"𝑚𝑒? 𝑛𝑜𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦."

title creds: ((movement)) by hozier.

a/n: hi friends! I’ve had this idea for literally over a year now, its a little different than what we’re used to around here p l e a s e validate me omg ive been so nervous to post this skskssk please leave feedback if you give a read or I might just go insane ok bye!!! 

*flashback indicated in text by a  — cut. 

Maybe turning back would never be possible.

But maybe, moving forward,

would be so much sweeter.

You didn’t know it then, but that night some dark, almost starving voice buried deep within you had scratched its way to the surface. For the very first time.

—

Anticipating. Antsy, perhaps. Tense to say the least.

Outside the lavish hotel walls, a snowy breeze blows. A noise ripples through the air outside, reminiscent of a howl erupting the pits of a wolf’s belly. Your lips part, and the sharp weight of pencil black heels shrilling into the balls of your feet causes a mellow wince to brew upon them. Warm hotel light washes over your features, and over the faint stir of the wind outside, you could barely perceive the richness of his voice as he engages with the front desk receptionist.

You didn’t know it then.

“I need two rooms, firmly.” he mumbles unhappily.

His voice. Deep timbered, earnest. It makes something ripple deep inside you, despite your greatest attempts to smother it.

He stands a few meters away, dressed in all black. A high turtleneck and sleek charcoal trousers that delicately accent his lean, powerful frame. It almost seemed as if every inch of him was meant to be alluring, likeable of the upmost. His expression seemed hard, tightly drawn with a growing ache you knew had begun to dwell in his temples.

John Wick seemed to be moulded from the type of beauty that simply steals your breath.

A decade or two your senior, the man with the dark brown eyes regards the receptionist critically as the words flee thin taut lips.

“Even a suite will do.” The curve above his dark brow accentuates, and you swore you’d seen the muscles tense on the blazer clad broad of his back. “Connecting doors is alright.”

John Wick, was a lawyer in his prime,

and you, his paralegal.

Your professional relationship was one that dominated the industry, the team you’d built one that struck envy within the bones of your colleagues. Together, you were unrelenting, viciously passionate for your craft. Frighteningly efficient in your field. Tonight, the two of you had been travelling to a conference a few hours from your city.

Had it not been for the tremor of unannounced wind and an unsolicited snow storm, you eventually would have arrived to the hotel you’d booked months in advance for the eve, with two separate rooms.

John’s expression remains tense and silent, a disgruntled sort of inapt, expression twisted with something that resembled tension. His voice is laced with subtle irritation as he rotates the bulk of muscles around his shoulder. “Even a room, but with double beds. Anything at all, please.” was his silent plea, a long stretch of silence before the rueful receptionist simply nods her head an apologetic ‘no’.

It wasn’t the dilemma of sharing a room so much so that upset him; it was quite the opposite actually. It was the regret he felt for you. Not only the action being an outlier of your professional relationship, but also simply an invasion of your privacy as a woman.

John didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.

But sharing a room, let alone a bed with your boss? That would certainty do the trick, he thinks.

He pulls back, struck with the realization that perhaps, there was absolutely nothing he could do to arrange an appropriate refuge for you tonight. It takes a few blinks to slip out of his daze as he looks over the slope of his shoulder to see you standing there, your lips nervously bitten and the pretence of a worried frown naturally twisting the frames of your face.

“I’m sorry sir, I regret to inform you that we only have a single queen room available tonight.”

Deep and riveting, the sigh he breathes is one thread with remorse. “Okay,” the gruff of his voice melts. “I’ll take it, thank you.”

With his hands slipping into the security of his coat pockets, the weight of his drudging legs seems to intensify tenfold as he braves the walk your way. Briefly, his head bows with each stride and the pang of fault that cuts through his chest feels sharp, nearly acidic when he thinks of the uneasiness you’d feel when he’d bring word.

“John?” you repeat softly, an clear cut expression of worry written to your features as you take a step closer to him, and your heels click on marble below. The winter freeze blows sporadically through the hotel entrance each time the heavy doors sway open, and it leaves a sting to the soft skin of your bare legs adorned with nothing but a pencil skirt and black nylons.

You rarely speak his name. Often, its simply “Mr. Wick”, or an alternate variation of identification that didn’t oblige his name. It wasn’t often; exclusively during the rarest, void of normal formality moments in which his name slipped between the curve of your lips.

Yet still, if even in the subtlest way, you swore it warms something inside your chest, when you do use the title.

John. John Wick, a mountain of a man who seemed to even bring the sun to it’s knees, a man of warm smiles when needed but iron in his bones nonetheless. “Any luck?” you allow, arms nervously wrapping around the curve of your chest when you attempt to hug yourself, thinner textile of your business coat hardly enough to salvage from the building ice that seemed to carve into each inhale.

Loose strands of rich brown hair brush against the curve of his face when he looks up, eyes finally finding yours.

A long pause.

Then, a gentler tone. “I got the only room they had…” he offers by the way of explanation, yet all you could focus on was the way his subtle, hardly visible freckles seemed to embroider under this muted hotel light. “But, it only has one bed.”

Your throat feels dry as you search for something to say, anything at all you may be able to muster through the fragile shock of your lips. “Wh-what?” you mutter, embarrassed. Fidgeting, you regard his profile; daggers of stress clawing his each joint and a sulk to his jaw that you’d become much familiar with— it only exaggerates when his mind tends to race a mile a minute.

You’d think he’d take a long, deliberate breath. Really let the realization sink in of what he was to propose. Let the thought register, it’s consequences. John simply however, does not. He seems set on his decision, eager for an end to your apprehension.

You always help him win. Restlessly by his side, iron in your veins, too. John values you, respects you and considers you an equal nonetheless. A gentleman at heart, he’d never even the smallest thorn of unease consciously harm your way.

You are more than a colleague, merely an acquaintance. A friend, a trusted partner.

There is an edge to his voice and your own expression falters at the words. “I want you to take the room, Y/n.” he allows, voice mirroring more of a statement, rather an offer. “I’ll be fine in the car.”

Your expression twists immediately, leaving little room for argument. There’s concern evident in your piercing tone, and you remind yourself to breathe when his darker features gaze upon you with such intent focus. “Jonathan, you’ll freeze.” Folded hands loosen, and drop to your side as you swipe a stray lock behind your own ear, words heavy with rebuttal. “I won’t allow you to do that, I can’t.”

There’s an edge to his face, as well. As if a million words brew in his mind right this moment, yet he finds none to match the dead end of the moment. It flickers across warm brown eyes; the unwillingness to say more. He simply allows you to lead, readily available to follow whatever decision you choose to make.

Colleague or not, you were his priority tonight. He truly believed he held the responsibility to keep you safe, to protect you from come what may. As your superior, your boss, your friend.

A knot forms in your chest, and your eyes squeeze shut momentarily as you breathe deeply, arms folding around the security of your own figure again. You don’t hesitate on the latter, under no circumstances would you let John brave the cold of the car on his own. There’s a certain hope in your tone, one that reassures him that you do trust him enough to make it work for one evening.

“Maybe there is a couch in the room? Or anything we could use?”

His answering smile is worn, substantial with duty, nearly upsetting to watch, and in it, you see decades of drive and fight. That smile somehow softens his darker features, allowing the genuine humility he holds deep inside to slip from underneath the cracks.

Its an exasperated sigh, the one that leaves his lips. He attempts to curl a smile, yet it never quite reaches the silver of his eyes. The joints in his neck creak as he turns his head gently, watching the way thick fluffs of snow blizzard in the barren night wind, a faint lavender painting in the dark night sky. “I’m sorry,” he allows, guilt ridden, as if somehow he was the very force that had caused the storm to brew in the first place. His voice is indulgent with subtle sulk, and suddenly, you’re painfully aware of the measured distance he keeps from you, standing a few feet away.

He doesn’t wish to impose. To make you feel uncomfortable, to allow tension to conjure in any form.

There was a lump at the back of your throat.

The kind that sinks like the weight of an anchor burning into the pit of your chest.

You swallow, and swallow, and swallow.

You didn’t know it then.

Mr. Wick had never been a man of many words.

Respectful, bold. A couple decades your senior, yet you’d never be able to tell from a mere glance his way. Peak shape proven, you were certain he hits the gym a few times a week. Firm biceps, defined torso, a beard so perfectly groomed and deliciously lengthy mane, Mr. Wick was the epitome of aged like fine wine.

—not that such conclusions and observations were appropriate for you to draw, anyway.

Your superior.

The ride up the elevator had been quiet. Uneasily quiet, the walk down the hallway similarly bleak. The hotel had given you a room on the 18th floor, brilliantly lavish, high off the ground. The lights are dimmer here, muted romantic, elusive. You trail behind John as he leads the path, clutching your overnight bag as it drapes elegantly over the slope of your shoulder.

You watch the way muscles ripple in his back with each movement, each trudge forward. Rippling muscles and lax hair that flows delicately with the passing wind he creates.

He opens the door with the swift slide through the slot, and a generous creak cuts across the distance with its bulky glide. Its welcomes you colossally, the fragrance of fresh linen and hotel shampoos.

A modest room, yet silky in its splendour. Elegant beige tones, extravagant and inviting. Heated beautifully, the warm atmosphere envelopes around you as it sinks into your bones. The sight of a vast paned window aligns adjacent, a striking view of city skyline and evening lights pulsing through the city.

It almost startles you, the richness of his voice when it cuts through the long stretch of previous silence. “I’ll take your bag, hun.” he offers, setting it down beside the bulk of his suitcase and duffle bag placed to a sleek couch in the corner of the room.

Hun.

It sends a wave of simmering warmth inside you when the words slip off his tongue.

It shouldn’t, it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t. But it did.

He doesn’t mean none by it, simply a kind endearment. One he’d use for perhaps any lady friend of his.

You admire the way he runs a weighty hand through dusty locks, jaw flexing slightly with a hand rested to his side. He gestures, respectfully so. “Feel free to freshen up,” a certain formality laced on his tongue. “I’m going to head downstairs for a bit. Grab a drink, if it’s alright with you.”

You let his words absorb, nodding your head slightly. “Of course.” Was your kind return, locking eyes with his darker ones momentarily.

“I’ll be back at…” a quick glance to his watch. “9:30pm.” You appreciate the gesture, sure of the fact that he’d only specified exactly of his return to avoid the awkwardness of walking in on you when you didn’t want him to. “Can I get you anything?”

His words are like a cup to your cheek.

Sincere, you adore his care, the respect he’s gracefully shown you this evening. “I’m okay, thank you.”

With a light smile, John shifts on his feet, hands securely tucked into the pants of his sleek business slacks as he begins towards the door. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

He’s gone before you can even register the intensity of the situation.

You hadn’t yet addressed the burning question. What sleeping arrangements would you both agree to?

Shifting, your heels clink on the marble below, feet nimble as you adjust to your surroundings. You admire the window, and the remarkable view that accompanies it.

Its peaceful down below.

Or, at least as peaceful as it can be during a snow storm.

You take a seat by the window, a chair readily available to support one. The city is sprawling, covered in crystals shimmering through the air. It reflects to the night sky, the pretty views of violet mixing into hue. Farther north, dark clouds caving in seem to be visible even in the nightfall dim, and you know it only meant substantial snowfall is yet to come.

Curling tighter in your seat, you allow the weight of chic heels to slip off, falling to the floor below, and you lean on your cheek against folded arms. John wouldn’t be back for an hour, leaving you alone to unwind and prepare for a dreadful night ahead.

The earlier awkwardness filling the room had almost been suffocating, and your head suddenly feels exceptionally heavy to the thought of John seeing you in a different light once this night blows over.

There certainly was a thin line, a boundary being crossed by this arrangement. Despite your combined greatest attempts to ravish it, to salvage the ordinary.

Truthfully, there was nothing ordinary about tonight. And it was a tough truth to swallow, one you’d have to immerse yourself in for the next bout of unknown hours.  

Something inside you aches; something you don’t quite understand. A dull, almost violent throb of loneliness.

You don’t remember if it had been there before John left.

He arrives as said, announced on time and punctual.

John values staying true to schedule during work hours, too.

You’d opted to slip into something a little comfier, and you’d be lying if you said it hadn’t felt achingly strange to have John see you in clothes that strayed from the usual business attire you’d host. This felt…simple. Casual, almost as if you’d allowed him a peak into the real you, the unfiltered and domestic version of you.

It felt far more intimate than you’d hoped for.

You mentally thank yourself for packing a hoodie in your overnight bag. Had you not, the simple, thin strapped camisole you brought to sleep in would have proved far too revealing to wear around Mr. Wick. Especially in the form you wear it each night-- sans bra.

He finds you by the window still, face freshened and the smell of eucalyptus exuding off your skin.

Jonathan drags his eyes over the silk of your features, seemingly caught off guard by what he’s seeing, and he clears his throat before a faint rasp grits in his throat. With best attempts executed, he consciously tries to keep dark brown eyes reverted from your body, your figure, even the mere space that occupies around your form.

He gives you space, respects your boundaries as best as he can in the trivial space you’ve both been given tonight. “Everything alright while I was away?”

You sense a formality in his tone; one you’ve become much familiar with over the course of your professional relationship. As if even now, he desperately tries to mask the situations dire tone.

Given the facts of the state, a lawyer in his prime. John diverts little from his professional persona. Fitting the circumstances to mold to his perception— despite the awkwardness of the situation, despite this evening being anything but normal. He treats it as if it is, as if there was nothing unordinary about your endeavours tonight.

It’s a pretty little talent you’ve seen in the professional industry. A lawyer’s undeniable talent to manipulate the truth to fit their best interests.

You nod, and a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of your lips. “All good.” was your sincere reply, curling further into the loveseat by the window. Through the window frame, you feel a wintery nip spilling through exposed cracks, its almost revitalizing when you dip your fingers near, tracing snowflakes cutting distance.

Through the side of your gaze, you notice him strike with a loosen to his collar, unfastening the first two buttons on the crisp of his cotton white dress shirt. Slow and unravelling, his hands move delicately as they peel the fabric gently, reaching into his own bag for a pair of overnights.

You didn’t know it then, that John had an expertly precise grip.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, subsequent the sound of water running and teeth being brushed that you’d watched him come out the bathroom door wearing grey sweats, and a perfectly fitted white t shirt.

There is a slow, almost warm blooming in your chest you can’t quite recall feeling for ages.

There was a certain softness here to him that you’d never seen before.

He reveals beautifully toned, bulky muscles wrapped tightly inside the seams of his shirt. Firm biceps, defined torso and the lengthy mocha locks he hosts almost seem ruffled under the weight of a stressful evening.

They look softer under this muted light, as does he.

Rosy skin, protruding veins that run up his arms. A broad back, beautifully toned with powerful dips and peaks. Mr. Wick may have been a couple decades your senior, but nevertheless, breathtaking.

You’d swore there had been a subtle blush to his skin, a rosy hue you may dedicate to the amber toned whiskey he’d probably ordered not too long ago at the hotel bar.

You wonder how it might feel to be nestled between those arms of his. To feel the warmth of his skin, the firm weight of his hold.

How would he do it? You wonder.

Is he one to pull his lover close by the waist, bury his face in the crook of their neck as he whispers delicate nothings?

Or would he take what is his proudly; strident and confident in his endeavour. Big, beautiful behind them as he draws them into his chest, holding so tightly they’d feel it in his firm hold, fear of ever letting them go.

Stop.

Stop.

You feel your pulse spike.

These thoughts are not yours to wonder. They do not belong to you, no part of them is welcome within you. He does not rightfully belong to you. To be a token of your wonder, to cast himself in the cracks between your worn out mind.

You hadn’t fully noticed when he’d grabbed a pillow off the queen sized bed, offering to throw it onto the couch in the corner of the modest room. Lost in your thoughts, simply watching him, breathing him in, drinking in the sight before you.

You silently thank the sky for snapping you out of an impromptu uninvited daydream.

It wasn’t till then, that you’d fully comprehended the matter before you.

“John, what are you doing?”

Your expression is laced, something resembling distaste twisting your features, and he feels the weight of a bulked hotel pillow swell in his grip. “I’ll take the couch.” He simply states, tasked at hand while he scans the room for a spare blanket, assuring a small smile your way before doing so.

Your breath catches, and you blurt out a trifling differ.

Eyes slipping away for a moment, he wonders what, exactly, may be the source of your internal opposition. Swallowing distinctly, your eyes scan the falling flurries out in a rogue storm, before looking back at him with a deeply intent sigh. “John, you’ll hurt your back. That couch is far too small.”

That simmering care was one you’d always held for John.

Professional relationship, friends or not, you’d always hoped for the best for John.

You hadn’t known much about him outside your work lives, although you did know he lives alone, never mentioned any family near by.

No lover either, that you’d heard of.

You’d always hoped John was taking care of himself, above all.

He stares at you briefly, raking an apprehensive hand through the tresses of his lengthy mane. His expression cracks briefly, before he strains his lip and you see his collarbone tense and relax, as if thinking a quarrel in his head. “I’ll be okay.” was his simple return, registered with a faint make believe smile daubed to his lips which you promptly had been able to see through.

He’d put on a smile, for you.

Your hand clings to the soft skin of your own, folding neatly with your tone assuring as you squeeze gently. With a deep inhale, you allow an exhale to accompany, eyes scanning the queen sized sea of sheets before you tidily laid out on the bed; cotton and crisp white. Light burned behind your eyelids when they close momentarily, breathing in that familiar, almost comforting sense of hotel shampoos and air conditioner. Blinking a few times, you connect your tired gaze to John’s, feeling something churn inside you when you catch glimpse of how worn he really looked. Tired, in dire need of a good night’s rest.

The weight of your feet carry you faster than you’d hoped, rising promptly toward the surplus of decorative pillows dispersed to the bed. Carefully, critically, you organize the pillows in a straight line along the length of the mattress, a bite to your lip as you work smaller fingers in the organized pattern. The line leaves a hike in the middle of the bed, offering a makeshift divider between two clearly distinct sides of space.

Your voice is calm, collected and prescribed when you speak, taking in the view of a focused John in front of you, firmness of his arms folding across the planes of his broad chest as he captivates the sight ahead him imminently. You attempt to control your expression best you could, a genuine truth to the words that leave your pink lips. The curve of your neck turns in place, and you regard the improvised barrier you’d assembled using the only resources at hand. With a thin taut bite to your nervous lips, and a gesture toward the bed, your eyes glimmer towards him, offering a gentle reassurance with your eyes sincerely locked to his. “John, you’re not a stranger. This is okay. I promise.”

There was a flicker of something across his face. Something that seemed surprised faintly, almost thankful that you’d trusted him enough to do this. His fingers lazily trail up the back of his neck, and you watch the way he gently almost begins to nod, before the allure of your voice adds. “And, I promise. If at any point I feel uncomfortable or need my space, I will let you know.” He nods faintly, and his fingers brace comfortably against the fluff of the pillow he’d discarded to the couch only moments prior.

For a final time, he offers you a sincere stare. As if he’s silently pleading for you to tell him the truth, to really assure him that this is okay. That you’ll be alright, won’t feel inflicted upon or infringed.

You dart an reassuring smile his way, and note the way he savours it for a moment, watching the twinkle in your eyes as the cheerful words dismiss. “Besides, I could never do that to you.” was your bright giggle, eyes indicating toward the lesser designer couch. “You’d never fit on there, silly.”

He thinks it’s beautiful, your giggle.

It’s a refreshing sound, the kind that creeps inside your bones and really revives you.

He finds himself asking you if it’s alright to retire for the night not long thereafter. Lights warm, shut off in an attempt to salvage some much needed shut eye. You watch him from the corner of your eye, rested on your side of the bed. Nestling into the sheets, you gaze the way he checks to make sure the door is locked, the room is safe of hazard and all things rest the way they should be.

It's not long after that you feel the weight of the mattress sink beside you, and John’s lengthy figure occupy the vacant space. Over the climb of the pillow fortress between you two, you can still see him; the slope of his face, the bridge of his nose. The way his hair falls sunken beside him in flowy currents, draping the sides of his face like a cascade. He simply lays on his back, hands folded neatly on his chest, and you do precisely the same.

Quiet.

Subdued.

Breathing.

Steady rises, steady falls of the chest. A long flowing stillness, intense with the occasional draught of simply nothing.

You wonder if he feels it, too. The bubble at the back of your throat. The urge to say something, to break the silence.

Break the silence.

Break it. Break it. Break it.

Say something.

Anything.

Surely, he too feels the inner turmoil.

Humour him.

It’s a lax sound, when it departs your throat. Voice just as easy as the soundless look in your eyes. Your breath halts for a moment, tightening between your lungs and you lace a sigh meddling with a gentle chuckle when you wonder aloud.

“So, John.” was your ponder. “Ever done this before?”

The sound that leaves his throat is reassuring, carefree and appreciative.

Kind.

You talk for what seems like hours.

You talk, and talk, and talk.

You didn’t know it then.

You didn’t know.

You simply couldn’t have known.

So softly, so quietly, so gently as to not cause a stir in the midnight quiet. The joints in your neck seem to creak when you turn slightly to face his way, repeating his earlier gesture of locking your gaze intently over him.

Something inside you seemed to sizzle when he’d done that. There’s something about that intense regard that made you almost brittle.

There’s a comforting embrace in this dark, something about it feels easy.

Its familiar, something you know and have seen routinely. You’re safe in this dark, unseen, free to simply be.

John, too, seems as if a comforting embrace in the dark. Quiet and patient, understanding and sincere. Respectful, never one for many words yet he’d allowed you to indulge in him tonight. Lethal and frightening in courtrooms, yet never to you.

     .You simply couldn’t have known.

You tried to not keep track of time.

It made it easier.

It all comes rushing back. The grave, pivotal  conversation that took place only moments prior.

John.

—

“You probably have lots of friends outside work, huh.”

The weight of your comforter was heavy between your fingertips, seams soft and threads by the thousands. John had taken the liberty of ordering a second duvet from room service, one for your side of the bed, one for his.

Despite your playful, teasing inquire, John seems lax on his answer, insolent and unbothered. A quiet, almost hum of an exhale sounds in your ear from the undeniable proximity, and your expression creases with the words. “Not really,” was his toned down, quiet in the dim hum. “I guess I prefer good, quality company and the comfort of my home.” He adds. “I don’t get out much.”

You hear the softness of his breath in this dark, both your eyes intent on the white ceiling above.

There’s a crispness you perceive to his voice; one that’s certainly always been there, but seems to exaggerate in this muted eve. The quiet of the night seems to accentuate his tone, each murmur, each deep exhale and rich sigh all the more velvet off his tongue.

A comforting embrace to have his company tonight.

A comforting, quiet embrace in the midnight dark.

Selfishly, pleasantly. It felt reviving to have him to yourself tonight. No paperwork, no clients. No phone calls and certainly no bitter company to oversee court hearings and case plans. “You?” was his endearing return.

Your fingers twitch slightly, fondling the duvet in your grip. Something inside you yearns, and a unforeseen chuckle quietly leaves the peak of your lips to his return.

You stare the ceiling blankly.

You think he’d been doing the same, too.

“I haven’t gotten out much either, lately.”

You feel comfortable in this space. It’s almost intoxicating — to have someone’s full, undivided and pure attention.

You admire that about John, an attribute you hadn’t known he’d been so skilled in until tonight. The way he so effortlessly, easily pulls such authentic dialogue out of you.

You weren’t sure if it was him, the quiet relief of the dark, or a seamless combination of both. Something inside you longed to speak, to share your peace.

Your mind wanders to the ghost of a man you used to know.

Your peace. The sky knew, you’d never been able to say it before the roof caved in on your already brittle, salvaged by a measly thread relationship. You’d claimed you were happy, parted on amicable terms.

But the truth was far from different, you’d realized very quickly once the string had been cut.

It stung. It stung more than you’d care to admit. That to him, you were nothing more than a loose end. It’s an almost frail chuckle when the sound leaves your throat, perhaps it had been reminiscent of the helplessness you’d felt in your gut that you still sometimes had trouble getting rid of. “I uh,” your eyes fluttered for a moment, almost stinging, but you’d promised you’d never shed another tear in his name.

And you are strong.

It was a promise you’d never break. Licking your lips, you feel the breath ignite inside your lungs and a gnaw surge in your bones to the remembrance. “I used to get out quite a bit, actually. My ex was a business man, so he would take me to quite a few events and formals.” remembering, remembering, remembering. “Looking back, I recall almost feeling like a decoration on his arm.” You’d felt a cringe creep between your lips. “I really did feel so out of place at those.”

“Ahhh,” John reckons, voice split with ease, a coil in his throat. “I do remember that man. He used to come in to our office sometimes.”

You giggle, sweeping a stray hair behind the shell of your ear. “Yeah, he did.”

A pause.

Then, a low, almost murmur. “Never cared for em’.”

A pause.

Then, a silent undertone. “I would never treat you how he did.”

You’d swore you’d heard a bitterness in his tone, the words almost an acidic taste when they puncture. “You deserve much more than that.”

You felt your muscles going stiff with shock to his words.

—

It all comes rushing back.

John had turned his back and bid goodnight to you a while ago.

I would never treat you how he did.

It all comes rushing back.

It all replays in your head, over and over and over. The all of it.

I would never treat you how he did.

How he did, how he did, how he did.

It all comes rushing back. Thumping. Loud in your ear. A shockwave, perhaps more. A dull knock of almost something resembling an ache, and you feel the blood rushing through your fingers almost freeze, and freeze your thoughts do, too.

Your epiphany surprises you, far more than you’d care to admit.

Straining your muscles to raise your head, you take in the figure beside you. So near, yet so painfully distant.

Silence.

A long stretch of soft, shadowy silence.

The thoughts reply in your mind, over and over. Remembering the small meetings, the seconds their paths crossed. John had never been a man of many words,

You’d simply assumed that had been reason enough behind his vast and collected, conscious efforts to not engage in conversation with your ex. The few times he did come into the office, John had simply made excuse to leave, politely excuse himself away for a phone call or tend to work in his private office.

There had been a roar in your ears. Remembering and remembering.

Asking you to stay overtime when you’d mention plans to accompany your ex to a dinner party you desperately did not want to be dragged to. John would simply state he’d forgotten to mention it prior, but nevertheless, the work needed urgency. Even if it was a task you could have easily completed the next morning.

It all comes rushing back.

The ominous questions.

Asking if he’d been taking care of you.

The disinterest when you’d bring him up in conversation.

The mere refusal to even use his name.

It all fits together, perfectly as a puzzle. Or so you think, in this jumbled mess of a mind you call your own. Numbers, figures, questions and supposed answers.  John had always been watching, quietly listening, absorbing. Holding you in his lungs like a fresh breath, savouring until the next.

Like a quiet embrace of dark, John Wick, too, held his own secrets.

His name reverberates through your heart. over and over and over.

It feels too much as if you’re trying to swallow down your heart.

John.

John, John, John.

He was everything you—

Your mind races a mile a minute, and you feel your throat dry to the plethora of thoughts that muddle within. Affection, warm and fond blooms in your chest, and you feel an overwhelming need to reach out and touch him. To stroke that stray hair that curves upon his cheek, to feel if he was warm. You simply needed to reassure yourself that this wasn’t some cruel dream, that your mind hadn’t conjured him up. You wanted him to be real, to be here so badly.

It bustles inside you.

The sheer need of the moment.

The need to talk to him. To ask him what he’d meant. You’re not sure if it was the howl of snow outside that crept such a yearn inside your bones. He looks peaceful, at ease; and the bulk of his arms looks unfairly inviting right now.

Slowly, gently, moving with little force. The weight of your own arms barely lifts you off the spread of the bed, a bold move to eradicate the peak of pillows that isolate you and John. You feel your elbows crease as they hold you up, and you stare at him this way, silently laid beside you.

His back is broad, large, toned to perfection when it bulges in the cotton seams of his crisp white shirt.

His back; a roadmap of desire.

You don’t know if it was the rush of the moment, or the quarrel of the wind. The unfair proximity between you two, knowing well a moment like this would possibly never come again had you not act now.

Its electrifying almost, the bustling inside your veins. You feel a pound in your chest, a dull, aching beat near your heart that almost feels so intensely sharp, you need to bite your lip to catch your breath.

Slower breaths. One by one, steady. Firm.

You move slow.

Closer.

Closer

Closer, closer, closer.

He wakes in the midst of the movement. Perhaps, he’d felt the pulse of you so close.

You feel that fire of his. You feel that special something that ties around him, locks inside him, traps you between its jaws and refuses to let you go.

That special something that draws you to him, that something that’s never exaggerated as much as it has tonight.

Whatever it is, it tingles around you and you’d swore you feel it in your toes, kicking your heartbeat up a notch and your grip on the bedsheets below tightens firm. You’re closer now, face just to his side, hovering above the darkness of his resting frame. Your hand trickles on his skin, softly positioned just to the build of his arm and you feel the warmth of his skin dissolve into you.

He turns.

Finally meeting his gaze between dim shadows, and you feel your pulse spike.

     Human bodies are oh so simple.

Had he not been so close, and had you not been so simply smitten by him in the moment, you’d swore the intensity of the moment would normally ignite a tremble of violent within your fingers. There’s a deliberate sort of air that surrounds you; one that seems to know exactly what thoughts linger in your mind.

You dip.

Closer.

So close, the bridge of his nose surely had not been more than a mere two inches from yours.

He’s warm.

Your body is a coiled mass of taut limbs, and your jaw strains under the weight of unspoken words. His expression is both guarded, and sweeping all at once as he peers you silently, a look of clear cut curiosity, confusion in his eyes.

As if he too, had somehow believed you were a mere mirage. A dream perhaps, that his tired mind had viciously conjured up.

You swallow. Your heartbeat spikes, and you swallow. “John...” you whisper, plainly yet abruptly all at once. Strained with demand, a demand for an answer. Your hand is softer than your tone, strident as it trails, crawling just to the skin of his cotton clad chest, resting just beside the heat of his heart.

“Have you…” Intense. Bold. It rushes through your veins, the unwillingness to halt now. “Have you wanted me?” You seem to warn him of your epiphany, informing him and your words cut through the unrelenting tension even though you don’t so much as raise your voice. “Do you want me.”

It came out as more of a statement than a question, your tone demanding and imperative.

His jaw tenses at your words.

He only looks at you.

You try so desperately to figure him out.

He only drags his eyes over your features, seemingly trying to unravel you. To figure you out, to read between your sudden infliction. Your voice is a mere breath that seems to fill the space between you two, and suddenly, John senses a million different things burn at the back of his throat.

He wishes to say so much, and yet—

The silence in the room feels much heavier now. Dull, aching, crawling inside your skin.

John seems to sit on his words. Savouring them. He doesn’t reply, only his slow, steady breaths do, and the thud of his heart you feel under the hold of your hand to his chest.

“Yes.”

—he utters before he can stop himself, voice low and throaty, and he tries to ignore the unfamiliar taste of those letters in his mouth.

Something about the knowing, gentle scrutiny of your gaze makes him feel so alive.

“Touch me.” was your steady whisper. “I want you to touch me.”

John bites his lip.

The weight of his heavy hand is felt just above the small of your back, and the intense regard of his captive stare is one you think has burned into your mind for eternity. There was a flicker of something across his face; something that resembles deep, reflective thought. Rough fingertips travel until they settle against the feminine swell of your hips, and you arch into his touch unwillingly.

You felt butterflies swell inside you when he slips his hand into the thin fabric of your shirt, feeling your bare skin.

It seems to ignite under his touch. Chills pepper, a shock of crave splitting down your spine.

There is nothing patronizing to be found in his smooth baritone. Simply, it only excites you further.

A knot forms in your chest. You swallow, and your eyes squeeze shut momentarily as you simply feel the weight of his hand on your hip. It sinks in, the reviving warmth.

You want him to paint you with this warmth. Taint you, cover you and use you as his canvas.

You move closer, and rest your knees on either side of him as you pull into a straddle across his laid down figure. Near your heat, you can feel the hike of his manhood under you and it causes a breath to crumble in your throat. “I see the way you’ve looked at me…” was your easy whisper, and your light finger brushes just across the bottom of his lip.

He stares back, too. Lost inside you. Gazes locked. Imperative. You catch glimpse of a stray hair just before the curve of his eye, and the sleek tress crumbles under the unyielding weight of your thumb when you brush it away for him, hand slowly falling to his toned bicep where you hold him.

His expression melts to reveal something softer in this muted midnight glow. Something you wondered how many women before you had seen. “This is okay.” was your tender tone. “I want you too, John.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t answer.

Only his dark eyes do, and the feeling of his surprisingly soft lips on yours; the feel of him wrapping those deliciously toned arms around your waist as he pulls you closer into his skin.

He makes you his in that kiss.

He makes you forget the wind outside, the brawl of the snow. He makes you forget the taste of your own name.

You didn’t know it then.

You would spend all evening exploring each other’s bodies.

He’s worshipped you before.

Professionally.

You’d never thought, that Mr. Wick, would worship you between the sheets.

You carry that fire in your veins. That heat, that special something that makes you crumble under his expert touch. A dark room, the cutting moonlight illuminating just enough to see his face in front of you, his body on top of yours.

The heat of his skin melts into you, and your breath hitches when you feel those thin taut lips kissing over your collarbone. John’s eyes move slowly, starting at the tip of your lips, trailing lower to the silk of your skin, the curve of your breasts. He breathes quietly, respires you in, arms close and encapsulated around your waist— and you reach forward slowly, fingers gentle against the nape of his neck.

He’d gently peeled of off your camisole not too long ago, finding himself drunk on the sight of your unadorned, nude chest. Curved just the way he likes it, feminine and beautiful. He’d made love with his eyes right then and there, unable to keep his hands to himself.

Something inside you crumbled when he’d touched them, offering the greediness of his mouth to devour them for his own.

His slow, wet kisses were electrifying. You felt butterflies tingling in your mid.

You wonder if anyone knew what was going on between these four walls right now.

Softly, promisingly, your hands soothe over the bare skin of his shoulders, the broad of his back and you feel the muscles tense before relaxing under the gentle coax of your touch.

It was a comical thing, to think that even just until a mere couple of hours ago you considered him nothing more than your colleague, often catching yourself fantasizing about wrapping your fingers around his neck and kissing him selfishly. Now, your fingers trail over his uneven, rosy skin delicately.

In the middle of a stormy midnight.

No one to witness.

No one to know what you two were doing. Together.

John’s callous fingertips trail along the slope of your side, and he wastes little time in curling the rough of his digits over the heated fabric of your bottoms. It peels off all at once, your panties removed by searching members.

It doesn’t take long for you to whimper. Inquisitive in your own endeavour, you palm at his boxers, feeling the bulge of his manhood thrived underneath the thin textile. He doesn’t prolong in taking them off for you, and suddenly, you feel him on you.

Hot and heavy. His hold on your body tightens, and large fingertips brace comfortably against your cheek, thumb coaxing your skin. His fingers on your face, and his bare cock; hot and heavy against the nude skin of your inner thigh, already so deliciously promising.

It makes you swallow. You gulp, almost nervous to look between the sheets, between your tangled limbs sticking together.

It takes courage.

And when you devour the sight below, you catch glimpse of him.

Mr. Wick, in all his glory.

Big, warm, beautiful. Intimidatingly erect. A few bustling veins running up his length, a rosy tip, large and encompassing. A slight curve to his shaft, and a thickness you swore might just ruin you.

You wonder people would think.

What your friends would think.

What your colleagues would think.

What your firm would think.

     The boss and his glorified assistant in bed together.

His low and throaty tone almost catches you off guard, eyes finally meeting yours for the first time since you’d first kissed him earlier. His palm is dense, fingers sending shivers down your spine when they hold you by the hips once again.

A soft whisper off the gruff of his voice, and you feel something inside the pit of your stomach churn. The words are a mere whisper, nothing more than a frayed murmur still so very fresh with crippling need. “Are you using anything?”

Mr. Wick, hadn’t brought protection.

He didn’t think the box of large condoms buried in the depths of his bedside table needed to see the light of day this weekend.

He’d never dreamed in a million years that he’d get this lucky during a dry conference away from home.

You lick your bottom lip, swallowing gently before the silk of your whisper melts in his ears. “I’m on the pill.”

His ears perk to those words. The pill. His skin prickles with curiosity, and he leans into your touch when arms curl around his neck.

     Had you been taking another lover? Lovers?

     Had another man revelled in you selfishly, just as he does now?

     Had another man tasted that honey that brews on your lips, and sweetness that sits on your tongue?

His hold on you only tightens, and you’d swore you were shrivelling right in his touch.

     You wonder if anyone else in this hotel is doing just the same.

Surrounded by the arms of a sinful lover, feeling the brush of each inch of skin. Had anyone else in this sinful hotel also been crumbling under a lover’s immoral touch? Had they promised to ruin themselves for someone, too? Had their breath hitched and their toes curled, and their lips refuse to taste another again?

You feel his fingers, slow and pulsing. Broad, callous and work tethered.

They melt against your clit, slow and wet as they rub along the nectar of your womanhood. He touches you sinfully, priming, preparing you for his taking.

It was in that moment.

That first glimpse of heaven dripping from your mouth.

That first moment tonight in which you prayed, you wished and pled to stay between these small hotel walls forever. In this sinful little haven you’d built yourself tonight, this proximity you’d carved out for yourselves.

You didn’t know it then.

He feels warm, firm and so triumphantly alive between your arms like this. His hot, wet breath burns against the hallow of your throat when he draws closer, one hand holding your waist, one wrapped around the thick width of his cock as he slowly lines it up with your entrance. His words seem to burn into your skin, hoarse voice soft yet stimulating all at once.

His care makes you almost sigh.

Mr. Wick truly was perhaps; the most swoon worthy man you’d met. “Are you sure?” he asks gently, a final time as his cock patiently awaits permission. “Are you sure you want this, y/n?”

You don’t answer.

Only your impatient nod, and gentle cup of his cheek as you draw in to meet his lips, do.

Tasting his sweet tongue on yours.

His sweet lips only yours for tonight.

Him, in his entirely, all his glory. Yours for the taking, rightfully, only yours.

Confessed. Words mumbled barely coherent, and your hips bucking closer to his erection. “I want you to fuck me.”

He swallows thickly. Cock twitching with need.

“Fuck me better than you’ve fucked any girl before, John.”

And John Wick, wastes no time.

With little warning, he sinks into you, the violent measure slow in its drive yet powerful all at once. Mewling, you desperately dig your fingertips into the broad of his bare shoulders, wincing from the sheer girth of his impressive member. You yelp when John pulls out, only to thrust back in, only fully this time, allowing the bulk of his cock to disappear inside your snug cunt all for once.

You’d known in that moment.

You felt it creep within your bones.

You didn’t want tonight to end until John had fucked you selfishly, until you ached.

He conjures up a steady pace, and the quiet yet tender grunts he allows cause your mind to flutter in a lightning, drunk on his name. Hardened nipples and plump breasts press to his chest, and your legs snake around his waist with gentle sighs and stifling gasps filling his ears. The sounds, corrupt already, are some kind of immoral heaven. The rhythm of him stretching you deliciously, jerking your deepest points of inner pleasure.

Slicking with wetness, silky and smooth.

The bedframe below creaks to his pace, his roll of hips almost hypnotizing as he thrusts into your cunt, sturdy hands planted to your hips as he holds your lower half in place.

You knew you’d remember it all.

You’d take it to the grave.

The sight, the sounds.

The violent harbour of his hips.

You’ll paint a picture of it in your brain, one you’ll remember till your dying breath.

You’ll imprint every moment into memory and still greedily crave for more.

His cock pulsing inside you, bulging with girth. Thrusting and thrusting. The salty smell of his skin, the building moisture in his raven locks. Hot breath, your arms holding him as if a lifeline, his holding you desperately in return, a look of precise mission written to his darker features.

His goal, to fuck you until you ached in his name.

You wondered what people would think.

What your friends would think.

What your family would think.

What your clients would think.

It feels so fucking good, so fucking good you whimper, you almost don’t want to admit how proficiently he has you wrapped around his finger.

He samples you as if a fine wine, already intoxicated by the feeling of you. He leaves you craving him, even if he had still been buried between your legs, his mouth, delinquent, greedy, on every inch of your skin.

A moan slips past your lips unwarranted, and you tangle your fingers in his misty hair, cupping his head as you stare him unswervingly in the eyes.

Those dark, warm brown eyes. Staring into him, really deep into him. He stares back, too. Through the dominant labour of his hips jerking into you rigid, through the sounds of his manhood spreading your wetness all over the inners of your soft thighs.

He stares, and stares and stares. Lips parted, breathing rugged. Drawing down closer, his mouth rest so close to yours, you feel each breath of his swallow you whole. Your lips barely touching, and his eyes shut as your foreheads connect and the savoury feeling spreads through each inch of your body.

John’s fingers are sunken into you firmly; not enough to hurt you, but enough to make you feel held. Guided, desired, craved. Needed. And suddenly, the howl of the snow outside fades into nothing more than a mere beat.

He captures your chin easily with a gentle finger, and his eyes glisten with a hungry, vicious glow. The sounds he allows make you moan with need, his breathless gasps, his throaty grunts audibly meddling with the wicked sounds of skin slapping skin. “You…” Each ridge. Each fucking vein in his cock brushes feverishly inside you, making you more and more his with each jerk. “You feel so fucking good, baby.” was his rough, breathy confession.

John’s pace remains slower, coarse and rapt with desire, his face buried in your neck as he sucks lavender marks into your supple skin. Against his chest, he feels your breasts bounce to his rhythm, and your hands roam the road of his back, leaving a fire in it’s wake.

The pleasure is sickening, shuddering, and you feel almost as if someone has poured gasoline over your lithe skin and lit a match.

With his cock devouring your pussy whole, you whine when he knowledgeably brushes your G-spot, and the feeling is so simply divine, so intimate, so close that you almost shed tears in his name. Part of you longs to just simply hold him, to clutch on and never let go. So you do. With his head in the crook of your neck and his cock reaching your deepest points, you feel him building up for you. You sense it with his movement, with the steady quicken of his thrusts, the hardness of the way his tip slams into you further.

You feel it all.

When words hadn’t been enough, the way he makes you his, is.

The way he pounds into you tells all.

The years of built up need, build up anger, bustling care for you, want, desire.

With his head rested in the crook of your neck, you simply hold him just as your heart desires in the heat of the moment. Holding dearly, intimately. You turn your head gently, allowing the hike of your visage to bury in his hair, breathing in the comforting scent of his shampoo.

Who knew Mr. Wick uses such luxuriously fragranced shampoo?

The warmth of his body exudes you. It sinks into your each and every crevice, every vein, every nerve. His free hands skim your body, his name written all over. You arch into him willingly, squirming with pleasure. A million thoughts race in your mind, and you find yourself deteriorating deeper and deeper in his name, deeper in his lust, profounder with the mere fascination of this man buried in you.

Is he insatiable?

Will he want you again?

Will he regret this encounter once he’s finished? Will guilt rid in his bones and nestle itself the same way he nestled within you now?

He shudders, quiet praises of your names brewing. You adore the way your name sounds on his mouth, you wish to give it to him, to only allow him to use it in it’s true form for the rest of eternity. John’s chest heaves, and your thighs tremble for him with each passionate thrust. He mutters something too low for you to understand, and the raspy tenor of his deep baritone makes you groan.

Sloppy. Sensual. Drilling. Your body is far too feeble, and the soreness he leaves between your legs causes the wicked smell of sex to cloud around the room. Shivering with need, you moan his name over and over and over. Your pussy practically sears with burn, pleasure meddling breathlessly with the pain, and John’s voice punctures through gritted teeth and a loving kiss to your shoulder. “Say it louder, baby. Let them know who’s fucking you good.”

You whimper, trembling, practically sobbing for him when he presses his sweaty forehead to yours. “John…you’re…you’re…fuck!” through lewd moans, you find it tough to muddle into coherent sentences, to even form words for how amazing John was making you feel.

How well he was taking care of you.

You’d always felt it through your professional relationship. You’ve been comfortable with John, even through the practised formality of the professional world. John had never been a boss to intrude or demand. Never one to capitalize on your effort, to abuse your ethic.

He always made you feel valued, appreciated.

This appreciation he gives you right now, however, was one you’d never dreamed he’d indulge you in.

He’s bulging against your tight, warm walls, and your retorts are reduced to hitched cries, and that slight curve of his cock makes you swear you’d felt him in your stomach. His swollen balls thud against the unprotected, sensitive skin of your cunt, and you almost whine when you feel him slow, coming to a halt as he buries himself deep inside you, hips ending their rampant jerk. He doesn’t make it easier when he buries his face in your neck, large hands clutching your waist still. Midnight light dances over his features, and your eyes become thread with silent confusion and plea when he lifts his gaze to yours once again.

“I don’t want it to end.” He allows simply, the ghost of a small smile curled upwards to the sides of his oh so kissable lips.

And with those words, you feel something explode inside you. A bitter realization.

This, this symphony you’ve built together is merely constructed on borrowed time. And abruptly, with the deep realization, it feels as if its own subtle form of torture.

No amount of time with him this way would be enough. And you, weren’t sure if there would even be another after tonight.

This sinful meeting, this immoral act, this moment of lust may just be a one time wonder. Come morning, the realization would surely sink in. That this couldn’t be. He can’t be yours, and you can’t be his.

Sooner or later, your time would come to an end. And perhaps, that’s why, the sudden urge and the longing so deep overtakes you. You whisper these sentences yet form no words, you touch him tenderly yet and allow yourself to wallow in this subtle solace. Cupping his cheek, your lips are slow and searching when you allow a kiss to his forehead. Then, another to the bridge of his nose as he simply regards you. “I don’t want it to end, either.”

His eyes scan you carefully, gratefully. He presses you against him, and suddenly, you watch that gently delectable smile melt as his movements start again. He grips you securely, and all at once, brutal is the only way you could describe the pace he summons.

He grips securely, and suddenly you’re painfully aware of the way your lax hand still holds him by the cheek. John doesn’t seem to mind, however, and simply lowers his lips to ghost over yours delicately, breathlessly. The moans you allow are swallowed by him, his lips linger just a mere centimeter over yours.

You’re no longer sure where he ends and you begin. Your fingers continue to tighten in his rich brown locks, and suddenly, you’re dipped further into oblivion when his durable palm swims below your back, digging into the peach of your ass. Gently, he lifts you off the bed ever so slightly, thrusting so capably, the broil in your stomach only exaggerates when the head of his cock assaults your distinctive spot. Your head throws itself back, and the aggressive roll of John’s hips is emphasized when he rests one hand just below your belly, and the other to the headboard behind your figure. Sensually, erect, bulging with pleasure, he watches himself slick in and out of you.

Pounding eagerly. Warm, wet, and inviting. He fucks in and out with such ease, and fails to recall a time when a woman had made him revel this easily in pure, senseless pleasure. Fails to remember when a woman had felt this hot, this tight, this perfectly mould for him. His lips melt moans, they harbour such praise. They moan, and moan, and moan. They whisper sensually, yet form no words.

Because, what could he even possibly say? What words, could possibly even do this— do you, justice? What string of praise could he possibly cord together that will not make him appear as if a completely hooked, smitten fool?

A slight smile twitches your lips when you feel something flutter inside your stomach to the way he rides in and out of you. He watches the way it travels up your features, glimmers in your eyes. The way it so easily exudes the pleasure pulled out of you in this moment.

He’d swore, he feels you’d ruined him for anyone else.

He’d never tasted a sin as sweet as you.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to, anyway.

You wallow in the friction he brings between your legs, the harsh thrusts that couple with his teeth barely grazing over the sensitive nip of your skin. Swiftly, you’re hallow and eagerly longing when John snaps his hips hankering back, pulling out of you promptly with one easy pull. His neck is craned, and he holds tenderly to your hip as he carefully turns you to your side, giving you a reassuring look of trust when your brows thread in confusion.

He gives you a look that speaks wonder. Trust me.

And trust him, you do.

John easily tucks himself behind you, offering wet kisses to your shoulder. Pulling your body flush, your back presses to his warm chest, and you practically sigh when you feel the thickness of his cock enter you from behind, one of his arms tightly wrapped around your waist, as the other trails its hand to your sizzling cunt, exploring the slippery folds. With his head finding refuge in the dipped curve of your neck, John begins a rapt grind into you, jerking his hips so hastily.

The sight was surely pornographic.

Your naked form completely on display, legs open and spread for his taking with your pussy in picturesque view as he drills into you from behind. The sound of skin slapping skin is corrupt, filling the small space and you wonder if the rooms adjacent could hear the wicked deeds you both spoil in.

It was only during this moment, with your body on full display, that the gentle breeze of cold bedroom air freckles against your skin. Cold night air brushes, and your eyes flutter open to the white ceiling above, the feel of John having his way with you still throbbing inside your womanhood.

Its in this moment, you gaze out the window.

Breasts bouncing relentlessly to John’s pace, you admire the view out the window. The midnight blue sky, mauve tint of snowy blur. Wide and beautiful, stars shining brightly like wintery sugar crystals in the vast darkness.

You’d realized the stinging truth.

With your body devoted to him, with him nestled between your legs and basking in your nectar. If fate would, you’d accept it. If the universe declared that morning would never come; that the sun would never rise and you’d never be able to dwell in it again. That you’d never be able to feel the breeze of the cold wind nor the warmth of the sun on your skin ever again.

You’d realized that you, would be perfectly content with that.

He was enough.

This feeling, was more than enough.

John.

John, John, John —

He is everything in this moment. Him, his devilish pace and his proficient touch.

It wasn’t long until John’s needs grew impatient, and your implorations whispered of ‘faster’ grew far more frequent. John’s arms dig into you, holding so tight, so strongly you’d almost felt your breath might just stop if you forget to remind yourself to breathe. You sing a garbled plea, and breathy yelps relish in his name. Hankering back, you allow your head to rest back against his, and he buries his face in the perfume of your hair as a feverish pace accentuates, obscure and obscene praises grunting inside your ear of your name, too. He throbs inside you, and you feel his cock pulse with need.

Softly, you turn your gaze to his.

Staring into his soul. “I’m all yours…” he feels his heartbeat spike. Loud in his chest, blood rushing to his member. “Make me yours, Mr. Wick.”

And to the beautiful words and the intensity of your regard, the words register as nothing more than a mere plea in his cognizance. An onslaught of quick, harsh thrusts.

Shivering with need, shuddering with pleasure. Tightly holding each other, minds clouded with the smell of sex.

Earsplitting moans, and a sear in your pussy that overwhelms when your climax finally hits, and John’s pours into you not far after. He grunts, and you whimper, practically screaming his name when you feel a hoarse moan envelope in your ear and the weight of his sizable load inside you. Thick, glossy streams of glossy white cum tainting your walls, the heaviness of his seed planted deep within you.

You swallow thickly to the soreness he’s left behind. Therapeutically whisked in a nirvana of your own, that you created together. His gentle, panting breaths wash over you like molten fire.

—He felt warm, firm, and so alive holding you like this.

His arms holding you close, your slick skin sticking to his. Your bodies bare, no barriers, skin to skin and soul to soul.

The steady rise and fall of his chest is comforting, a sanctuary perhaps. As you both breathe, collecting from your highs. Savouring the taste of what you’d just done.

You say a silent prayer in your head. A plea, a hope for the look in his eyes to stay the same when you’d inevitably turn, come face to face with the man who’d fucked you tonight, hopelessly, senselessly, as if you were his own personal doll to enjoy.

You’d prayed the look of silent strength and lustful flutter was still there.

That longing so deep, that familiar fire you’d seen in his eyes prior.

Your thoughts interrupt, however.

By nothing more, than the feeling of John’s hand tapping your hip, urging you to lay flat on your back.

He doesn’t waste a moment thereafter.

You almost cry when you feel his lips back on yours. Kissing you, kissing lower. Trailing lower, he finds the curve of your collarbone, and the slope of your breast.

Lower, he travels.

Slowly, slowly. Large palms appreciative as they roam you whole.

Lower, and lower, until the smell of your cunt exhilarates through his veins, and he drinks in the sight of your gorgeous pussy, pulsing with colour from the way he’d fucked it to an ache.

Lower, and lower, until you feel his lips on yours. The ones between your hips.

You didn’t know it then.

     John has you in the shower that night.

     He has you on the floor.

     He has you ride him in the very loveseat you’d dreamt about him in earlier that evening.

     He has you in more ways than just physically, together as one.

In the still of the tranquil moment, you dream of your reverie.

You always figured you’d find someone.

A man who would ignite a special fire inside your bones. You’ve searched, and searched, always figured it would come around when the time affirmed. You imagined he’d regard you with subtle awe, douse you in adoration and crumble at the measly sight of your smile. Soft, elegantly spoken. You always figured that easy joy was written into the stars for you, that you would find your home.

Often, you’d feel as if life had robbed you of that simple joy.

Life had robbed you of many things, it seemed.

You figured he’d have that pull to him; that pull that always wants him close, demands his touch, his mouth.

You always figured he’d ruin you for anyone else. That he’d find you in a whirlwind of longing and desire and need.

You always figured you’d need someone.

The howl of the wind is sharp, and it seems to cut into you just as easily as the atmosphere outside. You always figured that when he would come, he’d sweep you off your feet easily and fall in love the same. A charming fairy-tale, where someday you’d have your own white picket fence and mourn the loss of your younger days when you were both quicker, less gray.

You’d always figured it would come simply, effortlessly, conventionally. That the man of your dreams would stand tall and strident, take you by the hand and declare himself yours in front of the entire world.

Your epiphany hits you like a sorrow. A grieve for what couldn’t be yours, could never be shared in the open, could never take you by the hand and show you off to all that came way. Could never take you by the hand, and do what lovers do for the world to see.  

Your epiphany hits you, and you mourn.

You never dreamed it would be him. That he’d simply ruin you for anyone else. That he’d tattoo his name into your heart, into your body, linger in each breath from then on.

John.

John, John, John.

He was everything you —

      You didn’t know it then. That this would be the first time.

The first time you begin this sinful relationship, this lustful little thing that was only yours to share, only yours. The first time you allow Mr. Wick to use you in whichever way he pleased.

      You didn’t know it then,

That it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

For him, you swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed.