep you waiting,” Rusty obliges. “Turn on your toy, and grind.”

One push of a button sends waves of steady, electric pleasure straight to your core. You gasp as it hits you, hips spreading wider as you melt against your toy and stick a hand out in front of you for stability. 

“That sound. I’ve missed that,” Rusty says before mimicking your gasp, and following it up with a fond chuckle. 

You whine in response—the only sound you can bring yourself to make. This toy isn’t special, or particularly strong. It doesn’t even compare to some of the other tools in your bedside drawer, but today it’s got you too blissed to think. Too buzzed to even move. If you could just have a second to settle, to find your bearings—

“That must feel really good,” Rusty says, both smug and amused. “Is your heart starting to race?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. As if your heartbeat isn’t pounding in your ears and drowning out everything except the low, steady tone of his voice. 

You drop your head as the vibrations continue to spread, and your pleasure continues to build. Heat crawls up your spine and smooths over your skin. 

“She’s speechless,” Rusty observes. “I’ve made my hotline operator speechless.” 

Those words hit your system with a jolt. Your hips jerk, enticing you to press down into your toy and sink further into your pillow’s embrace. The moan that escapes you is unfiltered and indulgent. 

“I could listen to you moan like that all day,” Rusty says, sighing. “But I don’t think you’ll last that long. You might not last past the end of this sentence.” 

“I won’t give you the satisfaction,” you say, voice quivering as you clutch your pillow. “Not yet.” 

Rusty hums. “There she is.” And the words envelop you like a slow embrace. 

This time, you grind down on purpose. Another moan tumbles off of your lips. Inklings of your impending climax begin to settle in your gut, and you welcome it with a small, desperate thrust. 

You usually aren’t this easy to take down. But whatever—it’s fine. Because if you’re going down, Rusty is going down with you.

“In my defense,” you say, panting as you start to find a rhythm, back and forth like a slow, sensual dance. “The thought of you always turns me into a mess.”

Rusty’s breath hitches. And that’s how you know you’ve got him. 

“Always?” Rusty asks. 

“Always,” you promise, and it’s true—even if you’re using this for your own gain. Your legs start to shake as you hold onto the dredges of your composure, but you’ve lost this round. One more whine solidifies it. You’re going to come soon, and you’re going to come hard. 

You still manage to play your pawn. 

“This isn’t the first time I’ve spent the night with my pillow and imagined it was you,” you breathe out, folding over into the cushion as your hips rut. 

Rusty huffs, and then he moans. Desperation coats the sound as more shuffling floods his side of the phone line. “I know what you’re doing,” he says weakly. 

“What do you think I’m doing, Rusty?” You barely squeak out. “Because I think I’m about to come.”

You don’t hang on long enough to hear Rusty’s response. Your orgasm surges through you like one big electric pulse, muscles tightening and pussy throbbing with each surge of ecstasy. You’re loud—and you’re not even trying to put on a show. Not even your pillow can muffle the sound of your wrecked moans and whimpers. 

And it only gets more intense. 

You come down from your peak, heart pounding and head foggy, to be met with the same steady buzz of your demise. It’s too much. It’s—

“I know, baby,” Rusty says softly, voice cutting through all of the noise. “I know.”

You whine as you try to find your bearings, digging your knees further into the bed in an attempt to sit back up. The shift takes some of the pressure off of the toy, and the attention off of your clit, but it does nothing to counteract your building sensitivity. 

“You poor thing,” he says, sighing to hide a smile you just know is there. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“Well, you and my whole floor might’ve heard of it, at least,” you say hoarsely, hands still twitching as you dig your fingers into your pillow.

“It was a good performance,” Rusty says cheekily, when you both know that this is anything but. In fact, all of this would be easier if it was. “But it leaves me with questions.” 

“Like?” You ask, taking the bait. But in your defense, you’re not exactly in your right mind. 

“Like… were your legs shaking?” He asks, words steady and riddled with faux innocence. “Did your eyes roll back? Did you get to that point of total surrender, and let it take over? Or did you squirm, trying to fight back?”

Your face grows hot as excitement starts to swell in your gut all over again. A whine slides off of your lips as you circle your hips, instinctively slipping the toy back against your clit—which is only possible due to the evidence of your own arousal. 

“Ever consider a career in this?” You ask, breath hitching as pleasure greets you again. 

“Making you come?” Rusty asks. “Mmm, I don’t know. The benefits are good, but the salary is horrendous.” 

Something between a laugh and a moan tumbles off of your lips. “At least you’d have a hot boss,” you manage to say as you start to sink forward, body searching for more pressure, and more pleasure. 

“But I heard she can be demanding,” Rusty recalls. 

You smirk as you grind down against the toy, need overcoming the remnants of your over sensitivity. “You like it,” you breathe out. 

“I like it,” Rusty repeats. “I like that she’s a surprisingly good listener, too.”

The praise makes your hips stutter. Vibrations feed your desire and cloud your mind. “I have my moments.” 

“So I’m learning,” he says, and it’s laced with that same grin that you’ve only seen in your fantasies. “I think it’s cute that you haven’t stopped humping your pillow, by the way.” 

You huff as you grind again, begging the deep simmer of your desire to boil over with a desperate pout. You’re too needy for shame, and that knowledge makes you even needier. 

“I figured you’d take the hint and join me,” you say, words strained and breathless. You want to hear his belt unbuckle and his pants unzip. You want to hear his quickened breaths and his rumbly moans. It’s been too long. 

“That’s not going to work on me,” Rusty says. “This is about you.” 

But from the airy rasp in his voice, you know it’s only a matter of time before he caves and touches himself in the name of you. And from there, all you’ll have to do is wait him out. 

“We’ll see,” you hum in between the steady rock of your hips. Between your slippery arousal and the toy’s lifespan, you’re at a disadvantage in friction and power. You need more. You need—

“Tell me,” Rusty says. “Does your toy have more than one setting?”

You don’t know whether to laugh or whine. He’s too smart for his own good, and already too perceptive about all the things that make you tick. 

Rusty chuckles. “I’m gonna take your silence as a yes.” 

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?” you mumble, even though it’s true—even though it turns you on. 

But he doesn’t bother to entertain your poor attempt at diversion. 

“Be a doll and turn it up for me?” he asks cheekily. 

Your hand gravitates to your toy on instinct, fingers slipping into the band of your underwear. “You’re lucky I like you,” you mumble as you fumble for the power button raised beneath the silicone.

“I’m your favorite,” he reminds you, as if you could ever forget. 

One push of a button proves you wrong though, because you forget everything that isn’t the intense, rev of pleasure that surges through you like a lightning bolt. 

“Oh, fuck,” you cuss underneath your breath, fast and involuntary as you fold over yourself. The vibrator persists beneath you with an increased thrum, plucking a series of small, desperate moans from your lips as your head drops to the sheets and your arm wraps your pillow for strength. Need overtakes thought and settles itself underneath your skin like a persisting flame. It’s all-consuming and unrelenting. 

“Aww,” Rusty sympathizes—but his tone couldn’t be any less genuine. “C’mon, I know you can take it.” 

You whimper as your hips buck against your toy. “I can take it,” you say breathlessly—and it’s supposed to be defiant. But the words come out slurred and thick with lust, like a mantra, and all that does is make your head spin and your face hot. 

“I can’t,” Rusty says, groaning as shuffling fills his side of the line. “When you sound like this, I can’t. I can’t even think.” 

A smile graces your lips as you take up a rhythm, hips meeting your pillow with steady thrusts. Each one makes the buzz of your arousal grow louder and deeper. “Knew you’d join me,” you mumble, even though it gets lost within the squeak of your bed and the loud whir of your toy. 

“I never seem to have any restraint when it comes to you,” Rusty mumbles back. But it’s finally followed by a little moan, and a pleasant sigh, and quickened breath. 

That only spurs you on. 

You pick up the pace as pressure starts to build in your core. The climb is coming, you can feel it with each ache and throb of your own desire. 

“That’s it,” Rusty praises, and the rasp in his voice turns you into putty. “You’re close, aren’t you?” 

How’d he—

“The pitch,” he says with heavy breath. “You get pitchy.” 

You whine in the place of words, but you don’t know if it’s out of distaste or desperation. You clutch your pillow harder. Your legs begin to shake. 

“Atta-girl,” Rusty says with a rumbly hum. “I wish you were riding me like that. I wish I was the one making your bed shake.” 

He could hear that? 

“Oh, and your toy isn’t much quieter against skin, just so you know.” 

Fuck. He could definitely hear that.

“I’m just happy to hear you enjoying yourself,” he teases. 

“Rusty,” you whine in protest as you circle your hips, ecstasy threading itself through your veins. Everything aches. Everything feels warm. 

“You’re. So. Cute,” Rusty huffs, and a breathy moan follows. “Will you say my name again? Just like that.” 

The edges of your vision grow fuzzy as you near your climax, getting close to the edge. The world starts to fade away. All you can focus on is the grind of your hips and the promise of bliss. 

“Sweetheart,” Rusty says softly, cutting through to you at your most vulnerable in just the right way. “Please? When you come, I wanna hear it.” 

Something in you snaps. 

Your eyes roll back and your jaw goes slack. Your legs tense and grip tightens. 

“Rusty.”

It’s more of a clumsy squeak than anything substantial, but it’s all you can manage before your ears fill with static and your body tumbles into euphoria. 

Each surge of your orgasm trembles through you with a jolt, like a knot tightening and unfurling over and over again. It spills out of you in moans and whimpers, and enlists your body to writhe and twitch. Pleasure swallows you whole, and stalls on spitting you back out. 

It takes a while for you to come back down to earth. 

You’re met with a well-earned ache in your thighs; a soreness from the spread of your hips; the hollow buzz of your vibrator against your bikini line, from where it slipped in the midst of your trip; and the sound of Rusty’s tired, yet elated breath. 

You should move. You should give your knees a break, and finally turn off your toy. But that last high succeeded in turning you into liquid, and it’s kind of nice sharing this moment with Rusty—both reeling and chests heaving from the aftermath. 

There’s nothing you can do to stop yourself from imagining what it’d be like if he were here right now either. What it’d be like to feel the rise and fall of his chest, and see the lazy satisfaction of your joint effort flushed across his face. 

The thought makes you grow warm all over again. And that’s… that’s probably not a good sign for the state of your ‘little’ work crush. 

“How are we feeling?” Rusty asks loosely, voice worn and weak from the beautiful orgasm you didn’t get to hear. Last time, all of that pleasure had made him quiet. But this time, he’s trying to form words, and you know he’s trying for you. 

So you grin at the sound of him and shove aside your emotional unpacking for later, deciding to readjust the phone receiver closer with a shaky hand instead. 

“Like I can handle one more,” you tease, lying just to rub in your win—but your point is contradicted when a wave of aftershocks move through you and cause your voice to crack. 

Rusty snorts. “Yeah, no,” he says tiredly. “You’re done.”

And he’s right. So you muster up some courage to reach for your toy and turn it off, and then muster up some more courage to straighten out your legs and roll off of your poor pillow. 

Once your back hits the sheets, you look down and survey the damage. Arousal has soaked through your panties and left a sticky mess between your thighs, and a light layer of sweat still glimmers on your skin. You said this the last time, but you haven’t come like this in… 

You slap your hand over your face to stop your thoughts from spiraling. 

“Rusty,” you say in sheer disbelief. 

“Mhm?” He mumbles back. 

You bite your lip as you shake your head. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me.” 

“I told you,” Rusty says, all rasps. “I’m usually on the other side of the teasing.” 

Memories of what you two just did come flooding back, and all you can do is giggle in the face of them. Leftover endorphins coat each chuckle as you say, “That was hot.”

“You are hot,” Rusty says, amusement shining through his exhaustion. “You’re…” he trails off. 

And you just can’t resist. Status quo needs to be restored, after all. 

“Words are hard,” you say sympathetically. 

Rusty groans, and then he shushes you. 

That only makes you laugh harder, but it isn’t long before Rusty joins you with chuckles too. 

“Thank you,” he says after you both settle down again, and you manage to stretch out enough to turn off speakerphone mode in favor of holding the receiver back up to your ear. “Thank you for indulging me. Thank you for letting me make you come… twice.” 

“I’ll just have to get even next time,” you say, fake sighing. 

You don’t think twice about the words… until there’s a pause on Rusty’s end. And it’s the worst kind of pause, because it’s a pause you can’t read. 

You sit up in the face of it, still shaky and achy, and instinctively hold the receiver tighter. The silence doesn’t feel bad, but it doesn’t feel good either. And just when you’re about to ruin your own rule and change the subject entirely, Rusty finally hums—like everything is normal. Like nothing has to change. 

“I’d like that,” he says earnestly. 

Ease loosens the grip of your fingers and you smile in relief, nodding the tension away. “I know you would,” you say just as easily, even though you know you’re missing something. Even though you know Rusty had more to say. 

But Rusty sucks his teeth at your quip, and everything is back to normal. 

“Question,” he says, sounding perkier by the second. “What’s with the suitcase anyway?” 

Oh yeah. 

You look over at the clock on your nightstand and cuss underneath your breath. Time management has never been your strong suit. 

“This is the part where—after I’ve slept with you and gotten what I’ve wanted—I cancel our date for next week,” you say with a guilty smile. 

“That’s why you’re packing your bags,” he says, quick as always. “You’re walking out on me.” 

Your smile grows into a real one. “Only for a week,” you placate. “I’ll be abroad—vacation.” 

“Where to?” 

“You know I can’t tell you that,” you say gently. 

And this time, when Rusty pauses, his opinions on the matter are clear. 

Your heart lurches. 

“You gonna miss me?” You tease, but the question comes out too honest. 

“I am,” he says without skipping a beat, meeting you in kind. 

So yeah. This ‘little’ work crush is definitely not little. It’s more like—

“I’m gonna say something sentimental,” Rusty says. 

You choke down the butterflies in your throat. “Okay,” you barely whisper. 

“The way I see it is, I’ve got two options,” Rusty begins with a breath. “The first one is easy—and the first one always is. I can respect your boundary and pretend like the idea of us both being in the same place at the same time doesn’t ever cross my mind. I can leave the conversation like this—no prying, no phishing, no insinuating—and call you the week after, like I always do.” 

You bite your lip at the thought. “Or?” 

“Or,” Rusty says, sighing. “I can take the second option—and this one is risky. It’s when I tell you that I’m currently abroad for work, and reveal myself as a hypocrite by not being able to give you any details either, except that I’ve got blond hair and blue eyes and a feeling that anything else you remember about me should be enough. It’s when I ask you if I can tell you the time, hoping that by tomorrow, you’ll sync up with mine, and I use your confirmation as an excuse to wonder if every woman I come across for the next week could be you.” 

Those words knock the wind out of you, leaving you to blink helplessly at the wall. There’s a lot to unpack. His appearance, for one—which you were right about—and the fact that you’ve never heard him say so many words at once. And then there’s the fact that Italy’s time zone only applies to, well, the majority of Europe. 

“Even if we were in the same time zone,” you say quickly. “The odds would be—”

“I know,” Rusty says, firm but fond. “But those odds are better than our current ones—and our current odds have never stopped me from doing it anyway.” 

You aren’t very well-versed in real love confessions, but this sounds pretty damn close to one. Or, at least it feels that way, if the warmth in your chest and the giddiness in your gut is anything to go by. 

But wires can still get crossed. This is sex work 101. Who knows if Rusty is feeling you, or just feeling the mix of oxytocin and dopamine from the aftermath of your intimacy. 

“Rusty—” you start. 

“Don’t do that,” Rusty says. “I know what I feel. The ethics of it all might be up for discussion—which is the only reason why I’m mincing my words—but I know how I feel.” 

‘Ethics’ in this case is more like ‘job security,’ which is why, even if you did have the words, you can’t say a thing. 

“So what’s it gonna be, sweetheart?” Rusty asks gently. “Option 1? Or option 2?” 

The answer is easy. It’s just the wrong one—the one that changes everything, even if your paths never cross. You know what you should say, and you open your mouth to say just that… 

But intimacy without vulnerability is just a performance, and you and Rusty are way past that. 

“Rusty,” you say, closing your eyes. “What time is it over by you?” 

You hear his smile before his voice. 

“9:19am,” he says smoothly. “But I’m sure that’s not of any importance to you.” 

You take a deep breath before opening your eyes again, and looking back at your clock. Some quick mental math is all it takes to confirm it: 

That’s the same time difference between you and Italy. 

“Or is it?” Rusty asks in your silence. 

Excitement sparks in your throat, and it takes everything within you to keep quiet, biting your lip and clenching your fists. Your cheeks strain from the weight of your smile. 

“I’m gonna take your silence as a yes,” Rusty says softly. 

And just as that news starts to settle in, another realization hits you. 

“Rusty,” you say, furrowing your eyebrows. 

“Uh-huh?” 

“We’ve been on the phone for 6 hours,” you say slowly. 

Rusty hums. “Is that right?” 

“You should’ve told me it was 3am when you called,” you hiss. “Ever heard of this thing called sleep?” 

“I got plenty of it in the daylight,” Rusty assures. “I’m jetlagged. I was going to be up anyway.” 

“But—”

“It’s cute that you care,” Rusty says, chuckling. “But I have no qualms about starting my day with the sound of a pretty woman moaning in my ear.” 

The flattery hits a little different now. 

“I’d love to keep making you flustered,” Rusty teases. “But I believe you have a suitcase to pack and a plane to catch?” 

You purse your lips. “It’s cute that you care,” you echo. 

“Well, the odds aren’t good but I already placed my bet on this,” Rusty points out. “And my return rides on your time management, first and foremost, which is a terrible position to be in.” 

This time, you’re the one doing the shushing and he’s the one doing the chuckling. 

“Goodnight,” he says pointedly. “And travel safe.”

You take another breath before saying the least incriminating, yet honest thing you can think of: 

“I hope you win big,” you blurt out. “On your bet, I mean.” 

Another pause. 

“I hope we both do,” Rusty says. “See you soon.”

I'll have Part III up next week, but I'll post a sneak peek of the next part in the DVD commentary of this fic, which will be up in a few days. This was a complete vibe shift from the first one but I hope you liked it, and that you're excited for more! I can't help but love happy endings...

You let the phone on your bedside nightstand ring once, twice, three times, before picking up the receiver. 

“I’ve been waiting for your call,” you say breathlessly. “Tell me what I’ve gotta do to hear that handsome voice of yours.” 

There’s a pause—which isn’t uncommon. It’s the mark of a first timer, or a shy soul briefly overtaken by desire. You’ve learned how to view silence with patience. Pauses are only awkward when shame is allowed to creep in. 

“That’s a new opener,” the familiar voice says after a crinkle of static, smooth with a tired edge that makes his words rumble. “I like it. Pretty believable.” 

You smile as you press the phone between your ear and your shoulder, freeing up your hands for the never-ending pile of laundry stationed in front of you. Slow weeknights are great for chores, and sex hotline regulars are great for putting you at ease—especially this one. 

“Because it’s true, Rusty,” you say cheekily. “You’ve left me lonely for far too long.”

Another pause. You get more comfortable on the bed and reach for a shirt to fold. 

“I forgot how good you are,” he mumbles. 

You hum at his reply. “No you didn’t.” 

“No I didn’t,” Rusty says, and the smirk is evident beneath his words. 

“And yet, no calls,” you say dramatically. “No letters. No gifts.”

“I’ve been unkind,” he admits, playing along. 

“You’ve been cruel,” you say, sighing mournfully. “Is there someone else?” 

“There’s not many women reachable at 2am,” Rusty says. 

“Is that all I am to you?” 

“Of course not,” he says easily. “There’s also not many women who are obligated to pretend to like me.” 

You can’t help but laugh. “I’m sure it’s because the rest of them don’t have to pretend.” 

You don’t like to make assumptions about your clients—there are plenty of reasons to call a hotline and most of them aren’t inherently sexual—but Rusty is smart and kind with a little too much game. He doesn’t seem to be lacking in experience. 

“Well, I’ve been told I work too much,” Rusty says, vague as always. Which has always made you curious about his mysterious late night job. He calls when work is slow to pass the time, and you’ve come to appreciate your aimless chit-chats between your other more demanding clients. He makes for an excellent flirting partner, but you two have never dipped into anything sexual. 

“Overnight security has its cons, I guess,” you phish. 

Rusty chuckles. “Not even close.” 

You sigh as you finish up folding your first article of clothing. “What’s today’s snack then?” 

There’s another crackle on the line. “Chips: salt and vinegar.” 

“I guess your good taste starts and ends with me.” 

“Are you this judgmental toward all of your clients?” 

“Just the ones that chew in my ear.” 

A loud crunch follows, just to prove a point. You grin in the face of it.  

“What’s on today’s chore list?” Rusty asks in return. 

You frown at the still looming pile of clothes in front of you. “Laundry day—which I found out the hard way.” 

“Let me guess: mismatched socks?”

You look down at your feet. “One’s short and plain, the other’s blue and fluffy.” 

“Mmm,” he hums jokingly. “What else are you wearing?” 

“An oversized t-shirt covered in mysterious stains,” you say as you pull the fabric away from your skin. 

Rusty groans performatively. The bass in his voice sends an unfair ripple down your spine. “You’re killing me over here,” he rasps. 

You bite your lip in surprise. “Someone’s playful today.”

“More like restless,” he says with a sigh. “This job is…”

He doesn’t say anything else. And this time, it’s the kind of silence that puts the ball in your court. 

“Anything I can do to help?” You ask carefully. Because, well, you have one very specific way of helping out your clients and you’re toeing a very careful line here. But you’d be lying if you said you haven’t thought about the version of Rusty you might find once you cross it.

Rusty takes another pause. This one is full of calculation. You grab another article of clothing while you wait for him to measure the pros and cons of whatever outcomes he’s conjured up in his head. 

“I’m fine,” he says after a while, and it’s hardly convincing. “Just want to hear your voice. Distract me.” 

You swallow down your disappointment—and your guilt about being disappointed—as you finish folding your item. You’ve never wanted to do your job more, but boundaries are boundaries, and you always respect them. 

“Wanna hear about the dream I had last night?” You ask instead, pivoting as you shift the phone receiver to your other ear. 

“That depends,” Rusty drawls, back to smooth and cool. “Was I in it?” 

You purse your lips to drown your smile, even though you’re only hiding it from yourself. “You’re proud of that one, huh?” 

“Little bit,” he says, smiling through the words. “Go on.” 

Huffing, you reach for another article of clothing before launching into your story. “So I don’t remember all of it,” you warn. “But I’m pretty sure I was trying to convince my best friend to go on a road trip with me to a lake house…”

☏☏☏

It’s not until you’re on your last piece of laundry, that you notice the silence from Rusty’s end. To be fair, you fall into these comfortable grooves often—Rusty and you both working on different things in different places—but you’re more used to the sound of snacking and rhetorical questions as the night dwindles on. This is complete and total quiet. 

You peak over your piles of folded laundry to eye the timer next to your work phone. An hour has passed. Your boss doesn’t care about how you spend the time as long as your clients are spending, but that still doesn’t stop you from feeling like you’re getting away with something whenever Rusty calls—especially on a night like tonight. 

“Rusty?” You ask as you give your neck a break from the soreness of holding up the receiver, tilting your head from side to side and switching hands. 

“Mhm,” he responds immediately, but it doesn’t feel like he’s all the way there. 

“You know I love your company,” you say. “But so does my company.” 

That gets an amused huff out of him, at least. “I told you before,” Rusty says like he always does. “It’s no trouble for me if it’s no trouble for you.” 

“It’s not,” you say like you always do. “But you seem lost in your own thoughts tonight.” 

Rusty doesn’t say anything. You know you shouldn’t push, but you don’t like the sharp ache of concern that’s starting to poke at your side. 

So, sighing, you grip onto the receiver with both hands before asking, “What’s on your mind, baby?”

His breath hitches at your tone. It does wonders for your ego.

“This job…” Rusty explains. “There’s a lot riding on this one—a lot of people riding on this one. I’ve done all I can and now it’s all riding on luck. It’s a less than preferable position to be in.” 

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “It sounds like you’re responsible for a lot. It also sounds like a lot of people willingly put their trust in you.”

“That’s the job,” he says simply. 

“No,” you say, chuckling. “That’s probably just you having a big heart. You’re in a position like this because you care.” 

Rusty scoffs, but he doesn’t bother to deny it. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. A silence settles between you, and you know you should let it rest, but your mouth opens before your mind can catch up:

“But who takes care of you?” You ask before biting your lip at your own audacity. 

Silence. Deafening. And then—

“I know what you’re doing,” Rusty says weakly. 

You chuckle in relief. Pretending that this is more about your job instead of the fondness you’ve always had for him makes for an easy out, and you’re fine with taking it if it means you can help. 

“I’m serious, Rusty,” you say with still too much honesty. “You seem to take on a lot, and it seems… lonely.”

Rusty sighs. “In my line of work, it’s imperative that I’m not this easy to read.”

“Well in my line of work, it’s imperative that I can see right through you,” you point out. 

More silence. Anticipation swells in your chest. And then—

“I might have a problem with…” Rusty admits quietly. 

“…relinquishing control?” You finish for him, soft and open. “Yeah, I might’ve gathered that.” 

“It’s—

“The job. I know, baby,” you say in agreement. “But tonight, that could be my job,” you offer. “I could talk you through it… I could take care of you.” 

And just when you think you’ve gone a little overboard, Rusty meets your words with a resigned moan that makes it all worth it. 

“You’re way too good at this,” he mumbles. 

“Mhm,” you say, smiling to yourself. “Which is how I know I can help you turn that brain of yours off. All you gotta say is please.”

Rusty chuckles. “You’re gonna make me beg?”

He’s laughing now, but you doubt he’ll be laughing later. 

“Not yet,” you respond without skipping a beat. “Right now, I’m just looking for confirmation. Wanna make sure I can give you what you want, and I can’t do that until you ask me, loud and clear.”

Rusty takes a second to think. 

“Can you help me relax…” he asks shortly after, humor still laced within his vowels. “Please.”

A wave of giddiness washes over you. 

“Of course, Rusty,” you purr. “Anything for you.” 

His breath hitches. “That’s just… unfair.” 

Giggling, you sit up in your bed. “What am I taking off of you tonight?” 

“A suit,” he says quietly. “Light blue.” 

“Hmm,” you hum appreciatively. “Special occasion?” 

“No,” he says slyly. “I just live in them.” 

“That must mean you look good in them,” you say, unable to stop yourself from imagining him. The suits feel right, though—and not just because he can afford frequent hour long chit-chats about everything and nothing. 

“Still probably not as good as you,” Rusty says, as if it’s a fact. “Mismatched socks and all.” 

It trips you up. It shouldn’t, but it does. 

You hesitate, and you can almost hear him smile through the line. 

“Are you wearing a tie?” You ask, ignoring the flutter in your chest.

“Uh-huh.”

“Loosen it for me,” you direct. 

The line rustles.

“Lean back,” you say slowly. “Spread your legs. Get comfortable.” 

“I didn’t know you could be this demanding,” he says, but you hear the tell-tale signs of a creaking chair from a shift in weight. 

“And I didn’t know you could be this obedient,” you say, grinning. “Sounds good on you.” 

He grunts, but it’s more amused than displeased. 

“Have you been thinking about this?” You ask teasingly. “Me getting you out of your clothes, and talking dirty in your ear?”

Rusty doesn’t answer, but another creak of his chair tells you that your words have hit where it matters. 

“I’ve been thinking about it,” you admit. Because as much as the firm tone of his smooth voice is comforting, you’ve been wondering what it’d sound like when drenched in desire. “All the ways I can make you come… undone.” 

“Yeah?” Rusty asks, breath slightly hollow. “What did you come up with?” 

“It starts with me telling you that you’re doing a good job,” you say innocently. “Because I don’t think you hear that often enough.” 

He swallows hard. “I don’t need praise.” 

“But you like it, don’t you?” 

Rusty huffs. You grin wider. 

“You like being good for me. You like knowing that you’re pleasing me,” you say, pausing to let the words stew. “How hard are you right now?” 

Another creak. 

“Very,” Rusty says weakly. 

“And yet, you await fully clothed for my further instruction,” you hum with pride. “See how good you are? That’s why you’ve always been my favorite.” 

This time, Rusty groans. And it’s real, lacking all composure and constraint. He mumbles something to himself before asking, “What are you doing to me?” like an inside thought, words heavy and desperate with a disbelieving edge. 

And those words settle right between your thighs. 

You squeeze your legs together as your body grows warm, nerves starting to sing with their own arousal. Few calls on the job have turned you on like this—like a flame you can’t ignore. 

“Nothing yet,” you say while trying to keep your composure. Your mouth grows dry as you try to ignore the throbbing in your core. “You don’t have much of a tolerance for teasing, huh?” 

“I’m usually on the other side of it,” he admits. 

“So I’m the only one that gets to hear you like this?”

“Only you,” he promises, but it’s twinged with a shyness you’ve never heard from him before. “Only for you.” 

A pleased moan spills out of you. Your whole body starts to ache with need. 

“That voice of yours,” Rusty says with shaky breath. “I need…” 

And normally, you would drag this out just a little bit longer. But you don’t know how much longer you can keep your hands above your own waist either. 

“Belt?” You ask with new urgency. 

“Mhm.” 

“Off,” you command. “Let me hear it hit the floor.” 

Metallic clacking vibrates through the line before a heavy thump hits your ears. 

“You never asked me what I had on underneath the shirt,” you say as you lay back down on your bed. 

“I didn’t think I could handle the answer without us getting here,” he admits. 

A smile crosses your lips. “Unbutton. Unzip.” 

A quiet zing swims between you. 

“Ask me,” you say, but your words are so laced with desire that you might as well have replaced ‘ask’ with ‘fuck.’

Rusty takes a deep breath. “What’s hiding beneath your shirt?” 

“Let me check,” you say, before gliding your hand up your bare thigh, and pushing the fabric of your t-shirt up with each inch. You imagine your fingers are Rusty’s, and the thought makes your skin tingle with anticipation. 

“Oh yeah,” you say, feigning surprise once you spread your legs and reach the place where your underwear should be. “I’m not wearing anything.” 

Rusty whines. It’s a shy, clumsy sound that lights you from the inside out, and makes your clit spark with lust. 

“I can’t believe I fell for that,” he says incredulously. 

You giggle as you slide your fingers against your arousal. Wetness greets you in kind, and another moan spills out of you. 

“Need to get your dick as wet as I am,” you say breathlessly. “Place your fingers in your mouth, baby. Suck on ‘em for me.” 

Rusty’s obedience is immediate. His following hum is muffled by suction, and you can only imagine the mess he’s making. 

“I bet you’d look so pretty with my fingers down your throat,” you say, gasping as your fingers continue to brush and stroke against your sensitive flesh. “Forced to keep all your attention on me.” 

The next sound he makes is even more desperate—a guttural groan that vibrates through the line. 

You can’t take it anymore. 

“Rusty,” you pant as your thighs tense, just as desperate to end this self-denial. “Touch yourself. Imagine it’s me. Tell me how good I make you feel.” 

His chair creaks, and then a beautiful, indulgent moan follows. His breath is sharp and thin as he rasps, “So good.” 

The roughness of his voice makes your back arch off of the bed. Those two words send a jolt of electricity down your spine, and flick an insatiable switch in you. 

“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” you say, huffing as you apply painfully-awaited pressure to your throbbing clit. You’re met with a new wave of euphoria that makes your lips pout around a muffled whimper. “Next time I ask,” you say as evenly as you can, “you’ll need to be more specific.”

Rusty hums in agreement, and then he moans, resigned and overwhelmed. “I wish it was your hand wrapped around me, instead of mine,” he says breathily. 

You didn’t expect the small confession, but it only spurs you on. “Me too, baby,” you say, sighing in delight as you swirl your fingers. “But my hands are too busy dealing with how turned on you’ve got me.” 

His chair creaks again, mixed in with a low, rumbling groan. “You’re not just saying that?” 

You pull the receiver away and lower it to your sex. Your fingers play in the wetness pooling around your pussy—slick, loud, and unmistakable. “What do you think?” You ask after returning the phone back to your ear. 

Another beautiful moan greets you, and it’s even more broken than the last one. “I think you’re unbelievable,” he says in disbelief, words shaky and slurred.

“And I think you’re hot when you let me take control,” you say as your excitement continues to build. “Keep stroking for me, let me hear you.” 

And he does just that. His grunts and moans start to mix with the lewd smack of his self-pleasure and the insistent squeak of his chair. You play with yourself as he unravels, meeting the pace of his strokes with your own slick rhythm. Each of his steadily building whimpers lights you on fire. 

“I wish I could see you,” you breathe, already growing light-headed at the thought of release. “Wish I could see just how I managed to reduce ‘mister confident and composed’ into a loud, whiny wreck.” 

“Fuck,” Rusty cusses, dazed and overwhelmed. “I’m gonna—“

“Not yet,” you order calmly. But you’re almost there too, hips bucking and riding your own hand. 

Rusty covers up a whimper with a desperate groan, causing you to laugh. “What if I ask nicely?” 

“Worth a shot,” you say as fondness joins your attraction. 

“Can I come?” 

“Mmm,” you say, pretending to think it over. “No.” 

Rusty whines brokenly. “That was just mean.” 

You laugh again, mostly to release some of the tension from your own building bliss. “I just figured you would want to come with me instead.” 

“Yeah,” he pants desperately. “Yes.” 

You hum in approval. “Lucky for you, I’m close. Wanna help get me there faster?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Tell me a secret,” you say before you can think it through. You’re not even sure where you’re going with this, but your mind is too clouded by desire to care. 

Luckily, Rusty has the perfect answer. 

“You have the prettiest—" he huffs “—Sexiest—“ he growls “—most intoxicating voice I’ve ever heard in my life. I can’t get enough of it… I can’t get enough of you.” 

And well… that does it. 

Your muscles tense as you start your own ascent toward euphoria, climbing hard and fast with your head craned back and your lips parted. 

“I can’t,” he whines. 

“Not yet,” you squeak in between working yourself faster, vision growing dark at the corners. 

“Ugh,” Rusty rattles. “Please?” 

You’re almost there. So close. Right at the edge. 

“Ask me one more time,” your prompt, voice wobbling. 

“Please, can I come?” Rusty begs. 

Something in you snaps. 

“Yes baby, come for me,” you say, and it’s a miracle you can even get the words out. 

Rusty’s release is immediate. He cries out, beautiful and wrecked, and that’s all it takes for you to follow, reaching your peak with a tremor that takes over your whole body. 

Everything fades away except for the sound of Rusty’s grunts and whimpers. Your own moans mix with his as you shiver and shake, harmonizing into a song only you two can share.

“Good job, baby,” you praise in the throws of your ecstasy. You’re still floating, but Rusty’s voice manages to ground you. “You were so, so good for me.” 

It takes some time for both of you to come down. Heavy breath dominates the shared line until you can find enough of your bearings to form words.  

“Thank you for letting me take care of you,” you murmur as you place your hand over your heart. Your whole body is covered in a light layer of sweat, and the evidence of your satisfaction lies sticky and abundant between your legs. 

Guess you’ll have to wash the sheets too. 

Rusty says something incoherent. But then he tries again, maneuvering the phone with static. “I can’t believe I just...“ he says, elated, exhausted, and incredulous—all at the same time. 

“Oh no,” you say, giggling through the aftershock. “Don’t do that. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I could get drunk off of your orgasm.”

You hear a smack, and you can only imagine it’s his hand over his face. 

“Do you blush?” You tease. “You’re totally blushing.” 

“I’m…” he says hesitantly before mumbling, “that’s enough out of you.” 

A loud, indulgent laugh spills out of you instead. It’s riddled with all of the high of your simmering climax, and laced with all of the giddiness of your night with him.

“I’m usually way better at aftercare than this,” you say between your lingering chuckles. “I’ll stop making fun of you, I swear.” 

Rusty sucks his teeth. “No you won’t,” he says, back to his playful self. 

“No I won’t,” you say back, smiling all over again. 

“Did you really—“

“Oh, I came. I haven’t come that hard in—“

“Yeah,” Rusty agrees quietly. “I guess that means I really am your favorite.” 

“You are, whether we keep doing this or not,” you promise. “How do you feel?” 

“Pretty relaxed, actually…” he trails off. 

And this silence, you recognize too. Because it doesn’t take long before Rusty’s chair squeaks and its wheels roll across the floor. Scribbling follows like clockwork, scratchy and urgent. 

You smile at the familiar sound of Rusty in the zone. “See?” you tease. “All you needed was a little stress relief.” 

He grunts in distaste but doesn’t say anything else. You’ve lost him to his thoughts for real this time. 

Chuckling, you crane your neck to squint at the timer by your bedside again. “I’ll leave you to it then. You’ve indulged me enough for one night.” 

Rusty hums before the words actually register. Then the phone crackles. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I needed that.”

You grin as your own face warms. “Anything for you,” you say seriously. “Goodnight, Rusty. Good luck with the job and don’t be a stranger this time.” 

Rusty snorts. “I think we’re past that, sweetheart.” 

You ignore the way the term of endearment tickles your chest. “You’re right. We’re on a petname basis now.”

“Practically married,” he says smoothly. 

“Phone sex so good, I’ve got you thinking about marriage,” you say cheekily. 

You can practically hear him roll his eyes. 

“Goodnight,” Rusty says pointedly, but a chuckle slips through anyway. “Don’t have any more weird dreams without me.” 

And sure enough, after your shift ends in the early hours of morning and your freshly changed bedsheets greet you, you close your eyes and dream of dirty blond hair and brilliant blue eyes.

Part II is up! Thanks for reading!! <3