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content warnings: oral sex (f rec), cheating, manipulation kinda, medical setting, praise, implied cucking(?)
you're a little stressed after spending the night with your boyfriend. he simply could not get you wet, even though he tried soooo hard... so you head to your physician, dr jack abbot.
jack listens with restrained satisfaction at the desperate note in your voice, at that hint of concern, like you're worried that something is wrong. he wants so badly to tell you that your boyfriend is just fucking useless, that it's nothing to worry about, that you're being a good girlâŚ
but first, he wants to be sure. "let me see, honey."
he lays you out on the exam table, then his hand withdraws from your trembling thighs, moving down to grip the back of your knee. "spread a little more for me. i wanna check something."
you watch as he pushes his stool forward, his head and shoulders lowering between your legs. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, positioning himself closer to your pussy, his gaze roaming over your skin.
he presses a warm peck to your inner thigh. "there," he murmurs. "let me take care of you, honey. do you trust me?"
"yes," you reply, and you barely have time to exhale before he's pressing a feather-light kiss to your clit, making you gasp. "doctor abbot?"
his chuckle vibrates against your skin as he lifts his head just enough to meet your wide-eyed gaze. "just making sure everything's working right," he mutters, the clinical distance in his tone at odds to the way his tongue flicks over your clit in a quick, teasing stroke.
his hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. "relax," he orders, lips brushing your inner thigh again. "let me show you what your boyfriend should've been doing."
then he lowers his mouth to your cunt properly and licks a hot, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. "whatâ what's this test for?" you breathe out, your chest heaving with arousal.
his mouth moves against you, tongue taking broad, languid laps. "it's called the clitoral glans test," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "to see how responsive you are. and you're being a very, very good girl, i must say."
it's not long before you're leaking all over his tongue, your slick pooling onto the paper sheets. "sweet girl," he praises. "taking my mouth so well. your boyfriend ever do this to you?"
you exhale shakily, the shame gnawing at you again as you shake your head. "no... he... he said he doesn't like doing it..."
his tongue swipes over your hole again, almost thoughtfully lapping up your juices, the ones that spilled out of you just for him. "he doesn't like it, huh? well, he's an idiot, honey, because you taste incredible."
"t-thank you," you stutter out at the praise, your hips bucking up against his mouth. "ah- sorry-"
"no apologising, sweetheart," he says, his breath hot against your folds, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin for reassurance. "i like your desperate little movements. keep going, honeygirl. let me see just how responsive you are." then his tongue is back between your legs, stroking slow, up and down, as he gauges your reactions.
"and don't you worry, honey," he says conversationally between licks, as if he wasn't making a mess of your pretty little cunt, "you make another appointment, i will be teaching your boyfriend how to eat your pussy very thoroughly, no matter how much he says he doesn't like it. cunt like this deserves to get eaten."
he hums, low and thoughtful. "maybe i'll even make him take notes. have him write up a full report on the experience."
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jack abbot x younger!reader âËęŠď˝Ą 18+ MDNI !
summary: abbot offers up his house for a simple family bbq to help you out of a jam...unfortunately, neither of you are capable of keeping it simple.
warnings: smut! fingering, abbot jizzing in his pants, porn but with a lot of plot & build up, tension, inappropriate thoughts, masturbation implied & discussed, alcohol consumption, minor injury (small cut), petty abbot because he snatches r's phone, brat tamer abbot if you squint?? he likes to mock you okay???? slight angst at the end :)
wc: 9.5k
pt 2 can be found here!
Now that youâre actually standing in front of it, itâsâŚoffensively small.
You tilt your head like that might miraculously improve the situation, like thereâs some hidden angle where this becomes a perfectly reasonable barbecue and not what looks like a prop from a dollhouse garden party. As if, with enough optimism and a slight squint, the laws of physics will rearrange themselves out of sheer pity.Â
Because your freezer currently sits enough food to cater a mid-sized wedding.Â
And your patio?
A grill that could maybe handleâŚfour sausages. Five if theyâre prepared to be very close.Â
You exhale slowly, hands on your hips as you realise youâve made a catastrophic, deeply public planning error. There has to be a system. A rotation. A schedule. Some kind of⌠grilled meat tetris.
You glance back at the freezer like it might offer solutions. It does not. It sits there, smug and overstocked.
âOkay,â you mutter to yourself. âThis is fine. This is workable. People love waiting for foodâŚPeople expect to wait for food.âÂ
Except your siblings are the least patient people you know.
And just to make matters worse, a knock sounds at the door. You know itâs Abbot because he generously offered to give you a hand with the grill after you mentioned hosting your family in passing, like he had absolutely nothing better to do on a Saturday night.Â
Now itâs feeling less like generosity on his behalf, and more like you accidentally inviting him to a very unfortunate comedy show.Â
You hover for a second, hoping if you wait long enough, heâll go away.
He doesnât. He just knocks again.
You smooth your hands down your shorts, the denim rough enough against your palms to remind you to breathe. Itâll be fine. Everyone can just mingle in your tiny garden while they wait approximately four hours for dinner. Great. This is exactly the way to show your family how firmly you have your life together.Â
You make your way to the front door and pull it open to find Abbot standing there, fingers hooked around a bag you assume has something useful in itâlike tongs, or maybe the competence you seem to be lacking. Youâd take two of those right now.Â
âHey,â you greet in a tone that reeks of desperation.Â
âHi.â Thereâs a slight raise in his brow, like heâs already caught on that something here isâŚoff.Â
âCome in.â You move to the side, gesturing him in.
He nods and walks through. You close the door behind him, your back mounting to it as you watch him take the place in, realising this is the first time heâs ever been inside.Â
Momentarily, you feel like youâre under an imaginary microscope, like youâve been set out in the sun, quietly examined and a little overexposed all at once. Except thereâs no microscope, no audience.Â
Just Abbot.Â
And the glass of wine you indulged in earlier, which is currently doing a fantastic job of making you feel about three degrees warmer than necessary, and significantly more aware of your own existence than youâd like.Â
Youâre not sure what heâs going to think of your home. Itâs smaller than his, you know that much without asking. Itâs cluttered but in a lived in kind of way, everything has a purpose or a memory attached to it. Youâd love to tell him some of those stories, walk him through it properly, if you had the timeâŚor if you were sure he wanted to hear them.Â
 He probably doesnât.Â
And you definitely donât have time.
âCute place.â
âCute?â you repeat, a smile pulling at your lips. âIs that your way of dressing up the word small?â
âNo.â His gaze drifts around once more, slower this time, like heâs actually taking it in rather than passing through. Then it settles back on you. âItâs cute. Very you.â
That annoyingly lands somewhere you werenât prepared for.Â
You blow air from your nose, glancing away as if the console table requires your full attention. âRight. Well Iâm glad my personality translates intoâŚsquare footage.âÂ
Thereâs the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. âThatâs not what I said.â
âThatâs what I heard.âÂ
He watches you like could argue if he wanted to, but he doesnât.
You clear your throat, deciding you need air. And to also rip the band-aid off already, because youâve made Abbot clear his schedule to help you out, when in reality you wonât be needing his help at all.Â
Unless heâs particularly skilled at dialling for takeaway.Â
âAnyways,â you say briskly, turning to the back door. âLet me show you what weâre working with.â
âYes, maâam.â
Youâre absolutely blaming the glass of wine for the effect those two words have on you, trying to desperately ignore the way your brainâs decided nowâs a good time to develop new problems.Â
You step outside first, the warm air hitting your skin, and wait for him to come up beside you. When he doesâclose enough to be mildly distractingâyou gesture flatly towards the root of all your issues. âThere she is.âÂ
He looks.Â
Thereâs a faint pause.Â
âSheâs, umââ
âCute?â you supply, nudging his arm with your elbow.Â
âI was going to say compact.â
âItâs second hand,â you reply, because that feels like important context. Of course you were going to buy a second hand grill. Why wouldnât you? Youâd much rather spend your money on something youâll actually get use out of. This was supposed to be a practical, sensible, one-time summer purchase.
It is now very clearly the opposite of that.
âIt looked bigger before I picked it up,â you add, because his silence is doing absolutely nothing for your need to stop explaining yourself. âPlease say something before I finish the bottle of wine I started.â
âIâm thinking.â
âItâs not that big of a deal, right? Iâll just do, like, ten rounds of grilling and keep everything wrapped in foil to keep it warm. Itâs hot as hell out so stuff would probably stay warm enough anyway?â
He finally meets your gaze.
â...No.â
You blink. âNo?â
âNo.â
You stare at him, cheek caught between your teeth. âWow. Okay. That wasâŚvery immediate.â
âYouâll have people waiting too long between rounds,â he says calmly. âHalf of it will go cold. The rest will be overcooked.â
âGreat.â You throw your hands up. âJust kill me now, then. Put me out of my misery.â
Thereâs a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
âI will never hear the end of this,â you continue, reaching for your empty wine glass and topping it up from the bottle beside it. âThey donât take me seriously enough as it isââ you take a quick sip, like it might soften the blow of what youâre about to admit, ââand theyâre constantly expecting me to mess things up before Iâve even started. Perks of being the youngest, apparently. Comes with its own very specific set of stereotypesâ
You glance at the grill, then back at him. âAnd this will absolutely prove them right.â
âHave it at my house,â he offers breezily and you almost drop your glass.
âSorry?â
âItâll be easier,â he explains, like heâs just suggesting you move a chair. âMore space. Proper grill.â
âThat would mean my entire family going to your house.â
âYes.â
âAnd you being there.â
âI live there.â
You narrow your eyes. âI donât think you realise what youâre suggesting. Itâs not just my parents coming. Well, it was at first and then my siblings decided to invite themselves and Iâm fairly certain their partners also got swept in without my consent.â
âAnd you couldnât say no?â
You let out a disbelieving laugh. âNo, absolutely not. But you can. Please say no to this.â
He doesnât even look slightly concerned. âIâm not saying no.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause it solves your problem.â
âWeâre not at work.â You set the wine glass down, like it might help you regain better control of the conversation and his absolute ludicrous idea. âYou donât have to solve my problems.â
He tilts his head like heâs considering that, then steps closer to the grill to give it another once-over. His fingers drag lightly over the metal bars, testing them, like thereâs still a chance this thing might redeem itself under a second opinion.
It does not.Â
âWell,â he says, almost absently, âif it makes you feel any better, youâre rarely creating problems for me at work, so just let me give you a hand with this one.â
You stare at him, then gesture vaguely between him and the grill. âBut donât you think itâd be weird? What am I meant to say to them?â
âThat we work together. That Iâve got the space and offered to host. Thatâs it.â
âYouâre making this sound so simple,â you scoff, shaking your head.Â
âBecause it is simple. Iâm offering a solution. Take it. Weâll load up my truck with what you need and go.â
âAnd you donât think theyâll assume things?â You almost cringe as the words leave your mouth, it sounds so juvenile, like something you shouldâve outgrown years ago.Â
âAssume what?â he presses, and you donât know if heâs genuinely not following or if the last several months have just been you reading into things he hasnât seen nor reciprocated.Â
âNothing!â you blurt out quickly, downing the rest of your wine like it might undo the last ten seconds. âIâm being stupid and Iâm out of options so I guess we can have it at your houseâif youâre sure?â
âIâm sure.â
âGreat. Amazing. Perfect.â You set the glass down again, and walk past him, heading into the kitchen, because if you stay in this conversation for even a second longer, youâre not entirely convinced you'll make it through this BBQâor your next shift with Abbotâwithout saying something you absolutely cannot take back.Â
You had texted the family group chat about the change of plans, keeping the message short, light, casual, even if your brain has refused to get on board with that narrative.Â
Because there are, conservatively, about a hundred reasons as to why this is a terrible idea. Reasons that all seem to be shouting over each other the longer you think about it. Starting with the fact that if there is anyone capable of turning a harmless situation into something more layered and deeply inconvenient, itâs your family.Â
Who are now going to be meeting Abbot.
Your boss.
Who you might be slightly crushing on.Â
And your earlier exchange?
Yeah. That did an excellent job of confirming thatâs very much a one sided situation.Â
âYouâre sure you donât need me to drop by the store first?â he asks.
Youâre not sure if heâs looking at you because you angled your body away from him about ten minutes ago, in a very deliberate attempt to not be distracted.
It hasnât been working.Â
If anything, itâs considerably worse, because youâre now hyperaware of everything youâre trying not to look at. The way his sun-warmed arms flex as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, the sleeve of his black shirt sitting snug around his bicep. The completely unbothered way heâs driving, like this is exactly what he had planned to do with his day off.Â
âNo.â You risk a glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you before they flick back to the road. âI pretty much emptied my fridge into the back of your truck, so we should be sorted.â
He hums like that checks out. âAlright.â
âYou still havenât changed your mind?â
He glances at you again. âAbout?â
You stare at him.Â
Youâre not sure if heâs doing this on purpose, but it feels like he is. Like heâs deliberately backing you into saying things out loud. Making you name them, lay them out clearly instead of hiding behind vague gestures and half-formed sentences.Â
Itâs incredibly annoying.Â
Because it has your mind drifting toâŚother situations where he might take the same approach. You picture him for a brief second, between your legs, the way heâd look at you expectantly, waiting until you spelled it out for him.Â
Like heâd make you tell him exactly what you want.Â
Exactly how you want it.Â
And look at him while you do it.Â
âOh my god,â you mutter out loud, the thought hitting you all at once. You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together like that might physically cancel your brain.
âEverything okay?â
âNo. Noââ you shake your head quickly, turning to the window like the outside world has suddenly become fascinating. âI think we need to stop by the store.â
âYou just said you had everything.â
âWhy are you asking so many questions today?â You turn to face him, and youâre pretty sure youâre glaring now, because he is officially on your last damn nerve.Â
âThat wasnât a question.â
You inhale slowly and manifest restraint because he doesnât deserve you snapping at him, but heâs also been the leading cause in your rapid mental decline today. âMy mistake.â You tack on a smile that feels convincing for a second before it slips, the corners of your mouth dropping almost immediately. âIâm not sure Iâve got everything for the salad, so if you wouldnât mind stopping by the store, thatâd be great.âÂ
He laughs under his breath, turning on the indicator. âI love the customer service voice.â
âIâm not doing a customer service voice.â
âYou are. Itâs very polite.â
You blink at him, lips parting like youâre about to argue it, then stopping when you realise thereâs probably no winning this.
âCan you stop by the store or not?â you ask instead, folding your arms across your chest.Â
âOf course,â he answers easily. âYouâre the boss today.â
You donât dignify that with a response, mostly because youâre too busy being relieved when he finally pulls into the car park. You need to get out of his truck that smells exactly like him and into somewhere with actual air conditioning. Not that his truck doesn't have itâit doesâbut he seems to be absorbing all of its effects, leaving you to slowly overheat in his general vicinity.Â
You unclip and fling off your seatbelt, grab your purse but pause when you catch him doing the same out of the corner of your eye.Â
âWhatâre you doing?â
âGoing to the store? Whatâs with all the questions?â
âNo youâre not,â you reply, pointing at him. âYouâre staying here.â
âAm I?
âYes.â
âAnd whyâs that?â he questions with a lazy smirk, and you can feel yourself inching closer to just smothering him with your bag for the sake of peace and quiet.
âBecause Iâm the boss today.â You give him a smug, entirely fake smile before climbing out of his vehicle and shutting the door with just a little more force than usual.Â
You power walk to the store and once inside, head straight for the freezer section. You pull open one of the large glass doors and just stand there for a minute, relishing in the cool air.Â
This is exactly what you get. A direct consequence of your own poor planning, which you donât usually do. But today, of all days, everything seems to be going from bad to worse.Â
Starting with your brilliant idea to save money by buying a second hand grill without actually seeing it in person first. Then not having the heart to say no to the poor old woman selling it when it turned out to beâŚthat. Then not saying no to the ever-expanding guest list. Then not saying no to hosting this entire disaster of a night at Abbotâs house.Â
And now, just to round things up nicely, you canât even seem to keep a lid on your own feelings.Â
You can do this, you tell yourself. You handle crises everyday at work, actual ones, where people depend on you. This? This doesnât even come close to being half as bad as your worst shift. This is just a barbecue. All you need to do is put on your big girl pants, get through the night, and never speak of it again.Â
With a deep breath in, you shut the freezer door, ignoring the judgemental look from one of the workers, and try to source the supposed salad ingredients youâre missing.Â
By the time youâre paying, you feel calmer, like your head has finally been screwed on right, and that thereâs a small chance of you getting through this night without another existential breakdown.Â
You try to hang on to that same thought as you make your way back to Abbotâs car, digging out a pair of sunglasses to wear for the rest of the journey. Avoiding eye contact should be significantly easier with a barrier.Â
âGot everything?âÂ
âMhm.â You keep it short as you climb back into the passenger seat and place the bag between your feet like everything is perfectly normal.Â
When Abbot pulls into his driveway, you realise there are a lot of firsts happening todayâyouâve never been to his house before either.Â
You take it in as the truck slows, your gaze dragging over the place in pieces, trying not to make it obvious. You'd been right in thinking itâll be much bigger than yours, because from the outside it looks like your place could slot neatly into a corner of his and still leave plenty of room to spare.Â
The house is framed with tidy hedges and a curved driveway. Itâs dipped in a warm golden wash from the late sun, the light catching on the windows and casting long shadows across the patio that actually looks used.Â
You can almost picture him out there in the evenings. On his own, or maybe with Robby. Something cold in his hand, leaning back like heâs got nowhere else to be.
Youâre already a little too curious to see the garden. He lives far enough out that it feels quiet, tucked away from everything, and the front looks well kept that youâre almost certain the back will look even better.Â
Thatâs your dream one day. To have a big stretch of green out the back that you could look out over from your bedroom window in the mornings. You imagine stepping out barefoot, the grass still damp beneath you. Youâd have a little table, with mismatched chairs you tell yourself youâd replace but never do. Maybe something growing, even if itâs just herbs youâd forget to use anyway.Â
You think about hosting without overthinking it. People justâŚspreading out, drinks in hand, no one hovering awkwardly because there isnât enough room. The kind of evenings that go on a little longer because no one is in a rush to leave.Â
Or just to soak up the sun on days like this.Â
âReady to go?â
Abbot's voice breaks you from your daydream, and you shift in your seat like youâve ended up somewhere you werenât supposed to go.
âYeah,â you clear your throat, reaching up to remove your sunglasses. âBeautiful house.â
He glances at you briefly, then back at the front of the house like heâs seeing it through your eyes. âIt does the job.â
âDoes it very well.â
You step out into the warm air, a light breeze slipping past you, and your attention follows Abbot as he rounds the truck. And just like that, your mind does that thing again, wandering somewhere it absolutely shouldnât. Â
You picture it a little too easily for your liking, a day like today, minus the chaos. What itâd feel like coming back home from a grocery run, a truck filled with nothing in particular. The domestic bliss of unpacking, then sitting in the garden, something simple on the grill.Â
You can see yourself curled into him on the patio, the air dropping a few degrees, a glass of wine somewhere nearby, his hand resting absentmindedly on your waist. Maybe youâd end up in his lap, talking about nothing, or everything, it doesnât really matter because youâd be doing it with him.Â
These thoughts leave your stomach sinking because thatâs all they are, just the results of chemical activity moving across the brain that youâve inconveniently grown attached to. Thereâs nothing real or solid behind them.Â
âWhere do you want everything?â you ask with a huff, grabbing the grocery bag from the front seat.Â
Abbot doesnât answer straight away.Â
You feel it before you look up, the sense of being watched. When you glance over, heâs already looking at you like heâs trying to figure something out, like heâs somehow got your pathetic little fantasy down, and is rethinking every decision thatâs led him here.Â
Your stomach continues to drop.Â
âKitchen?â you add, because silence suddenly feels like the worst possible outcome here.
He looks at you a little longer before he nods, going back to unloading his truck. âYeah. Through there.â
You return his nod and make way to the front door, shifting the grocery bag higher on your hip. Your hand finds the handle, the same moment you realise the doorâs not even unlocked.Â
You turn to call for him only to end up bumping straight into his chest.Â
âShitââ The word slips out as you stumble, your grip tightening on the shopping bag to keep everything from spilling.Â
âGot you,â he says, his hand settling at your waist, steadying you before you can lose your balance. Itâs a simple gesture, except your mind has that deeply irritating habit of taking simple things and turning them into something theyâre not.Â
âSorry,â he adds as an afterthought. âShouldâve given you the keys.â
You nod even though the apology seems misplaced, your attention snagging somewhere else entirely. On the warmth of his hand. The way it hasnât quite moved yet. How easily it could slip under your shirt so you could feel him on your skin. Properly.Â
âItâs fine.â Which is both true and very much not.
His hand drops then, his focus shifting to the door and getting it open. You move to the side to give him space trying to collect yourself all over again.Â
âKitchenâs just straight ahead,â he tells you, gesturing you in once the door swings open.Â
Inside, the house is spacious, with dark wood floors and barn-like furniture. Itâs less cluttered than yours, with only a few things slightly out of place. You step in slowly, taking everything in. Youâre not sure when youâll next ever get a chance to visit, so you selfishly take a little longer to wander through, noticing the few pictures and trinkets he has scattered around.Â
When you reach the kitchen you place the shopping bag and your purse on the marble counter, fully intending to head back out and give Abbot a hand with the other bags, but you stall once you get a view of the garden through the glass French doors leading out from the kitchen.
Well-kept grass stretches out for what looks like miles, the edges framed with low trees and shrubs. Thereâs even a small greenhouse tucked to one side. It looks too tidy to be in use, but you imagine how it might look filled anyway. Further back, thereâs a perfectly sized outdoor kitchen, with a large grill and enough counter space to move around comfortably.Â
So this is where he disappears to when heâs not at work.
âIs it okay?â
You turn a little too quickly at the sound of Abbotâs voice, like heâs caught you doing something you shouldnât. Your brows pull together, because youâre not entirely sure what heâs asking is okay.
âThe house,â he clarifies, shifting the bags in his hands like heâs suddenly aware of how that sounded. âFor tonight.â
âOh.â You glance back at the garden, then around the kitchen. âYeah. No, itâsââ you gesture vaguely, because there are too many ways to describe it and none of them feel casual enough, ââmore than okay.â
He nods once, like thatâs all he needed, and moves further into the kitchen to set the bags down beside yours before heâs going out again.
Youâre almost finished with the salad when the knife decides your finger might be a better addition than the cherry tomatoes. Itâs so quick it almost feels hypothetical, but then the sting registers and your finger flies straight to your mouth, like thatâs the only medical training youâve managed to retain.Â
Thereâs already a metallic taste spreading across your tongue, blood pooling faster than youâd like, making you wince.Â
âOh, for the love of god,â you mutter, searching for the paper towels and your brain, which might be lounging on the kitchen counter somewhere, soaking up the sun streaming in through the windows, because clearly itâs not being put to any practical use.Â
And just so the universe could curse you some more, you hear Abbot walking back in.Â
Great.Â
You immediately turn your back to him because he doesnât need any more reasons to think youâre incompetent.Â
âEverything okay?âÂ
âMhm,â you hum, because you still havenât spotted the paper towels and are stuck sucking your finger like thatâs a reasonable long-term solution.Â
âGrillâs coming along,â he continues and you can feel him moving behind you, followed by the rip of the said paper towels. âGot it up to temperature, just needs a few more minutes before I start putting anything else on. Should all be ready in time.âÂ
âMm, thatâs good. Thank you.â You decide to face him, and immediately regret it because you hadnât realised how close he was. âCould I have one of those?â
You reach for the roll but he doesnât hand it over.
âYouâve cut yourself.â
âYes. Iâve already added it to my list of incompetencies today. Itâs fine. Very minor.â
âGive me your hand.â
You hesitate, because that feels like an escalation for something youâve just described as very minor.
âItâs really no bigââ
âGive me your hand,â he repeats, reaching for your wrist.Â
You exhale and let it happen, relaxing your hold as he draws your hand towards him, the crimson gathering along the cut in a way that suddenly looks far more dramatic under proper light.Â
He tosses his used paper towels on the counter and rips a few new sheets. âHere, hold that. Iâll get you a plaster,â he instructs, pressing them against your finger before turning and disappearing down the corridor.Â
You stand there, listening to the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing, something unzipping and then zipping until his footsteps make their way back to you again.Â
You watch the quick and efficient way he frees the plaster of its wrapper and youâre instinctively holding out your finger, letting him wrap it neatly around the cut. His thumb runs along the edges, making sure itâs properly stuck down.Â
âThank you.âÂ
He meets your eyes. âYou haveââ he lifts his thumb to your chin, the pad of it brushing gently along your skin ââa little blood there.âÂ
Your mouth parts, breath catching somewhere on the way out. You feel him move closer, his touch tracing up to the corner of your mouth carefully, like heâs not sure how far heâs allowed to go, but isnât stopping himself from finding out.Â
Itâs nothing. You were standing there with dried blood on your chinâheâs just being kind.Â
But your traitorous mind immediately offers up a list of alternatives for what he could be doing with that exact same touch, and you have to physically dig the heels of your feet into your sandals to stop yourself from leaning into it.Â
âThere.â He retracts his hand, and once again youâre mourning the loss of contact.Â
You nod your thanks to him and turn back to the counter, picking up the knife again so you can finish your salad. âSo, is the grill behaving?â you manage, which is frankly lousy small talk considering you couldnât care less about the grill right now.
He clears his throat. âYeah. Heatâs holding. Iâll start with the sausages, get a good sear on them, then move them over so they donât dry out.âÂ
âLove a man with a plan,â you mutter out loud, which was definitely supposed to be retained as an internal thought.Â
Silence fills the space and you freeze, knife hovering uselessly over the cutting board. You hear some shuffling behind you, maybe him binning the paper towels and the plaster wrapper, or maybe heâs just giving you a second to realise what youâve said.Â
âGood to know.â
Your phone vibrates in your back pocket, followed by a ping, and youâve never been more grateful for technology in your life. You wipe your hand on your shorts before pulling it out, unlocking it a little too quickly.
Dad: Weâre running late, honey. Hotelâs messed up our roomsâŚlong story. Still trying to sort it with reception. Will message you when weâre on our wayâŚ
âTheyâre running late,â you mumble, a welcome exhale slipping out.Â
âIâll hold off on the sausages. Is everything okay?â
âYeah, just some mix up with the rooms at the hotel.â You tuck your phone away and dump the rest of the tomatoes in the bowl giving it a halfhearted stir.Â
âYouâre putting them up in a hotel?â
âWell, yes. Should I let them pick a corner to sleep in at my house instead?â
He smiles at you and you feel some of the tension ease out of your shoulders, as though you've been waiting for permission to relax this entire time.Â
âIâm all done with the prep on my side, and since theyâll probably be a little whileâŚwould it be absurd if I used your shower?â
âYes. It would be absolutely absurd.â
Heâs mocking you. Funny.
âRight. Iâll just stand in your garden and hose myself down instead, shall I?â
âNo complaints on my side.â
Now heâsâŚflirting?
âSure. Let me just get out of these clothesââ You bring a hand down to your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband because apparently two can play this game.
âBathroomâs just down the hall,â he cuts in quickly.Â
You grin at him. âThank you.â
âSpare towels are in the cabinet.â His hand comes up to drag across his mouth, thumb catching briefly against his stubble as he watches you bend and grab one of the tote bags on the floor with your clothes inside.
âThanks,â you add again, more out of habit than anything else, before turning towards the hallway.Â
âMm.â
The sound follows you as you walk away, and once again youâre stuck dissecting every interaction youâve had with him today. Itâs enough to give you whiplash. One minute heâs distant, the next heâs standing far too close to be friendly, touching your face like itâs nothing. You donât know where you stand with him, and moments like this donât exactly help.Â
You make your way down the hallway, your grip tightening on the tote bag as your thoughts spiral, circling the same questions with absolutely no answers.
What was that?
Does he even realise heâs doing it?
You push the bathroom door open, and step inside. For a second you just stand there, because thatâs easier than thinking but that doesnât seem to last long.Â
Dumping your tote bag on the counter, you turn to the shower. Itâs walk-in, with enough space to move around freely, and a built-in seat tucked into one corner with handlebars nearby. Thereâs an overhead shower as well as a handheld one clipped to the side, which youâre immediately grateful for because you definitely donât have time to deal with washing your hair.Â
After locating the towels, you strip out of your clothes and once youâre under the water, you realise youâre stuck using his shower products because youâd only planned for an outfit change, not a full reset.Â
Now you get to smell like him even when youâre not near him.
Youâre hoping the shower washed away all your inappropriate Abbot-related thoughts along with the sweat and stress of the day. You donât entirely trust that it has, but you dry off and get dressed regardless.Â
On cue, your phone pings with a message from your father to say everyoneâs on their way. Just one more push and this whole shit show of an evening will be over. Easy. Completely manageable. Light work.Â
Before you even reach the kitchen, you can smell the grill, and when you do, you notice the dining table has already been set. Something in your chest dips a little at the sight. How heâs gone to all this effort for you and your family without questioning it twice.Â
You shake it off, physically, like that might dislodge the feeling before it can settle anywhere inconvenient, heading for the fridge instead. You grab two beers, popping them open against each other and follow the smell outside.Â
The humidity hasnât let up. It's still the clinging type and you can already feel a new sheet of sweat forming on your skin the closer you get to the grill. Abbot has his back turned to you, one hand resting on his hip, while the other works the tongs with an ease that suggests he knows exactly what heâs doing.Â
He looks unfairly attractive just by doing the most mundane taskâjust by existing.Â
You slow your step without meaning to. Which is embarrassing.Â
You stop a few steps short, watching him, like your bodyâs decided this is worth savouring, and you hate that thereâs something about him that manages to calm your nerves and make you feel like theyâre running laps all at the same time.Â
Thereâs probably a scientific explanation for it. Some chemical imbalance, some misfiring signal in your brain thatâs confused admiration with something far less convenient.Â
He turns to you, and you force your feet to move before you risk looking like a complete creep.Â
âThought you could do with something cold,â you say, holding out the beer to him.Â
âPerfect timing,â he replies, reaching for it, his fingers brushing against yours. âHow was the shower?â
âNecessary,â you quip, setting your beer and phone down on the counter so you can hoist yourself up onto it. Itâs probably not the smartest place to settle, perched this close to the grill, but you do it anyway.
He watches as you shift into place, not even trying to be subtle about it either. His gaze dips, catching onto the strip of skin revealed by the slit of your sundress, then drags back up again like itâs something he has to consciously pull away from.Â
âYou look nice,â is all he manages before shifting his focus back to the grill.Â
âThank you. And thanks again for doing all of this. Youâve gone through so much trouble and I donât even know where to begin in repaying you.â
He huffs at that, turning one of the sausages over with the tongs. âYou donât need to repay me.â
âMm,â you hum, letting your foot swing idly against the cabinet, making no effort to cover up the exposed skin he was looking at earlier. âIâd like to.â
âYeah?â
You tilt your head, watching him the way heâs been watching you, then reach for your beer and take a slow sip before answering. âYeah.â
âYou always like having the last word?â
You lower the bottle, meeting his eyes. âYou asked a question, didnât you?â
âThought you had a problem with those today.â
You grin at him. âThink Iâm over it now.â
âIs that so?â
You nod, taking another sip.Â
âOkay,â he drags out, setting his tongs down before ripping off a paper towel to wipe his hands with. âYou want to tell me why you were acting weird in the car?â
âI can tell you exactly why I was acting weird in the car, but youâd have to tell me something first.â Youâre not sure where all this bravery is coming from, certainly not the lukewarm beer acting as liquid courage.
He raises his brows with a small smile as he walks past you where youâre perched on the counter, and reaches into a cabinet beside you for a plate. âGo on. I did say youâre the boss today.â
âWhy go through all this trouble?âÂ
He opens his mouth to answer, but you stop him by lifting a finger just as he turns back towards you, a plate in hand. Your finger hovers somewhere between his chest and the idea of touching him, and his eyes drop again, predictably, to the stretch of bare skin where your thigh is exposed, right between where heâs standing.
âI donât want the same answer as earlier,â you add, lowering your hand, your knees parting just a little wider without making it obvious. âBecause itâs bullshit.â
For a moment he doesnât respond, but youâre not panicking. It's probably because you can tell youâve nudged something, pressed a spot heâd probably rather you didnât find.
He takes a step closer.Â
You feel the plate before you register what heâs doing. The cold edge of it presses lightly against your thigh, a contrast that makes your breath catch before you can smooth it out. Your skin warms it up almost instantly, but thatâs not what holds your attention.
Itâs his hand. Still there. Still keeping the plate pressed to you.
âBullshit?â Â
You swallow, which is annoying, because you hadnât planned on that being noticeable. You gather whatâs left of your composure and try again, aiming for even. Landing somewhere just adjacent. âYeah.â
âThen ask properly.âÂ
Your hands stay braced on the edge of the counter, your knees now parted enough to fit him in between them perfectly, the plate still pressed to your thigh.Â
You let out a slow breath, trying to unknot your fuzzy thoughts, but itâs harder than it should be with him this close. Â
âAsk properly,â he says again, softer this time, like he's not in a rush for you to answer.Â
You glance down at where the plate meets your thigh, and catch the way his other free hand comes to rest on your knee. You feel your whole body light up at his touch, something fluttering low in your stomach and spreading out from there before you can do anything about it.
âWhy,â you start, your voice wavering, âare you doing all of thisâŚfor me?â
He removes the plate, setting it beside you, both of his hands coming to rest on your knees.
âYou think I do things I donât want to do?â
You swallow again, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. âNo.â
âThen thatâs your answer.â
âThatâs not an answer,â you push, a little breathless now. âYou canât answer my question with a question.â
âYou want me to answer it properly?â
You nod, because words have completely abandoned you at this point.Â
âI did it because I wanted you here.â
You donât quite know where to file that information.Â
Thereâs no neat place for it to sit, no category your brain can quickly shove it into so you can move on and pretend this is all normal, because want is a dangerous word.Â
Itâs not polite or distant or easily explained away. It doesnât leave much room for interpretation, and thatâs the problem. Youâve been working with interpretation all day, picking at glances and half-answers and things that could mean something or nothing depending on how brave you felt.Â
Your fingers press harder into the edge of the counter, and you look at him to check if he actually said it, because maybe you imagined it the same way youâve been imagining everything else.Â
Heâs still there, looking at you like thereâs absolutely nothing for him to regret or take back.Â
âNot the answer you were hoping for?âÂ
âNo.â You shake your head, hands slipping from the counter to rest over his where they sit on your knees. Your fingers find his without much thought as you drag his hands up to your waist. âItâs exactly the answer I was hoping for.â
Abbotâs grip tightens, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, but he doesnât pull away. âThis is a bad idea.â
âYeah,â you murmur, not arguing it. âBut I havenât even told you what I was thinking of in the car.â
âJesus,â he hisses under his breath. âYou should go back inside. Your family could be turning up any minute.â
âYou want me to leave? I thought you wanted me here?â you press smugly.
âI need you to go inside,â he replies, more firmly now. His hands donât leave you right away, instead they slide leisurely from your waist, down along your hips, over your thighs, until his fingers briefly press into the skin just above your knees.Â
Then he lets go, taking a step back like thatâs going to fix anything.Â
Before you can come up with something smart, your phone starts vibrating against the counter.Â
You grab it, clearing your throat before answering. âHi, Dad.â
âWeâre outside, honey.â
âOkay,â you say lightly, sliding off the counter, taking one last look at Abbotâmore specifically at his very evident hard onâbefore youâre tuning away. âNow coming.â
âThat went well, donât you think?â Abbotâs voice sounds behind you as you finish rinsing the glasses.Â
Heâs right. It did go well. Suspiciously well. And youâre not entirely sure whether youâre glad or irritated with how easily he seemed to slot into your family. Objectively, itâs a good thing. In practice, itâsâŚinconveniant. Especially considering the way you two left things before they came over.
Youâre tempted to ask what he spent so long discussing with your father outside at one point. It had gone on long enough to make you nervous. You couldâve gone out there, hovered and earwiggedâyouâd even considered it for a full ten seconds before deciding to pour yourself another glass of wine.Â
Surprisingly, no one had thrown any inconvenient questions or accusations your way. They all left thinking that Abbot is just some cool guy you work with. A totally laid-back, easy going bossâŚthat youâve spent the entire night thinking about screwing.
You nod, switching the tap off. âSorry for the mess.â
âDidnât notice one.âÂ
âThatâs because I just spent the last half hour cleaning it up.âÂ
You turn to reach for a towel at the exact same time he steps in to place something in the sink, and just like that, youâre back in that position you seem to keep finding yourselves in, like thereâs some invisible thread pulling you into the same orbit whether you mean to or not.Â
You hesitate for a moment, then abandon the towel altogether and wipe your hands on your dress instead, gathering the fabric as you do, letting it ride up slightly before pulling it back down, just enough to expose your cleavage more so than before.
Whatever Abbot had dumped in the sink is forgotten instantly, his attention narrowing straight down to you.
âYou didnât have to.â
âYeah, well,â you shrug casually, âitâs the least I can do. Youâll finally be able to have your place to yourself.â You turn to reach for your phone. âIâll call myself an Uber and be out of your hair.â
Thereâs a pause, giving you enough time for you to open up the app.Â
âOut of my hair?â
His tone makes you pause and you glance back over your shoulder.Â
He seemsâŚtense.
âWell, yes Abbot. Iâm not planning to crash at your place, youâve done enough for me today.â
âRight.â He nods, but thereâs an edge to the word and it has you raising your brow.Â
âYou told me to go inside, remember? Or is that not what you want anymore?â You tilt your head. âYou know, for someone who was so adamant about me asking things properly, you seem to be struggling to do the same.â
He stays silent.
âWhat do you want?âÂ
Nothing.
âHuh?â
Still nothing.
You shake your head, focusing back on your phone and booking that damn Uber, because youâve just about had it with the events of today, and dealing with a manchild is not something youâre adding to the list.Â
Youâre halfway through entering your details when the phone is suddenly snatched right out of your grip.
âWhat the hell?â You look up just as Abbot slides it straight into his back pocket.
âI canât tell you what I want, because then I wonât be able to take it back.â
âWell, that sounds like a you problem,â you shoot back, stepping towards him, reaching for your phone.Â
He takes a step back.
âGive it back.â
âNo.â
You roll your eyes. âYouâre absolutely insane.â
âAnd youâre not listening to me.â
âOh, Iâm listening. Loud and clear. You donât know what you want, you wonât say what you want, and apparently now Iâm being held hostage because of it.â
âThatâs not whatâs happening.â
âOkay,â you scoff. âWell, enjoy whatever this is.â You gesture vaguely between the two of you. âIâll just walk home.â
His expression shifts, like he doesnât believe you, like youâve just told him something mildly ridiculousâŚwhich you haveâŚbecause thereâs no chance in hell youâre actually walking back.
âYouâre not walking.â
âWatch me.âÂ
You turn away from him, but you donât even make it half a step before his hand closes around your wrist. You barely get a second to react before heâs pulling you to him, your spine lining up flush against his front.
âQuit being such a brat,â he scolds, breath hot against your ear, his hands settling at your hips to keep you there, his groin pressed firmly against your ass.
You buck into him out of instinct. âI am notââ
One of his hands reaches for the slit of your dress, his bare fingers tracing up your thigh, slowly, like heâs giving you every chance to stop him.Â
You donât. Obviously.Â
âYou are,â he repeats, voice threading through you. âThreatening to walk out just to see if Iâll stop you.â
You let out a quiet breath, something halfway between a scoff and something far less convincing. âI donât need you to stop me.â
His hand stills, high on your thigh now, thumb pressing in like heâs testing the truth of that. âNo?â
âNo.â
His grip tightens on your hip, enough to pull you back into him again, closer, if thatâs even possible. âThen go.â His words donât match what heâs doing.
You donât move.Â
Not even an inch.Â
His thumb traces inward along your thigh absentmindedly, while your heart knocks behind your ribs.Â
âFunny. Couldâve sworn you were in a rush.â
You swallow, your fingers curling useless at your sides, like theyâre waiting for instructions youâre not giving. âI was.â
âYeah?â His nose brushes along your jaw. âWhat happened?â
âY-youâre in the way.â
âAm I?â His hand drifts higher, the tops of his knuckles brushing along the damp spot of your panties.
Your head tips back before you can stop it.
âThat doesnât look like Iâm in your way,â he murmurs, something faintly mocking tucked into it.
You exhale, shaky, annoyed at him, at yourself, at your entire nervous system. âYouâre very confident for someone who didnât even know what he wanted five minutes ago.â
âI know what I want,â he assures you. âI just donât think weâd be able to go back from it.â
âSo letâs not,â you argue weakly. You can hear it yourself, how desperate it sounds, how little conviction there is behind it. âThis is just a one-off. We can pretend this never happened tomorrow.â
âIs that something you can do? Because I donât think I can.âÂ
âYes, you can,â you breathe, pressing your ass into him. âI can,â you add quickly, which is actually just a bold-faced lie. You donât think you can ever come back from this, not reallyâbut youâd try, you would, if it meant his hand would keep inching higher instead of stopping where it is.
âYeah?â he murmurs into your neck.Â
âYesâplease. Iâll even move to the day shift,â you say, half-delirious, as though thatâs a completely normal bargaining chip to throw on the table. âWeâll never speak of this again.â
âDonât do that,â he mutters, a hint of a smile in his voice now. âI need you on the night shift.â His hand finally shifts, thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric.Â
âOkayâokay, sorryâIâm sorryââ The words tumble out, rushed and barely coherent.Â
He presses a wet kiss just under your jaw, and a small, involuntary sound slips out of you in response.Â
âOne off?â he asks in between the kisses, his voice humming against your skin.Â
âOne off.â
His hand slips beneath the fabric, middle finger dragging through your folds, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. You can hear how wet you areâactually hear itâand feel it too, with how easily his thumb finds rhythm.Â
âJesus, baby,â he breathes, the words half a laugh. âHave you been this worked up the whole day?âÂ
You bite your lip down, unable to concentrate on anything other than the hot feeling pulling tighter in your stomach.
âI asked you a question.â
âYes,â you hiss as he picks up the pace, making your knees buck, properly this time, your balance tipping forward before his other hand tightens at your hip, holding you in place like he anticipated it. The hard line of his cock presses into your ass, completely unignorable and more than enough to get drunk on.
âWhole day,â he repeats, like heâs piecing it all together. âWalking around like thatâŚtalking to me like nothingâs wrong. Is that why you needed that shower?â
You nodâonce, then again, and againâyour body answering for you, a little too eager to cooperate where your brain has checked out.Â
It gets worse the second he slips a finger in.
Youâre that soaked that there's no resistance when he pumps it in and out of you, and you donât manage to stop the strangled noise that slips out when he curls that same finger. Your breath doesnât quite keep up. It stutters, trips over itself, your chest rising too fast, too shallow, like youâve forgotten how to regulate something as basic as breathing.
Your back arches into him, your hand gripping his wrist out of desperation, and you feel it thenâhow saturated his wrist has gotten, slick with you, the mess of it not contained to just there but spread further down your thighs, probably all over your dress.
It's humiliating.Â
âDid you touch yourself in the shower?â
âNââ you start, which is ambitious of you, really, considering the circumstances.
âLiars donât get to come,â he warns. âDid you touch yourself in there?â
âYes.â
He tuts. âDirty girl. I was out here trying to make sure everything was perfect for your family and you were getting yourself off in my shower.â
You want to argue with him. You really do. Something witty, something that would land clean and put you back on even ground. But thereâs nothing. Nothing except your uneven breathing and pathetic whimpers youâre trying to swallow down.Â
âDid it feel as good as this?â
âNoâfuck,â you bite out when he slips a second finger in, the stretch pulling the word straight from you. Your thighs press together out of the sheer intensity of him, but he doesnât let that happen for long.Â
His foot comes in between yours, nudging them apart. âDonât go shy on me now, baby. You still havenât told me what you were thinking about in the car.âÂ
Your walls clench around his fingers, pulling him in deeper, each curl pressing against that spongy spot that has you gasping for air. He thinks the fantasy in the car is the worst of itâor the showerâbut he has no idea how many times youâve thought about him like this. And feeling him get off on it too, the way his cock keeps chasing friction against you, is almost enough to tip you over on its own.
âJack, pleaseââ you beg, for what, youâre not sure.
âSay that again,â he breathes into your hair, voice catching slightly as he grinds into you again, pulling his fingers from inside you just to shift his attention to your swollen clit.
âJack,â you mewl, and you hear the way he curses behind you, âIâm so c-close.â
âYeah,â he pants, fingers picking up the pace. âYeah, I can feel that.âÂ
Your legs tremble, your whole body tightening, the pressure building too fast now, too much, your breath breaking completely as you clutch at him like that might hold you together. You feel his chest rise and fall against your back as he keeps bucking into you, steady in theory, less so in practise, his fingers falling into a messy pattern, too fucking slick with you to manage anything more coherent.
âMâgonnaâfuckâJackââ
âThere you go. Just like that.â
He bites down on your neck and everything blurs, sound dropping out, thought following quickly behind it, your body trying to fold in on itself, like it doesnât know where to put this feeling or how to contain it. Your thighs try to close again, tightening as your orgasm reaches its peak, your cunt pulsing through it, Abbotâs heavy breathing in your ear.
âShitââ he exhales, his hand slowing against you, ââfuck.â
For a second, neither of you move.Â
Your body is still catching up, small aftershocks running through you, your grip on him loosening but not quite letting go, like you donât trust your legs to do their job just yet.Â
âShit.â
âYes, youâve already said that,â you whisper, leaning your head back against him as he caresses your thigh.
Thereâs a huff against your shoulder, an attempt at a laugh that clearly requires less energy than he actually has.
Neither of you really get the chance to come down though, because thereâs a knock at the door.Â
You both still, unsure if either of you heard it right, until it sounds again.
âWho is that?â you ask, pulling yourself away from Abbot, your hands immediately going to your dress, smoothing it down.
âI donât knowâcan youââ He pauses, shifting awkwardly behind you. âCan you get that?â
You turn to look at him, brows lifting. âMe?â
âYes, you,â he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. âIâm not answering the door like this.â
âLike what?âÂ
He just looks at you while you look down, lips pressing together like youâre trying very hard not to smile.Â
ââŚRight,â you concede, softer this time.
âThank you,â he says, the sarcasm sitting heavy in it, as you tug your dress back into place and make your way towards the door.
You wipe at your forehead, still a little flushed, and swing the door open.
âHey manââ the guy on the other side starts, stopping short when he realises whoâs opened it. âAbbot around? My car wonât start and Iâm late for my night shiftââ he leans slightly past you, like he expects to see him.
âUh yeah, heâsâŚâ
You donât even need to turn to know heâs there now.
âYeah,â Abbot calls, voice steadier than it has any right to be. âWhatâs up?â
âOh manâI didnât mean to interrupt anything,â the guy says, glancing between the two of you, something faintly amused flickering across his face.
And only when Abbot steps up beside you, do you realise what the guy means.
Heâs now shirtless, using the black skimpy t-shirt as a cover across his groin, like that somehow makes things less obvious.
âWhatâs wrong with it?âÂ
âThink the batteryâs dead,â the guy explains, scratching the back of his neck. âIt just wonât turn over.â
âAlright,â Abbot nods, dragging a hand through his hair before glancing down at himself, very briefly, like heâs just remembered. âGive me a second.â
âYeah, yeah, no problem at all, dude. Iâll wait outside.â
You close the door, not fully, but enough to block your conversation from prying ears.Â
â...Iâll book that Uber now⌠if I can have my phone?â You hold your hand out expectantly.Â
Thereâs a pause.
â...Right.â
You raise your brows, just as he pulls your phone out from his back pocket, placing it in your palm slowly.
âYou could stay,â he suggests hesitantly, because he knows better.
Your fingers close around the device. âThatâs not what we agreed on, remember?â you reply, trying to keep your tone light. âItâs a one off.â
Something shifts in his expression, and you feel the slight drop in your stomach, like somethingâs been pulled out from under you just as quickly as it appeared.Â
âYeahâŚOne off.â
You nod like thatâs the end of it, pretending youâre not feeling a little hollow. âTake your time,â you add, stepping back. âIâll let myself out.â
He stays where he is for a moment, just watching you, before he finally reaches for the door, leaving you standing in his home, probably for the last time.
And you already hate this arrangement, this promise you both talked yourselves into, because it doesnât feel like a âone off.â Not when your body still feels like his hands are on it, not when you can still smell him on your skin, not when youâre still standing here in his spaceâthinking about how easily he asked you to stay.
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The fact that, after that blow up, Whitaker still went out of his way to defend Langdon in this conversation, when the only other person he did that for was Trinity, is really meaningful