tender desperate filth

"Drink some more water."

"If I drink any more I'm gonna piss my pants," you grumble.

Hilary is there at your shoulder, shaking her head at you. She arrived five minutes ago smelling of cigarette smoke and mint gum. Frankie didn't re-join her in the room and you're too embarrassed to ask why. 

“So can I leave?”

"Doctor just told me you have to be here overnight for observation," she sighs, sinking into the chair next to the bed.

"Fuck."

You're in a hospital gown, propped up in bed with a cup of warm jello next to you. This whole day has been a barrage of nurses and doctors to take your vitals, blood, to give you stitches and x-rays. 

"I don't need to stay here overnight," you croak. "I'm perfectly fine."

"You don't look fine."

"It's just a sprain."

"And a possible concussion."

Your shoulders lower. "I'm sorry, Hil. As if you didn't have enough to worry about with Mom." 

Hilary gives you a rueful looks, shrugging. "I like an interesting life. Besides, Mom is fine. She was just sleeping when I left." 

You nod guilt and fatigue fighting a battle within your body. You lower the back of the bed slightly, sighing. 

"I can't believe some asshole blasted through a stop sign," she says before she clicks her tongue.  

"I don't have the best luck," you say blinking up at the ceiling. 

You can feel your sister's eyes on you, the sound of gum snapping against her teeth. 

"Did you get to tell Frankie everything or...?" She trails off.  

You shake your head. "No time."

"But you're gonna, right?"

You exhale slowly, thinking about it.

A part is terrified that maybe Frankie is seeing someone, or at least interested in someone else. That lipstick tube you found at his place still rattles around in your head.  There’s also the chance that if you tell Frankie how you really feel about him, that he'll reject you outright. Any relationship or friendship the two of you were embarking on will be decimated. 

And yet…

"Yes." 

 “What exactly are you hoping to get out of it? A relationship?”

There's a part of you that worries this confession will be a selfish act. That it will drudge up bad memories for Frankie. But you know he deserves the honesty, the clarification. He’s owed that much even if it ends with him banishing you from his life.

“Whatever he wants,” you say. “But mostly, I think I just want to apologize to him. He deserves that much.”

You watch as Hilary picks at her ragged nails with the chipped black polish.

"Did you ever think of reaching out to Frankie before? Like, in the years you weren't talking?"

You think back to the intervening years. To the times between bouts of hurt and sadness. To the moments when you craved being back in his arms and in his life. 

"Yeah." 

She looks up at you, eyes red rimmed and exhausted looking. "Why didn't you?" 

"I was too afraid." 

"Yeah. That's what I figured."  She seems more contemplative than usual and you're about to ask if she's alright when she jerks her chin up. "Justin called when I was heading over here." 

You push yourself up in the bed, stunned. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Is this the first time he's called?"

"It's the first time I've answered." Hilary shifts in her seat, legs crossing. "He wants me to give us another shot," she mutters. 

"What did you tell him?"

"That I was open to it," she says, eyes stuck on the ragged edge of her nail. "That I missed him." 

You try not to look too hopeful. "What changed your mind?" 

Hilary glances at the door, as if she is expecting to be interrupted. A beat passes before she worries her bottom lip with her teeth. 

"I see how much you and Frankie care for each other even after all this time," she offers. "Even after the misunderstanding and the hurt." 

You're quiet, eyes bouncing between hers when she lifts her gaze your way. 

"It made me miss Justin."  

This is a new Hilary sitting next to you bed. The bricked wall behind her stare is lowered, her eyes shiny. You've never seen this reaction in her and it warms your entire body to see it. 

"Because you love him," you grin. 

She slumps back against the chair, arms crossing as she rolls her eyes aggressively at you. But there's a small tug to one side of her mouth. 

"Stop being so fucking annoying."

The two of you giggle gently before a calm silence settles. Beeps from machines and far off cries from other patients are heard faintly.

"Are you going to give him another shot?" 

Hilary shrugs. "Maybe."

She stays until the doctor comes in to give his overview, and as she leaves you inwardly beam, soul lightening at the realization that while Hilary has been coming to rescue you, maybe you've been able to impact her in some small way. 

THEN

"I miss her," Hilary murmurs, eyes half closed on a warm August night. She and Santi sit on her front porch, iced tea sweating in mason jars between their thighs, a cigarette smoldering in an old glass ashtray. 

"Me too." 

Santi is back before being deployed to a part of South America he can't tell anyone about. He and his team are after some big drug kingpin. 

But right now as he sits beside his cousin, Hilary feels like they're kids again. It reminds her of secretly smoking cigarettes at the baseball field after school; shitty ones Santi stole from his father's room. 

"I mean, even though she annoyed the shit out of me, the house just feels wrong without her," Hilary sighs. "Mom's always wasted and I should move out but rent is so high everywhere and ..."

Hilary draws her legs up to her chest, propping her chin on her knees and exhaling through her nose. Santi looks her way when she trails off. He's always been a good listener and in the years without you being at home, he and Hilary have grown a bit closer. 

"I don't know what I'm doing, Santi," she says quietly rubbing at her eyes with her knuckles. "I feel like I keep fucking up."

He shakes his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. "Hil-"

"The most lucrative thing I've done in the past five years is have a slip and fall case at Walmart that paid out."

Santi is quiet, watching her carefully. Hilary isn't like you, she doesn't enjoy affection. She's a cat personified; only interested if you ignore her. 

"I mean, I haven't even been in a functional relationship. Just one night stands or tindr." 

Santiago shrugs. "That's pretty normal." 

"For you" she says snidely. 

With anyone else she'd have to edit herself, but Santi isn't easily offended. He just smirks, chuckling a bit to himself. 

"I'm so proud of my sister starting her life over there, but sometimes it just reminds me that I'm a huge loser."

"You're not-"

"Santi, c'mon," she says through a puff of smoke. "Look at my life. I'm not exactly enviable." 

"From where I stand you're gorgeous, smart as hell, devoted to the people you love -'

"It doesn't matter," Hilary interrupts, wrinkling her nose. "Love. Stability. That kind of shit is for someone else. My sister, maybe. Not for me."

Santi leans back in his chair, eyes distant. 

"Ever thought of talking to Pip about all this?"

"No," Hilary replies. "Never." 

Hilary brings out another cigarette, puffing away thoughtfully as her cousin looks onto their empty street. He twists his neck to scan her closed body language.

"We're not the kids we were, Hilary," he says. "You can change your future." 

"Easy for you to say," Hilary scoffs, taking another puff. "Golden boy Garcia. Everyone in town talks about the big fancy job you have. How you're out there making a difference in the world." 

He has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, face pinking slightly at the cheekbones. 

"Plus Frankie flying all over, now. Where is he these days? Still in Argentina?"

"As far as I know."

Hilary just sighs, shaking her head slightly. She can't imagine a world in which she has that sort of freedom. She isn't sure she even wants it. Maybe it's just the security she craves. 

"You ever hear from him?" Santi asks, taking the cigarette and stealing a puff before handing it back her way. 

"Frankie? No. Not unless he's in town. Sometimes he'll drop by for a beer but..." She trails off, shrugging.  

"He ever talk to you about your sister?" 

Hilary's attention which had been divided between her cousin and her thoughts now focuses in on his words.  "No. Why?" 

"I think he's in love with her." 

Santi shuffles his feet against the wood porch, the toe of his boots tapping as he considers. 

"I thought they had something going on back when they were younger," Hillary acknowledges with a nod. "But I don't think there's any love left on either side, now." 

"I don't know about that," Santiago offers, eyes hooded from fatigue. 

Hilary tilts her face his way, brows rising. 

"What do you mean?" 

He shifts from the seat, standing to go lean against the porch railing. He takes his time stretching before he swivels to face her, keeping his voice low. 

"We were deployed together a few years ago and Frankie was stabbed pretty bad."

"He mentioned that, yeah. They had to medi-vac him out of there."

Santi nods. "Yep. He was losing a lot of blood, and, honestly, I was really scared for him, Hil. I thought it was over for him. But all he kept saying over and over was your sister’s name. Even when we were helping get him out of the compound, all he kept saying was that he needed her." 

A thoughtful said silence settles between the two of them, iced distant as they both take in what this could mean. 

It's no secret that Hillary is aware something happened between Frankie and her sister. The feelings that Frankie wore on his sleeve that evening he came with flowers. She doesn't know what happened between her sister and Frankie, and their relationship isn't in a good enough place for her to reach out to her sister and ask. 

Santi leaves a short while later with a wave, promising he'll try to call more often. Hilary doesn't believe him, but she smiles and waves back anyway. 

Her mom is passed out, snoring in front of the television when she comes inside. An empty gin bottle is tucked between her hip and the cushion. A smoldering cigarette rests between her nicotine stained fingers. 

Hilary quickly plucks it, extinguishing it on the nearby ashtray.

"Time for bed, mom." 

Her mother makes no attempt to wake and Hilary gives a dark groan when she sees a large damp spot on the lap of her mother's pajama pants. The sharp stench of urine hits her nose and she recoils. 

"Christ." 

This has been happening at least a few times a year now and each time is humiliating. Her mother is too drunk, unable to be roused tonight and Hilary gives up with tears in her eyes. 

"Fuck this." 

She decides to check out the new pub that opened in town a few months ago. Apparently it has cheap drinks and plenty of pool tables. When she gets there it's only half full, mostly with tourists that wear fanny packs and sunburn painted noses. 

Her phone beeps as she heads to the bar. She pulls it out; internally sighing when she sees it's her boss at the hospital. 

Need you in for a double tomorrow. Start is at six.  I'll be there. 

She pockets her phone, eyes shutting as she lowers her head. Why does it feel like she'll never escape this life? This depressing, endless-

"Hi there." 

Hilary raises her eyes at the soft voice, meeting gazes with the man behind the bar. 

He has sandy brown hair and a thick beard. His eyes are a deep hazel, one slightly lighter in color than the other. He blinks before serving a shy smile her way. "What can I get you?" 

"Whatever's on tap." 

"Be right back." 

She shrugs off her jacket, her tight tank top pulled low. Several men walk by and she recognizes them as stoners she went to high school with. 

They wear clothing stained with paint and sawdust, their hands dirty from day labor. One of them winks when he passes - Danny.  

"Here you are." 

Hilary turns back and is struck that the handsome bartender looks at her face instead of her tits when he slides her drink across the glossy bartop.It makes her linger a bit longer there instead of snagging one of the empty booths. She takes a sip, eyes trained on him. The beer is shit, but she doesn't tell him. 

"Thanks." 

"Anything else I can get ya?" He asks her eagerly "Peanuts? Pretzels?"

"Sure. Pretzels." 

She watches him move to the other end of the bar, opening a new bag and pouring them into a small bowl. He brings it back to her proudly, like a cat with a dead mouse, and again his eyes don't stray from her face. 

"Here you are." 

"Thanks." 

She takes another sip of the soapy tasting beer, hiding a grimace. She finds she doesn't want him to move, she enjoys his calm disposition. 

"Where's your accent from?"

The man chuckles. "Oh shit, you can hear one?" 

"Yeah." 

"Canada. Nova Scotia."

Canada? Hillary doesn't know much about the country, but she knows that it's supposed to be cold. 

"Why'd you move here?”

"I wanted a change of scenery I suppose. The sun helps."

"And you chose the asshole of America?"

The man laughs and when he does Hilary observes that his nose crinkles in an incredibly endearing way. He's about to say something else when a group of tourists catch his attention, requesting some drink Hilary has never heard of. 

He moves over to them and Hilary rubs at her temples, head still pounding. After her talk with Santiago, her mom and that work text she's feeling very vulnerable, and irritated because of it. She hates this feeling of being exposed. 

She should just turn her phone off and let herself fully unwind. But she can't, fingers pinching it from her pocket as she begins to type hurriedly. 

Do you ever talk to Frankie?

Her sister doesn't respond right away. It's at least 3 minutes of nursing her beer until she sees her phone light up. 

No. 

Her sister isn't exactly loquacious over text, but she's definitely not normally this brusque. This is a no-star conversation. Hilary pockets her phone and throws back her beer. On tottering heels she moves from the stool and towards the bathroom. 

She looks at herself in the mirror, sees the smudged, eyeliner and the tired expression she wears. She wipes at her makeup, trying to look presentable. On her way out she brushes against a tall guy waiting for the men's room. His familiar cologne makes her tense up. 

Danny. 

He's got a new snake tattoo around his neck, and several markings along his knuckles but she'd know him anywhere. She gives a silent bid to the universe to go unnoticed by him. But of course he spots her when their shoulders graze; an oily grin spreading over his face. He eyes her slowly, like a predator finding prey. 

"Hey Hil. Long time no see." 

"Hey, Danny." 

She goes to move past him when he blocks her way. He smiles, body language open. 

"I didn't know you came here." 

"First time." She speaks sharply, to the point, eyes not meeting his. 

She wants him to know he's inconveniencing her but he's oblivious. Instead he gives her a wolfish grin. 

"The guys and I are heading to Lovett's place after the next game."

"Cool."

"You wanna join us?"

"I'm good thanks." 

"C'mon, Hil," he entreats, fingers attempting to slide up her bare arm. "Could be fun. It sure was last time." 

She slept with Danny and a friend a few years back during a Halloween party. When he suggested a threesome she was up for it, if only to keep the good vibes going. She was buzzed from the punch and good weed her friend Penny passed around. She regretted it the next morning, but the damage was done.

Now Danny stands there staring at her with a look that makes her flesh crawl. 

Hilary cringes, steering away from his touch. "No thanks, Danny." 

Again she attempts to move around him and again he blocks her. She clenches her teeth in frustration. 

"C'mon doll." He motions to the guys around the pool table who are watching the exchange. "My friends wanna meet you. I told em all about you." 

Hilary feels her stomach sink when he says that. She can only imagine the things he's told them about her, the details of their encounter. She sneaks a glance at the men gathered around the pool table. They're smirking at one another, chalking the ends of their pool sticks. 

"You don't have to put on the sweet and innocent routine for me," Danny croons, face nearing hers. "We both know how wet you get when you're double teamed." 

Shame heats her cheeks, humiliation causing her to remain rooted in place. 

"You looked so good that night," Danny whispers against her ear. "Like you were made to take two cocks at once." 

The scent of his cheap cologne mixing with the stale alcohol restarts her body. Her hands curl into fists as her eyes pierce his face and she speaks between gritted teeth. 

"When a guy's dick is small it makes it easier. And from what I recall, you weren't exactly packing." 

The amusement is gone from Danny's face and he backs off, an ugly sneer crossing his face. 

"Fucking slut."

This doesn't faze her. She's been called worse by better. Hilary just rolls her eyes, making her way back to the bar. 

"See you, micro-dick." 

He hisses something at her back, but she's already across the floor seating herself back on the bar stool

"You're back." 

The handsome bartender looks relieved when she settles back into her stool and motions to her empty pint glass. 

"Another one?"

"Sure." 

Why not. It's only $4. With enough of them maybe she'll get a good buzz. One that ensures she can forget her shitty life for a bit. 

Like mother like daughter. 

 Her heart pounds at the interaction with Danny, face warm when she hears the murmurs and ugly chuckles coming from the pool table.

The Canadian bartender brings her back another pint glass and stands looking at her for a moment too long. Like he’s trying to memorize it.

"You were gonna tell me why you picked Florida," Hilary prompts him, feeling the cool beer flood her mouth. 

He leans onto his forearm, a playful smirk on his face. "I kinda just threw a dart at a map." 

"You fucking didn't." 

He laughs, and his nose scrunches again. Hilary grins at the sight of it. 

"I did. I'm kind of a nomad. I like going from place to place."

"Sounds nice ... Kinda."

"Not a traveler?" He asks, starting to wipe down the nearby pint glasses. 

Hilary ponders this. If anything, she should want to travel the world, to move from place to place. But there's something about being settled in one spot that makes her feel safe. 

"I like being in one spot, I think." 

"Mhm." 

She watches as he continues to dry the pint glasses, a small little smile tugged to one corner of his mouth. He smells good, like fresh soap and clean laundry. 

"So you didn't follow some girlfriend out here then?" She says lightly, eyes tracing over his biceps. 

"Nope. No girlfriend. Haven't had one of those in years." He looks at her with seriousness. "How about you?"

"Nope, never had a girlfriend," she quips.

He laughs, a rich, echoing sound. "I meant boyfriend... Husband..." He trails off and Hilary is delighted to see his face flushing.

"Nope. Haven't had one of those in a long time either,” she murmurs before taking another long sip. This beer is weak. She'll need at least four to even hope for a trace of a buzz. 

The two share a small smile before several voices call over to him from the far end of the bar. 

"Yo, can we get some actual service?" 

"Shit. Sorry." 

He excuses himself with a look of regret before moving his way towards them. Hilary scratches at the coaster under her glass and looks at her phone as it beeps. She sighs when she sees her sister's text. 

Why are you asking me about Frankie?  No reason. Santi brought him up and it made me think of you.  Ok.  How's Mom?

This is usually the topic of conversation Hilary and her sister dance around. Pip likes to check in over text, and Hillary thinks it's because it makes her feel as if she's doing her daughterly duty. 

She's fine. Same as always. You? Got a new apartment. Two bedrooms and a view of the needle.

Hilary reads the question she'll never ask; if she'll be in the neighborhood. Two bedrooms means a guest room for visitors. 

Thoughts of going to Pip's Seattle home and seeing everything that Hilary could never hope to accomplish doesn't sit well with her. 

Hilary stares at the message for several moments before she heads outside for a smoke. She needs to clear her head. 

The rough brick bites into her jeans as she leans against the building, lighting her cigarette and looking into the parking lot.She looks at the message from her sister again before she pops the cigarette into the corner of her mouth, texting back quickly. 

Cool. 

She watches a couple moving from the pub towards the car. They laugh together, their bodies close, arms tangled. She feels a strange pain of longing, not for the sex they'll inevitably have, but for the closeness, the ability to be with another person and feel completely safe. 

"Can I bum one?" 

Hilary looks over her shoulder to see the Canadian bartender headed her way, hands in his jean pockets. 

"Don't you have to work?"

"I'm on break." 

Hilary digs into her purse, producing a cigarette and her lighter, handing it his way. He takes them with thanks, popping the cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. The end flares orange in the darkness. 

"Don't worry I wasn't running out on my tab," she murmurs, scanning his large forearms covertly as he returns her lighter. 

He removes the cigarette and blows a tendril of smoke away from her. 

"Already settled." 

Hilary stiffens, eyes casting to the front door of the pub where inside guys like Danny and his friends are playing pool. Undoubtedly he did it to fuck with her.  

"I'll pay it myself. You can refund him." 

"Him?"

She tilts her head in the direction of the pub with a scowl. "The guy with the neck tattoo." 

"He didn't pay for your drinks." 

"Who did?" 

The man swallows, voice a little quieter. "Uh, I did." 

She narrows her eyes. "Why would you do that?" 

He continues twisting his cigarette. "Dunno. Felt like it." 

Hilary doesn't like stuff like this: men who pay to play. Ones who think that once the drinks are bought she owes them something in return. 

"I'm not going to fuck you just because you bought me some shitty beer," Hilary snaps, exhausted from the day, from her life, from gross men. "I'm not some whore-"

"Whoa, whoa," the man replies, hands held up, palms facing her. "That is not... That's not what that was." 

"What was it then?" 

"You just seemed like you were having a hard night," the guy shrugs. "Guess I wanted to cheer you up." He pauses, blinking slowly as Hilary stares at him. "You really think our beer is shitty?" 

A soft, surprised huff escapes her at the question and the man seems delighted by her response. Her anger ebbs in the face of his levity, her shoulders lowering.

"What's your name?" She asks after a beat.

"Justin. Nice to meet you," he says, extending his hand to shake hers. She stares at it a moment before moving towards him. 

His brows rise when her fingers move to grip the back of his neck, dragging his mouth to hers and kissing him fiercely. His hands rest respectfully on her hips, a small gasp escaping him when she begins licking into his mouth. The sound thrills her. 

He tastes like Guinness, that sweet rich chocolate aftertaste making her heady. And when she pulls back from him, he's staring at her with a dazed, half smile as if he's drunk on her. 

She grins up at him, feeling her heart trip. 

"I'm Hilary." 

The following morning the doctor confirms that you don't have a concussion; the wound on your head is healing just fine and you can be discharged as soon as you’re dressed. As you’re leaving he hands you a prescription for painkillers and tells you that you're good to get back to life.

That's exactly what you plan on doing. 

You feel lucky in so many ways. That crash could have ended much worse. That is the thought which takes your breath away. You could have gone to the grave never letting Frankie know the truth. Never letting him know you never stopped loving him.

When you return home via cab the first thing you do is throw yourself into the shower and scrub every inch of hospital air off of you. 

Shortly after, with Rosalita at your side, you kiss your mother's weathered brow, looking at her serene face as she rests in bed. The sunlight is streaming over her face, casting her in a warm marigold glow. 

Rosalita’s weathered hands come to rub at your back in soothing circles. “I am so glad you are safe."

"Me too." 

You feel safer being in this room with Rosalita. You feel emboldened enough to reach forward and squeeze your mother’s limp fingers resting on her coverlet.  You look over at Rosalita as you do this, eyes worried. 

"She's doing okay?"

"Yes."

Your mother twitches slightly in her sleep, fingers curling around yours for a fraction. You smile at her, liking to imagine that she's giving her own kind of confirmation.  

Afterwards you move into the kitchen to find Hilary chopping veggies before dumping them into a fragrant and bubbling crock pot. 

"Justin will be here tomorrow," Hilary informs you casually when she sees you watching. "He likes chili." 

You lean against the door frame, trying not to look like the cat who got the cream. 

"He does, does he?"

"Yes," she replies primly, ignoring the grin you shoot her.

"Good," you answer with sincerity. "I'm looking forward to meeting him." 

"He's looking forward to meeting you too," she says, starting to dice the onions. 

Her response is uncharacteristically warm, even sincere. You wonder if Justin is actually excited to meet you. In the end it doesn't matter. Does it? You're happy to see your sister happy. A chirp sounds on your phone, an alert. 

"My cab is here."

Hillary pauses and looks up from the cutting board, her kohl-rimmed eyes slanted your way. 

"Frankie?"

You nod, taken aback by the toothy smile she sends you. 

"Finally."

THEN

It's late and Frankie's house is pitch-black. The alarm clock beside the bed ticks. The tap in the kitchen drips slowly like it always has. 

Frankie lies on his belly with his arm slung over your middle. His face is half smudged into his pillow, his pouty lips slightly parted. You rest facing the ceiling, having just woken up desperate for a glass of water. 

The two of you had a great afternoon of talking and having fantastic sex and talking some more. It seems like you two can't stop finding things to talk about. At home things are so quiet with Hilary and her monosyllabic way of speaking and your mom's absence.

But here with Frankie his house is full of words and laughing. He makes noise when he cooks, pots and pans banging, the radio playing in the background, his humming when he washes the dishes. And even when the two of you do find yourself in quiet moments, it's rarely uncomfortable. Sitting, staring at the stars, playing cards, passively watching television, all feels comfortable.  

It's just hard when you know you should leave for home. When the hour is late and you don't want to be caught by your mom. You hate leaving because Frankie gets this pinched look on his face; this raw expression of naked anxiety. 

Despite being an independent guy, Frankie doesn't want to be left alone here. You wonder if it's the ghost of his parents in every room or the way the house feels so oppressive in its stillness. Whatever it is, you find yourself sleeping over most nights. Preening under the relieved smile he gives you, snuggling against his chest, wrapped tightly in strong arms, his husky voice at your temple. 

"Night, baby." 

You always rush home before dawn, crawling back through your bedroom window just in time to exit for breakfast. You think Hilary might suspect, but if she does she never rats you out. 

You watch Frankie a little longer this evening, his golden skin painted silver in the moonlight. He looks so innocent like this, so sweet. You smile, fingers tracing along his cheek until he flinches and your recoil.

"Don't leave," he mumbles.

You frown in confusion before you realize he's still asleep and must be dreaming. His leg twitches under the sheets, brows saddling. 

"Pip," he whispers worriedly. His arm wraps tighter around your middle.  

"I'm here," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. "I'm right here, baby."

You've never called him baby to his face. Always too shy, even though it's passed his lips several times before. 

"Don't.... "' he groans, eyelids twitching. "Just stay...."

"I am staying," You assure him, peppering his face with light kisses. "I'm not going anywhere." 

He settles immediately, brow smoothed, worry fleeing from his handsome face. He goes slack with deeper sleep, his breathing slow once more. You kiss his eyelids lightly, snuggling tighter against him. You watch him sleep, your heart swelling in affection. 

"I'll always be here, Frankie." 

Its late afternoon when you arrive at Frankie's and despite knowing exactly what you want to say, you're still shaking as you walk up the steps to his house.  You knock with a trembling fist, breathing heavily through your nose. You wait a minute.

Then two. 

Where is he? 

It's then that you turn to scan the front yard and notice his truck isn't in the driveway. 

He's not home. 

Crestfallen, you give a small cry, head bowed against his front door. Suddenly insecure thoughts go through your head. 

He's with someone else. A woman. One who didn't inadvertently break his heart. The one who left the lipstick tube. 

Or maybe he's hurt. He's been in an accident and you'll never see him again. 

Or he's g-

"Pip?"

Your heart lurches as you hear his familiar raspy murmur, spinning around to see Frankie exiting his truck. In your fearful delirium you hadn't even heard him pull up.

"Frankie," you manage in a choked whisper. 

He walks over to you quickly, keys in hand, a worried look on his handsome face. He scans your face, eyes bouncing. "Are you okay?"

"You weren't home," you murmur by way of explanation. 

"I was at the flight school," he says. He readjusts his hair under his hat without thought, a trait you've always loved, will always love. 

"Flight school?"

"First day back. I'm officially teaching again."  

"That's amazing," you say with a beam. Pride fills you. "I'm so glad." 

Frankie steps closer, so tall you have to tilt your head up. "Pip, why are you here? Is it your mom?" 

"No. No it's..." You realize you don't want to have this talk here on his doorstep. "Do you have a minute?" 

"Of course."

Frankie isn't expecting you there on his doorstep. He assumed Hilary would have texted him when you got out of the hospital. He wanted to be there for you, maybe even bring you flowers. But now you're here and you look so anxious that it makes his guts churn. He opens the door but before he can usher you inside he feels your fingers move to gingerly rest on top of his forearm. 

"Why didn't you stay that day?"

"When I took you to the hospital?"

You nod, looking anxiously up at him. Frankie blinks, his hand still resting on the doorknob. 

"Because Hilary wanted to stay with you and Rosalita wasn't able to come to your mom's right away, so I went and stayed with your mom until she got there." 

You take a deep, steadying breath. You're satisfied with his answer, he thinks.

"Is that what you needed to talk about?"

"No. It's something else," you inform him, mouth thinned. "It's important."

"More important than going home to rest?"

"Yes." 

He swings the door open widely, large hand raised to gesture for you to walk inside but you're already moving past him into the house. 

He watches the way you move through his home as if it's second nature, as if you always belonged here. Longing hits him strong and acute as he thinks of you bleeding in his truck, at the thought he could have lost you in a completely different and much more awful way. 

He follows you to the living room, watching as you pace a moment. Your eyes move to his fireplace several times before you give a small sigh and march over to it. He watches curiously as you reach for a small gold tube he's never noticed before. You look at it for several moments before you turn around to look Frankie square in the eye. 

"I need to know if you're seeing someone." Your breathing is elevated, eyes bright. "Even if it's casual." 

Frankie steps closer to you, puzzled."What?" 

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Frankie is at a loss. None of what you're saying makes any sense. He watches your feet shuffling along his carpet, anxiously awaiting his answer. 

"That's what you came over to ask me?"

You shake your head before brandishing the tube for his inspection, fingers shaking.  

"Whose lipstick is this?" 

Frankie squints at the slender tube between your shaking fingers. He didn't even realize it was lipstick. And you got it from his fireplace mantle?

"No clue," Frankie finally says with a shrug.

"It's been here a long time," you say, holding your breath. 

Frankie thinks back to any group gatherings he's had here in the past few months. 

"One of Santi's girls probably left it here after poker night. I'm always finding their shit here." 

"Really?"

"Really. Last time I found an earring by my sink."

“So you’re not seeing anyone?”

“No.”

He watches relief bloom on your face. The sight makes his heart trip delightedly. Even with a bandaged head you're still luminous. 

"That's...good," you say almost to yourself as you place the tube back onto the mantle. “That's really good.”

"Why?" Frankie asks lightly. 

You pause before suddenly looking away shyly, lashes lowered like you're embarrassed. 

"I thought you might be casually seeing someone." 

You are embarrassed. Frankie feels the hitch to one corner of his mouth. 

"Were you jealous or something?"

It's said with levity, but he's not joking, he's desperately hoping. Because if you're jealous that means something. 

You give him a challenging look that he knows too well. He's about to be told in no uncertain terms that you're never jealous. That you had no reason to be. But then you straighten, head held high. 

"Yes. I was jealous about you being with someone else."  

He's embarrassed at how quickly his pulse quickens. His insides feel hot, body on fire for you. 

"You were huh?" He's smiling wider now, dimple popping. "Thought you hated me," he says with another light chuckle. 

His voice is too breathless when he says it, embarrassing himself. He tells himself it's just an observation about your past animosity. But he's suddenly nervous because you don't seem angry or defensive like he's used to. You're looking at him in a completely new way, soft eyes and open body language. 

"I never hated you," you finally say with a trembling chin. "Even when I wanted to."

The amusement flees from his handsome face, leaving only open curiosity. "No?" 

You scan his eyes before motioning to the couch. You give a soft grunt as you drop onto a cushion, looking utterly exhausted. 

He joins you on the couch cushion, big hand spanning over your kneecap and squeezing gently. He can't help it; he needs to touch you in some way. When you don't pull away he simply rests it there. 

"Frankie... I-"

His heart is thumping steadily, but it picks up its tempo when you look up at him with such sad eyes. "Pip what's wrong?"

You don't look away from him, even though you seem to be in some sort of internal anguish. It makes him long to pull you into his arms, but he remembered what happened last time. How you ran from him and he doesn't want to put that pressure on you. 

"You've been visiting my mom for months. Cooking and cleaning and spending time with her." 

Frankie feels his breathing stutter, thrown at the sudden change in topic. 

Did Hilary tell you? Or maybe your mom?

He supposes he was just hoping the secret would remain one. He thought maybe your mom might say something, unable to remember it wasn't meant to be shared. At the time it hadn't seemed like a big deal, but then again Frankie never imagined you and he would be getting closer this trip. 

"Uh, yeah," he mutters.

"Why did you do it?"

His face goes pink; he can feel the heat crawling up his throat. He rubs at the back of his neck, voice quieter. 

"I was on suspension because of the coke," he mutters, "I had all this extra time on my hands and Santi and Hilary mentioned about your mom and I figured it was a no-brainer. I always liked your mom, she was always nice to me."

You stare at him as you digest what he's telling you. 

"You did that even after I treated you so horribly for so long?" You whisper, eye line wet. 

"Not your mom's fault." 

Frankie wonders why all of this is coming out. Was it the accident? Maybe you do have a concussion after all. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

"We weren't really talking, Pip," he says to his feet. "I mean, until this visit I don't remember the last time we had a civil conversation." 

Before Travis' party, he thinks bitterly. Before everything was ruined. 

He releases your knee, moving to rest against the back cushion of the couch. You nod, blinking the tears away as quickly as possible. Frankie stares at you for a long time, body tensed.  

"I tried reaching out to you before," Frankie admits. "Not about your mom, but to check in." 

He feels like this is a time for confessions, so he doesn't hesitate in sharing this. He waits patiently for you to formulate your response. 

"When?" 

"Around your graduation I tried calling your dorm but some guy answered," he mutters. "And you were in the background talking about going to bed..."

You flinch, clearly recalling the moment. 

"That was just some guy from a party my roommates threw. I asked him to sleep over-"

"I don't need to hear this-" Frankie interrupts. He doesn't want to know the details. Hearing this is just making him feel worse. 

"But I couldn't do anything with him," you finish in a rush as you look up at him with wide imploring eyes. "I couldn't because I just kept thinking about you, Frankie." 

Now Frankie is thrown, eyes snapping to focus on your face. You look sincere, but that's not possible. 

"What?"

"Every time he touched me all I could think about was how it felt when you touched me. And I realized how he felt wrong when you always felt right.” 

Frankie's taken aback by your candor. But also uncomfortable. You don't know what this conversation is doing to him. Your eyes go impossibly soft at the edges, matching the gentle murmur of your voice.

"It's always been you, Frankie." 

Now he feels cold seeping into his bones, his expressive face gone neutral. 

"Not always, Pip."

He goes to stand, but you cling to his forearm, wrapping your own arms around his elbow, keeping him in place on the sofa next to you. 

"Wait! That's what I'm trying to explain," you beseech him. "Please, Frankie, you have to listen. That night at Travis' party-"

"Stop, please," he says with a pang in his chest because in the years that followed your betrayal, he was plagued with the question of why you did what you did. 

He always wanted to know why your cruelty had reared Its ugly head that night. But now affronted with the choice to hear it, he suddenly doesn't want to. He doesn't want to go back to that ugly time. He doesn't want to remember another man's hands on you. 

Again he tries to pull away from you but you still haven't let go of his arm, you're pressed up so close to him he can smell the floral of your shampoo. And he's weak because he can barely move in the face of your nearness. 

"Frankie, please, just sit there and don't talk for five minutes. No, not even five. Just two." 

He watches the shaky breath you take in, voice coming out in a rush and he relaxes back, dark eyes narrowed on you. He'll hear you out. 

"That night at Travis' party I thought I saw you and Christy having sex in his parents room." 

The wind is knocked from him. "What?"

“You remember you told me Travis’ parent had a waterbed? That you wanted me to meet you up there?”

“Yeah.”

"Well I went up there and I see these two people, Christy and some guy. They were going at it and I couldn't see the guys face but I could see he was wearing your hat."

At this you make a vague motion to the Standard Oil cap Frankie now wears. Absently he touches the brim, eyes wide as your voice hitches, going low.

"I just... I assumed the worst."

Frankie is quiet, his body gone still. His ears are ringing. Something feels like it's taking over his body, something that protects him when he feels his most vulnerable. 

"Is that why you..." Frankie flinches. "You kissed him?"

"Yes."

Your face drops to your hands as you shake your head. Mortification is clear in your body language. 

"I feel so stupid. I don't know how I could have ever thought you would do that to me." 

"So all this time..." Frankie whispers, the puzzle pieces connecting. "You thought I cheated on you that night and that's why you've been so cold to me since then."

"Yes." 

"So you didn't hate me all this time," he says slowly, he needs to understand fully, he needs the clarity. 

You shake your head slowly from side to side, gaze not leaving his. 

"I couldn't ever hate you, Frankie," you admit in a shaky voice. "I was in love with you."

Frankie thinks back to his time in service, when the flash bangs would go off and leave the room and his ears ringing. This moment is similar to that, that same slightly unreal sensation that makes him feel off-balance. 

"You loved me," he whispers. 

"So deeply that when I thought you cheated on me I was devastated," you say with a flinch. "I was heartbroken."

He remains gaping at you. 

"You loved me," Frankie repeats quietly. 

"Yes." Your voice is trembling. "You're the only man I've ever truly felt like myself around. No one compared to you, even at their best."

You hear the small hitch to his breath, but you're unable to stop. 

"I've always loved you and I'm so sorry for what I did. For never talking to you. For Travis. And even though I know you can't love me after how I've treated you all this time, I just needed to tell you how much you mean to me. I need you to know I always have and always will love you."  

There, the final truth is laid at his feet and Frankie knows he needs to say something, but his body and brain aren't in agreement. Instead he lurches from the sofa, shaking off your loosening grip. He can't even look at you right now. 

He moves from the room in a hurry, feet carrying him to the bedroom, your watery gaze on his back. 

You watch as Frankie moves from you and into the bedroom, the pain in his face unbearable. But that's nothing compared to the brutal stab in your sternum at his rejection. 

I’m too late.

You whimper, eyes closing as tears rush down your cheeks. You're so fucking tired of crying but you can't stop. 

You can hear rustling in his bedroom, drawers being opened. A sickening drop goes to your stomach as you think of him packing up your hat and telling you to leave his home. Erasing every part of you that existed here. 

You're confused when he reappears still wearing his hat and a tense look on his face. In his hand is a yellowed envelope that he extends your way, eyes trained on your face as you stare at it. 

You stand, wiping your eyes with the back of your arm. "What is this?" 

"It was the first letter I was going to send you when I left back for basic." He exhales slowly as he passes it to you. "I wrote it before the party. I wanted to give it to you right before I left."

"Why?" 

"Remember you were giving me shit about writing you bad letters the last time? I figured I'd start out with a really good one." 

You hold the envelope in front of you, tracing your fingertip along the scrawl of your name over the front. "You kept it?"

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "Felt weird to throw away." 

You scan his face. "Do you want me to read it?"

"Not right now." 

"Okay." You blink up at him. "Why not now?"

"Because the things in that letter are the same things I've wanted to tell you for years."  He steps forward and you watch as his biceps curl, big warm hands cupping your cheeks. "But I want to say them to your face first."

His dark eyes trail along your face, transfixed. Like he's finding new details he'll commit to memory. Your hands fly to his wrists, holding loosely as you marvel up at him.

"You are the most singular woman I've ever met," he says. "You're funny and sexy and thoughtful. You're kind and you're brave even though you don't believe it." 

Shame floods you at the praise. After everything you’ve put him through?

"Frankie, no," you say shaking your head. "I'm horrible." 

Frankie ducks his head, finding your eyes, his own are warm and honeyed. 

"You gave a boy you didn't know a hat, just because you thought it would make him feel better," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "You scaled a tree to save his kite; you stayed with him when he lost his parents even after everyone left."

Tears spill over your cheeks when his voice gets thick with emotion. 

"One thing I didn't put in the letter is that I love you," he says, raspy voice wavering as his dark eyes scan yours. "I have loved you for years and years and I'm going to keep loving you until the day I die and I needed to tell you that to your face."

Your eyes glisten as your hand finds your sternum, flattening your palm over it as you try to quell the thunder of your heartbeat. 

"You loved me back then?"

"Of course I did," he says through a wet chuckle. He brushes the hair back from your damp eyes. "How could I not?" 

"Because I'm stubborn and I jumped to the wrong conclusion and-"

Your eyes blink brightly up at him, trying not to cry when you see his eyes are shiny. 

"You trusted me to save you from that tree. To carry you when you were hurt," he says in that familiar low rasp. "You gave me your first kiss. Your first time. You've done nothing but show me love and trust from the first moment we met. How could I not love you? How could I love anyone else?"

And Frankie Morales, the boy who didn't even cry at his parent’s funeral suddenly can't hold his tears back from you. They slide down his face no matter how much he tries to blink them away. 

"I'm sorry," you choke out at the sight of them. "I'm so sorry, Frankie,” you hiccup a cry. "We had this perfect, beautiful thing and I ruined it." 

"Oh, baby, I-" he cuts himself off, strong arms pulling you into him.

You sob brokenly against his throat, arms tightly gripping him like he's the guiding light in a storm. You sob for the years missed. For birthdays and Christmases you didn't spend together. For lazy mornings in bed and his shitty French toast you never experienced. For the years of amazing sex and time spent laughing you were robbed of.  

And when you're finally finished crying, when your body feels it might turn to dust, you realize Frankie's still rocking you in his arms, his mouth pressed to your hairline. 

"You didn't ruin anything," he assures you in a rumble you can feel through his shirt. "I'm here. You're here. We're here together. We got here." 

Your arms are sealed around his waist, fingers lacing at the base of his spine. You have this crazy thought that if you don't hold him tightly, if you don't cling to him, he'll float away, gone forever. 

"I don't want you to leave," you whisper brokenly into his shoulder. Your chin is quivering when you speak. 

He makes a noise in his throat, sadness? Disbelief? Whatever it is, he holds you closer, like he's trying to physically move the love from his body to yours. 

"You're the love of my life," Frankie says in a hoarse voice. "And I'm never leaving you again."  

Those words break through the terrified crystallization of your fears, sending the shards falling away, forgotten. Frankie is the warmth, the sun melting them until you're freed from their oppressive hold. 

You feel the motion of him removing his hat, tossing it onto the coffee table. You raise your face to his and your lips are parted to reply to him when Frankie's plump mouth presses to yours. 

You kiss tenderly, lips damp, tongues searching. It's like the kiss from not so long ago but magnified now that your feelings have been shared. And it's just right. That same sensation of homecoming and safety and desire all wrapped up in one. The kiss that every other was compared to. 

"I missed you," Frankie murmurs between sighs, eyes closed. "I never stopped." 

"I never stopped loving you, Frankie." 

Your mouths meet again. Desire surges through you, arms scrabbling to wrap around his neck, mouths kissing furiously as his banded arms hold you against him. Your core pulses with a deep need as the kissing intensifies.

You coo when Frankie begins lowering you both to the couch, his heavy body resting lightly over yours.  He groans against your jaw, voice husky between tender nibbles and wet kisses against your neck.  

"You still smell the same." 

You feel the deep grind of his pelvis against yours and you moan into his mouth. It seems to echo like a plucked violin string, plaintive and mournful.  

"I need you," you murmur, tongue coming to flick gently under his upper lip. The intention is clear, your body melded to his. 

Frankie's eyes are like glossy black marbles when he pulls back. He's flushed; his dark curls have fallen into his forehead. He's never looked sexier. 

"You might be disappointed," he says, thumb grazing your jaw. "I was recently told I have a dad bod that peaked in basic."

Frankie laughs lightly, a tinge of insecurity at the edges.  

You hate that you put it there. 

You push him back slightly so that you can sit up, eyes dragging around his handsome face. 

"You know why I said that?" 

He shakes his head, jaw tensing in embarrassment. You move off the couch, dragging him to a stand before your hands go to the hem of his t-shirt, eyes heavy as you gaze at him. 

"I said that because Benny caught me staring at you that day at the beach," you admit, helping to peel the T-shirt from his body. "And I was staring because you looked so fucking good." 

Frankie flushes delightedly at this, hair fluffed from the removal of his t-shirt and hat. Your ankles cross as you move a slow circle around his body, fingers trailing over his pectorals, feeling the rise of goose flesh under the pads of your fingers. 

"You were standing there with no shirt, the sun on your skin," you recall with a sigh. "And I was hypnotized." 

You come to stand in front of him once more and Frankie watches you take in his broad, muscled shoulders, the thick biceps and tensed belly. 

"Because you're still so perfect," you whisper in quiet awe. 

He gives a shy shake of his head, about to speak, to deny this, when your finger slowly presses against those plump lips you adore, urging him to remain silent. You want to show him that you're not just saying this. That your desire has not waned in the slightest. That in your opinion he's only gotten more attractive, more masculine, more sensual.  

You lean forward and kiss his collarbone, just because you can. Then you move to the base of his elegant neck. His skin is warm; he smells the same as he always has. Old spice, laundry, fresh sweat. 

Frankie.

He makes a soft purring noise in the back of his throat, head tilting back to give you better access. Your nose glides along his throat, inhaling both him and the memories of your combined youth. You suck a soft bruise into the skin just below his jaw and are rewarded with a deep, reverberating groan. 

You love every part of him, from his body to his mind. His compassion and even his temper. You love it all because it is all of him, every piece of him a gift you want to cherish properly. 

You kiss down his warm torso, body trembling under your lips. He's so eager, so needy. You feel it pressed against your belly as you descend. 

Your lips move over the firm swell of his belly, leading a trail of kisses to the top of his hips. You both shiver excitedly when your lips move lower, to where his bronzed flesh disappears under his jeans. 

Your eyes shift now from his skin and back to his face. He's breathing through his mouth, eyes trained on you when you slowly sink to your knees, hands on his belt buckle. You unhook the button of his jeans, drawing down the tongue of the zipper without thought. 

He goes to speak, but you're already bringing him out of his boxers and into your waiting palm. He's warm, thick and throbbing in your eager hand.

"So pretty," you say looking at it with devotion as you begin to stroke slowly. "I almost forgot how pretty."

He hisses as you thumb the damp slit. His fingers reach out to graze your cheek, thumb wiping away a stray tear you didn't even know was there. Your eyes are on his, glued, fascinated. 

"I never forgot how pretty," he murmurs.

The heat of his gaze and the touch of his fingers on your cheek make you feel shy. You remind yourself to stay on task when his eyes go unfocused. 

You stroke slowly, eyes on his, watching when those dark lashes begin to flutter before squeezing shut. 

"You're shaking, Morales," you tease, your movements increasing in pace, watching the pleasurable disbelief cross his face. 

His brows saddle as you tighten your fingers upon your descent, enthralled to see how his hips buck in response before his legs wobble. 

"Can you blame me?" he grunts, hands at his side in useless fists. 

You gaze up at him, tongue coming to lick the rosy head of his cock, delighted when it twitches at the contact. 

"Jesus, Pip," he groans, eyes pitched black. 

You continue smirking as you take a long, languid lick along the underside of him, never breaking eye contact. He stares down at you in awe, fingers twitching. 

You lean forward, lips parting as you take the head of his cock into your scorching mouth.He makes a muffled choking noise, one hand continuing to cup your cheek, feeling the architecture of your jaw as you widen your mouth to accommodate him. 

His eyelids flutter again as you flatten your tongue, tasting every inch you urge him to feed himself further into your mouth. 

"Baby, you're killing me."

You hide a grin as his head tilts down again, chin propped on his sternum so he can watch everything you're doing. 

He shudders as you swirl your tongue around the ridge of the head, savoring the salt and scent of him. He groans under his breath, fingers coming to tangle in your hair and you whine around him at the pleasure his grip sends skittering through your body. 

"God, look at you," Frankie groans, mouth trembling. "Still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

You increase the suction, tongue flickering against the sensitive underside in the way you can remember he loves. He arches his back, his hips canting instinctively again before he stops himself. 

"Wait, Pip, wait," he whispers, his voice ragged and broken.

You pull off of him in confusion when he begins to curl over, hands warmly squeezing over yours. You give a look of concern up at him which is wiped away you see the open need in his expression. 

"I need to feel you first." 

You give a small giggle of surprise as he reaches down, pulling you into his strong arms as if you weigh nothing. He holds you in a bridal carry as his mouth finds yours, kissing you deeply. 

"Can we keep going in bed?" He rasps against your lips. "Like that first time?" 

You beam at him, arms wrapping around his neck as he moves to walk you both over the threshold of his childhood bedroom. 

"Yes."

Hours later the two of you sweaty and grinning under the covers. Its dark now, both of you lost track of time after your third orgasm. The window is cracked open a fraction to let the night air in. 

"Like we never skipped a beat," you pant, burrowing against him. 

"I dunno about that," Frankie says, flushed and impossibly happy as he kisses your forehead. "I feel like it was even better than before." 

"Yeah?"

"I mean, it was pretty amazing when we were kids but this? Next level."

You give a soft laugh of surprise. "Next level." 

"Mhm." 

"You're right," you agree after a moment's sincere consideration.   

"Finally, you admit I'm right about something," he teases. The corners of his mouth curve into a gentle smile, the kind he saves just for you. 

"Don't get too used to it." 

You press a kiss to his chest, letting the moonlight paint his golden skin silver. The window is slightly ajar, the sound of cicadas chirping in the distance. 

Despite the satisfaction and relief of knowing Frankie feels the same way about you, an ache remains under your ribcage, prompting Frankie to tap your chin gently with the crook of his forefinger.

"What is it, baby?" 

"How can you forgive me so easily?" You whisper, eyes limpid. 

"I'm not big on keeping score," he shrugs, smiling indulgently at you. "And you're here in my arms. I don't need to over think it." 

You grin back unsteadily at first; unsure if this free flowing kindness is to be believed. But again your brows saddle.

"We could have been like this the whole time," You say, brushing the curls from his face. "I just think about the years we lost-"

"We're here now," he interrupts before you can begin any further self-flagellation. "And that's all that matters." 

You bury your face in his neck, happy tears wetting his skin. His lips find yours once more and for a glorious moment it feels like nothing bad will ever happen again. All that exists is joy and togetherness and safety here in the harbor of Frankie Morales strong arms. 

Beep.

Beep. 

Your phone beeps and vibrates, drawing your attention over to the side of the bed. Your reach down to retrieve it from the back pocket of your denim cut offs. 

Frankie watches you read the text, brows knitted when you give a soft gasp. He jerks up in bed when you hurriedly start to get dressed. 

"Baby, what is it?" 

"My mom," you say with a crazed look in your eyes. "We need to get back right away." 

He doesn't hesitate, simply tugs on his jeans, T-shirt and hat before he ushers you into his truck. He holds your hand the entire way from the truck and across the threshold of your childhood home. 

"Hey," Hilary says in a quiet voice as you both enter the house. Her eyes are red-rimmed, face blotchy. But when her eyes move between the two of you and your linked hands, you see a softness to her expression. 

"About damn time, Fish." 

Frankie ducks his head shyly in reply. 

For a strange moment you feel like this is all a dream. Frankie, Hilary, your mom. Like the world is hazy and not quite solid under your feet. 

Rosalita is there at the doorframe of your mother's room. Her eyes are wet when she looks between your sister and you. 

"It is time, my dears." 

She doesn't say anything more, she simply steps back into your mother's room. 

Frankie squeezes your hand gently and you drop it only so that you can take Hilary's. Her fingers wrap tightly around yours as you feel Frankie's warmth at your back. 

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me" Frankie murmurs gently, kissing your cheek and moving back into the other room. 

You can hear the quiet, agonized breathing of your mother and the sound terrifies you into taking a step back. Hilary notices, the big sister in her causing you both to stop just outside the door. 

"I can give her a message from you if you don't want to come in" Hilary offers.

Up close you can see her eyes are swollen. You see the fatigue etched into the lines around her eyes and mouth. You see the sister that has always protected you, even when you didn't realize it. 

But she doesn't need to do that anymore. 

"I'm okay." 

You enter into the room with Hilary, the two of you coming to stand at the side of the bed, both staring down at the placid face of your mother.  Her rasping breath rattles in her narrow chest, her eyes closed, mouth parted. 

You watch as Hilary leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead before her mouth moves to your mother's ear and she whispers something. You'll never know what she said that night, and you'll never ask. 

When she rights herself, you can see the tears that have flooded her face. She wipes them away before looking at you expectantly. 

And despite the fear you've felt at being left alone with your mother, suddenly, it's all you want. A peaceful send-off. 

"Can I have a minute alone with her?" You ask your sister quietly. 

Hillary's surprised, but she nods."Of course."

She squeezes your shoulder as she leaves, closing the door gently behind she and Rosalita. 

You look back to see your mother's breathing is labored, her face waxen. And this is when you want to leave, to rush from the room where it's bright and safe. You want to escape the hard things, just like when you flew to Seattle, when you started over, when you left. 

But as you take your mother's hand for what will be the last time; you do it because for once, you are choosing to stay.

Me when Pip and Frankie reunited

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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@vickie5446

This Frankie is written so well — his mannerisms, his behaviors, his motivations, his dialogue — I was honestly in awe the whole way through. This is Frankie to me now. This is how he grew up and how he came to be who he is. My heart was aching for him when his parents died and when he asked her to write him him and when he held steadfast against drugs for so long until he broke, and when his hurt molded into silence because of his stubbornness and his deep, deep feelings. Jesus Christ, you’re talented.

And Pip. Oh Pip 🥺 I loved their relationship so much. The safety in it, the trust. The way you wrote present day paired with the perfect slices from the past was so beautiful and such an amazing feat of storytelling. Every emotion she felt was so justified and earned and so beautifully written. I loved every conversation she had with her sister — you did such an amazing job at keeping them both in their respective characters the whole way through.

And the ending. That ending. The last couple sentences of the last chapter are going to stick with me for awhile. The way she decided to stay broke my heart, and healed it at the same time. I love, love, loved Pip’s growth. I love when I start reading because of the Pedro character, and become just as invested (if not more) in the reader. She is written so strongly and that is not an easy feat. You did a brilliant job creating a fully formed human who became so real in my mind that she’s also a part of canon now.

I’ll definitely be coming back to this one for comfort.

Abitha furrowed her brow in confusion, but did as he asked. She stood in front of him and took his hand as he remained seated on the floor, looking up at her. Her breath caught at the soft shimmer in his strange and alluring eyes, and a shiver ran through her.

"What curiosity is that?" She could only manage a whisper.

"I have a hunger," he replied, just as softly. "A scent has intrigued me. Stronger than the cobbler or blackberries, one I find far more enticing. I first noticed it on our walk earlier, and again, now, when our lips touched. I believe it to be the scent of your measuring, of the part that is winning. It beckons me, and I wish to taste of it, by your leave."

Confusion still swirled in Abitha's mind, but his words sounded honey-coated and as warm as his hand in hers, so again, she nodded.

He smiled, and brought his hands to her ankles. Holding her gaze he moved them up her calves, lifting her skirt in the process. She whimpered in uncertainty and he paused.

"Do you wish me to stop?" His voice stayed low and gentle, though the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed had increased.

Her brow pinched again as she thought. "No," she said finally, her voice little more than air.

Samson smiled. "Good," he replied, and his hands resumed their path, past her knees and to the backs of her thighs. The sensation caused Abitha to pitch forward slightly, bracing herself by grabbing his horns. She let out a moan, which he answered in kind. A brief confirming glance between them and his hands were at her hips, her skirt and apron bunched at her waist and her sex exposed.

Samson's eyes lowered to it, taking in the patch of curls that matched the red hair in her braid. His nostrils flared and he groaned again. "There it is. Indeed, that is the scent. Abitha, I find my mouth watering. Please, allow me to sample your delicacy."

“This is the Kid,” Din explains. “Or, that’s what I’ve been calling him at least.” 

He pulls you to his side, ducking to press a gentle kiss to the slope of your neck. His lips linger in place for a moment, and when he pulls back, you take in how tired he looks. Weariness etched into his face, he lowers his voice so the boy won’t hear. “He won’t tell me his name yet.”

Your mouth pops open with more questions, and he gives your hip a quick squeeze with a subtle shake of his head. “I’ll tell you more upstairs.”

Leaving you with the child, the two of you watch as he approaches the madam at the end of the bar. She’s been watching him with narrowed eyes ever since he walked in, and though the noise in the room covers most of their conversation, you can tell from their expressions they’re arguing. 

Well, from her expression. She looks outraged, while he stays firm, the picture of unyielding. Biting the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling, you watch as he wears her down. 

“This is no place for a child, Din,” you hear her chide, and to this, he simply responds by placing a sizable sum of money into her hand, closing her fist around it. 

Both you and the child raise your eyebrows, glancing at each other. 

The madam gives Din a long, stubborn look – and then snaps her fan open, signaling to a couple girls in the corner. 

At this, you lead the boy over. 

“He needs dinner,” Din instructs the women, busy enveloping the boy in their embrace. “And a bath.”

They wave away his words, cooing over how handsome he is, clearly overjoyed to be tasked with babysitting for the night versus any other obligations.

They lead him away, and Din takes your hand in his. 

“Come on, girl,” he sighs. “Let's go upstairs.” 

–

In the bath, he’s quiet. Perched on his lap, you stay silent, unsure if he’s waiting for Gracie or if he is savoring the moment of peace. With the way he lets his head tip forward to rest against your sternum, you think it’s the latter. 

Slipping your fingers into the soft hair at the base of his neck, you feel him melt against you, the stiff set of his shoulder relaxing at your touch. He sighs, the weight of his worries ghosting along your skin and his hands splay over your hips, as if seeking an anchor in your soft warmth. 

“Everything okay?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he squeezes you tighter.

His mouth brushes warm and delicate over the swell of your breast, an action that pulls at a thread of longing from deep within you. His handling of you is so much more tender than you’re used to, so much more reverential – but before you question the emotions it brings forth, Gracie lets herself into the room with a bright and eager smile. She’s always loved a good story.

“I heard you have a little friend with you,” she greets Din, sitting down on the edge of the tub. Bracing herself on the rim, she leans down with an offer of a kiss. Water trickles as he lifts his hand to cradle her jaw, attempting to turn the kiss into more, but she slips from his grasp.

“Not –,” another peck on his lips, “before–,” she sighs, letting his mouth slide down to taste the hinge of her jaw, “ – you tell me where he came from.”

Letting himself sink back into the warm water, he does. 

–

Tracking a bounty about a hundred miles south of a nearby town, it had taken Din a week to get there. Just like the landscape, every person along his path had been rough and unyielding. Every lead had been hard won, every piece of information paid for in coin or with muscle – and even then, the search was half luck. 

Luck that had clearly run out, resulting in a dead end.

Frustrated in his failure, he had doubled back to the last tavern he visited to see if he could drum up any more information. 

He had been riding for about an hour when he heard a loud shot echo across a field. Narrowing his eyes under the brim of his hat, he spotted a small house on the horizon, a barn tucked behind it. Between hunting and farm life, it wasn’t unusual to hear a gunshot, and he continued for a moment before another shot rang out.

At this one, he pulled his horse to a stop. 

The sound of it felt wrong to him, off somehow. Acting on instinct, he rode over to find the front door hanging open on its hinges, the front window broken out. Grunts and thumps of a struggle came from within the house, and drawing his pistol from the holster, he carefully rounded the doorway. 

Inside, he found the dead bodies of a man and a woman, slumped over a wooden floor pooled with blood. 

He also found the man he was searching for. 

The man held a boy in his grip, the two of them locked in a fight. The child‘s small body frantically kicked and squirmed, trying everything in his power to get away while the man struggled to hang on tight, his other hand reaching for his gun that was lying on the floor. 

Then, several things happened at once: Din stepped forward, and the man snatched up the pistol. The quarry reflexively cocked the hammer with his thumb, aiming his gun straight at the boy's temple – and without hesitation, Din aimed his own pistol at the man and pulled the trigger. 

The quarry slumped over, dead. 

With fear-flooded eyes, the child scrambled up and bolted from the house. 

Letting the boy run, Din stepped over his quarry’s body with a sigh. All that work for nothing – the flyer in his saddle said “Alive”, not “Dead”. 

He salvaged what he could: the pistol on the floor, a knife in the man’s boot. Then, he set to work gathering supplies for the child. He rifled through the bureau in the corner, stuffing some clothing in a sack. He grabbed what little food he could from the kitchen. He took a pair of shoes for the kid, a spare blanket from the closet, and at the last minute, the sole picture on the mantel. 

Leaving three dead bodies behind him, he went in search of the kid. 

He found him hiding in the hay loft, his tear streaked face appearing over the edge when Din walked through the barn doors. Understanding that sudden movements and sharp orders were the last thing that were going to work, Din was patient and soothing, with a stillness to him that eventually won the child out. 

Knowing there was nothing left for the boy there, Din lifted him onto his saddle and climbed up behind him. 

With a spur of his heels, they left the house behind. 

–

“He wouldn’t leave my side at the sheriff’s office,” he finishes. “They said there was a place for him with the nuns, but he won’t go.” Kneading the soft flesh on your hips, he slides his hand up. The plump side of your breast fits within his palm, and he runs his thumb over your nipple, making it swell under his touch. 

“I don’t blame him,” he adds. “The nuns are a little too prim for me.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, and he winks. 

“Well, what are you going to do?” Gracie asks, worried. “You can’t just keep him, can you?”

“If he won’t go with the nuns and if his parents are gone, I guess he stays with me,” he shrugs. “Traveling with me is no life for a kid…but I don’t know what else to do. I guess from now on, wherever I go, he goes.”

With both parents dead and almost getting killed himself, you can’t imagine what that child has gone through. Even more, what else he’s going to be exposed to trailing around with Din. Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession – a hard life full of violence and struggle, constantly nomadic, never stable. Frowning at the thought, you’re pulled from your reverie when Din cups your jaw, bringing your attention back to him. 

“Hey now,” he soothes, the lilt of a tease in his tone. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take good care of him.”

Your head tips to the side with silent skepticism, an objection he answers with a press of his mouth against yours. Firm and sure, his kiss silences your worries, distracting you with a slow, lush slide of his tongue against yours. You deepen it, and his hips shift restlessly beneath your straddle, the heft of his stiffening cock pressing along the inside of your thigh. 

“I know what will cheer you ladies up,” he says lowly, capturing your bottom lip with a tug of his teeth before soothing the swollen skin with a kiss. He pulls back, just enough for you to see a glint of dark lust in his eyes. “Let’s play a game.”

–

With Din, you have come to learn, a game could mean different things depending on his mood.

Sometimes, it meant an actual game, like the time he challenged the two of you to strip poker. Extreme in his confidence, he forgot that you and Gracie watch men play poker all day long. In no time at all, the two of you had him down to his drawers, an outcome that had him protesting that you must be cheating. His claim was that you had spare cards hidden under your (nearly transparent) clothes, so you answered by taking them off. Gowns tossed onto the floor, you both climbed onto his lap, and with a straddle over his firm thighs, the game was quickly forgotten. 

Tonight however, you can tell he doesn’t mean that kind of game. 

He means one of his games, the kind he makes the rules for.

Out of the bath and dried off, he explains the rules. 

“Gracie is the bounty hunter,” he says, deftly securing his heavy belt across her naked hips. It sags low on her body with weight, and he checks to see that it’s fastened tight by dipping his fingers beneath the band of leather. They brush through the sparse curls that cover her cunt, and when he looks up from his crouched position, her thighs squeeze together to quell her visible need. 

Satisfied, he presses a kiss to the soft slope of her belly before standing up straight. Turning, he rests his dark eyes on you. “And you, girl. You’re our quarry.” 

He winds a length of rope around the width of his hand, your breath catching at the sight. Everything about his movements scream predatory: slow steps forward, his eyes raking over your body. Unbearably erotic too, given his stark nakedness. The width of his shoulders and the competence in his hands only serves to make him feel even more intimidating, and the want on his face paired with the implication of his words is so blatant. 

Flushed with your own need by the time he comes to a stop in front of you, he teases the rope just under your belly button, and your cunt clenches, the cradle of your hips tight with anticipation.  

His eyes stay fixed on yours when he gives his order. “Hands out.”

Deft and quick, he binds your wrists together. When he’s done, he gives the rope a sharp tug to test its strength, pulling you toward him. 

“You look good like this,” he praises, drinking you in. His nose skims along the column of your neck, goosebumps following its path. 

Taking a breath, you try to steady your thrumming heart. 

“You ready?” he murmurs. 

Swallowing hard, you nod. 

Stepping back, he drags a chair to the middle of the room with a scrape across the floor, sitting down to openly admire your positioning. The two of you to play with, his to do with what he wants. His posture exudes arrogance: slouched low in the chair, feet planted on the floor, legs spread wide. Tension fills the small, warmly lit space and arousal pulls up inside you, slick and wet between your legs. He looks gorgeous in this light: his skin a golden brown, his hair dark with dampness, his eyes almost black. 

Your gaze lingering on the broadness of his shoulders and the trail of hair that collects along his belly to run down towards his lap, you hear Gracie sharply inhale when he brazenly palms his stiff cock, taking himself in hand. His forearm flexes as he gives himself a leisurely squeeze, stroking from base to tip. 

“Okay, girl,” he prompts. “Beg.”

You do. You put your whole heart into it, knowing he likes the show. There is something about the struggle, something about seeing you bound and at his mercy that makes his cock harden, makes his stomach cinch as he sits up straight to get closer.

“Please,” you beg, tugging against the ropes. “You’ve got the wrong person. I swear. I’ll do anything.”

He tilts his head, a smirk gracing his lips. “You can do better than that. What do you think, Gracie?”

“That was nothing,” she plays along. 

He raises his eyebrows in challenge, and you try again. “Please, please. Please, just let me go, I promise– “

The door opens, and the three of you turn your heads at the sound. 

“Is everything okay in–,” the madam starts, her words caught in her open mouth at the sight in front of her. 

Gracie, a heavy belt low on her hips. You, bound and begging for your freedom. Din, lording over it all. Every one of you without a stitch of clothing on. She’s seen all manner of requests, but even this is a new one for her. She blinks, and another girl walks behind her through the hallway, doing a double take.

Making no effort to explain, Din lifts his chin in command. 

“Close the door.”

Without a word, she does – and he’s out of his chair just as fast. 

“This one is gonna get us in trouble. I think we need to gag her.”

You give him a wary, mischievous look, taking a step back for every one he takes towards you and you stop when you bump into the soft warmth of Gracie. She wraps her arms around you, her breasts tight against your back, her small hand curling at the base of your throat to hold you in place. 

“You got something to stuff in her mouth?” she teases, and you can’t help your smile. 

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “That’s so – oh fuck.”

The heat of Din’s body crowds you close to her, his hand finding a home between your thighs. His thumb swirls a slick circle over your clit, and he watches your face as you falter, your expression softening into arousal. He keeps going, enjoying the way you struggle to stay upright and Gracie’s delicate touch skims down over your hip, sliding down the inside of your thigh to hold you open for him. 

“What was that?” he asks, his voice like gravel. “What were you saying?”

Sliding his touch through your slick cunt, he teases your aching entrance before filling you swiftly with two thick fingers. His thumb stays on your clit, and he works his touch in tandem: his fingers sliding out to sink back in, his thumb working, working, working. They curl, drawing out heady arousal, your body trapped captive between them. 

You sag into Gracie, and she mouths a kiss to your shoulder. 

“Please,” you whine, your hips canting forward, chasing the fill of his fingers. “I want more.”

His body is so warm and firm, his masculine scent going straight to your head. Paired with the silky touch of Gracie, you close your eyes, letting everything inside you build higher and higher. Your nipples tighten, and her lush mouth presses sweet kisses along your shoulder while you feel the humid skate of Din’s breath over your sensitive skin. 

“Yea?” he asks, bending to take your nipple in his mouth. Your eyes open at his first hard pull, a moan breaking free when he sucks on the peak, toying at it with the tip of his tongue. “You want more?”

“Please.”

Obeying, he slides his slick fingers deeper, working his thumb faster, opening his mouth wider to taste more of your flesh with a savoring pull. He groans against your skin, his other hand skimming up your side with a weighty drag, and Gracie tugs at your other nipple with a delightful pluck. They work as a team, one playing off the other, and Din’s hand cups your chin, just as the other abruptly stops its slick glide. 

You whimper, and he grips your chin tight, leaning in to murmur his words directly under your ear. 

“Too bad we don’t bargain with quarries.”

–

It’s a lot after that. 

Shoving you down on the bed, looping your bound wrists over the bedpost so you can’t escape. Stretching out on the bed beside you, making Gracie ride him. Forcing you to watch while she fucks him hard and fast, his grip tucked under the leather belt to guide her hips forward and back with sharp tugs. He’s filthy and base, feral in his sounds and in his need and slick warmth coats the inside of your thighs, the sheets underneath you damp with arousal. You’re so turned on it hurts, and he watches you struggle against your ropes – a sight that only seems to spur him on. 

Gracie comes with a high cry, collapsing down to the mattress to catch her breath, and before you can even make room for her, he’s shouldering your thighs open, spreading them wide. His hot mouth drags against the skin on your inner thighs, teasing a wet path upwards before giving your clit an open mouthed kiss. Neglected and aching, your hips jerk forward at the sensation, and he bands his thick forearm across them, keeping you in place. Forcing you to take every lick, every lave, every suck and pull and kiss – all the while, paying attention to every detail your body gives away. 

Clenching around his tongue, your hips grind needy and restless against his mouth, the pitch of your moans more and more breathless as you get closer to your peak. “Oh fuck. Din. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He forces you closer and closer to the edge, dangling you over it until you’re babbling and pleading–and then he stops. 

You let out a sob, pulling at your restraints. “No. No, please.”

Again and again he does it, dragging you to the top of your peak without letting you come. 

Sweat beads along your hairline, your skin slick with moisture. Your muscles ache and his hold tightens. His mouth gets messier, hungrier, and Gracie kisses you through it all, alternating between swallowing your cries and worshiping your tight, aching breasts. 

Only when your voice is raw with real begging does he let you come.  

The force of it pulls you under, upending you. Your back bows against the mattress, your thighs clenching so hard they cramp. Soaked, your arousal smears on the sheets and is slick on your skin and glistens on the lower half of his face – everything sticky and slick and wet. Pliant and limp, you lay there with your arms suspended above you as he shoves up onto his knees, making a space for himself between your trembling thighs. You let out a soft whine when you see him grasping his cock to line himself up. 

As tired as you are, you want it. He teases your clit with the tip of his cock, tapping the weight of it against the sensitive bundle of nerves and you crave the thick fill of it, the satisfying stretch only he can provide. He always fucks so thorough and so deep, and you need him to fill you up, to finally give you relief.  

Your hips squirm on the bed, and he pinches the inside of your knee with a teasing tweak. “Hold still, or I’ll have Gracie sit on your face.”

Your face collapses into a frown of pleasure, and Gracie giggles breathlessly beside you. 

Bracing himself heavily on your hips, he pins you in place as he leans his weight into the hold, rocking his hips forward to slide into you with a smooth, full stroke. Your breath hitches it feels so good, even more so when he pulls out to glide back in again. He bottoms out, breaking you open again and again, and tears gather along your lashes, your shoulders sore with the effort of being tied up. 

Dropping forward to rest on his forearms, he guides your legs high around his waist as his strokes get deeper, harder.  “I’m not gonna let you go until I’ve had my fill,” he threatens, and you know he’s telling the truth. 

Your eyes fluttering shut, you give into your body being a vessel for him to use. Sensation fills you from the inside out: his hot skin pressed against yours, his bruising grip, the filling weight of his cock. His sharp thrusts, his humid gusts of breath that skim across your feverish skin. He kisses you, a thick, all consuming thing that steals the breath from your lungs and you chase the heat of his mouth when Gracie tugs his face to hers, pulling him in for a kiss. You whine, desperate and rhythmic to match every heavy thrust he gives you, and she swallows his corresponding groan of pleasure as it reverberates between his chest and yours. 

Another release gathers inside you, every kiss of his hips building it higher. Your hips cant up to meet him thrust for thrust, seeking the sharp edge of relief, but he grips your hip and holds it to the mattress, giving you no choice but to just take it. His hands splay and reach, his grip sliding down from your hip to your ass as he pulls at the skin there with a burn. Mouthing at the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, he pants harshly in your ear, his grunts of effort forcing you towards a bright, blissful edge. When he sinks his teeth into your skin, you come. 

Barely a voice left, the moan that pours out of you is a breathless, raw thing. Your jaw clenches around the sound, your cunt sucking him deeper inside you. He groans against your collarbone, palming your breast with a desperate squeeze as he freezes above you, holding his cock in place, letting you wring every last wave of your release out. 

“You feel so fucking good, girl. So good,” he groans tightly, grinding forward before he growls, forcing himself to pull out. He flips you into your stomach, his hands wrapping around your hips to tug them off the mattress, forcing the ropes to pull even tighter. Shoving his cock back inside your slick soaked heat, his strokes are fast and harsh, his hips pounding against your ass with rhythmic slaps, his white-knuckled grip tight on your flesh. He indulges in a frantic half dozen hard strokes and then, with a groan pouring out of his outstretched throat, he thickens, spilling inside you. 

Everything is hazy and decadent in your half-asleep state; his hips rocking into yours, languid and smooth. Every slide is syrupy and slick, almost soothing and when he slips out of you, you feel the wet spill of his spend trickle down the inside of your thighs. 

Sliding into sleep, you can feel his fingers loosen the knot of your ropes. Gracie slips your wrists out, massaging the tender skin and you hear them murmuring to each other, their words skating on the edge of your consciousness. The sound of his belt dropping to the floor, the feel of his calloused hands as they guide your arms down, his soothing touch as he massages your sore muscles. The mattress shifts and the light clicks out, just as Gracie lifts the blanket up and over. 

She curls into the space behind you, tucking her body against yours with a squeeze, and with the last of your energy, you roll, draping your arm over Din’s chest. Grabbing your hand, he nuzzles your palm, his lips brushing over the indented marks wound around the delicate skin on your wrists. 

“You did so good for me,” he praises, soft and low. “You always play my games so well.” He follows the line of marks, kissing a soothing path over the tender skin. “You're my girl,” he whispers. “Made just for me.”

–

Dawn breaks, and he is achingly gentle.

Knowing that you’re sore from the night before, he wakes you with murmured promises. 

“‘I’m going to use my tongue, okay? I just want to kiss it better.”

You let him: his tongue coated and dripping with saliva, soft, wide licks into your cunt as he parts it with his fingers. Never pushing into you, he keeps a steady, soothing pace as he glides his tongue over your clit, the motion just as sweet as it is filthy. Your hands splay through his thick hair, your nails gently dragging over his scalp as he works. 

He’ll be leaving soon, and your logic clouded with sleep, you ache for him to stay. 

“Come up here,” you beg softly; fuzzy, delicate light seeping into the room. 

Pressing a kiss just over your entrance, he crawls upwards, his mouth worshiping every curve on the way. When his lips find yours, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Decadent and rich, slow and careful, he kisses you until you reach for his cock, fitting just the tip inside you. The thick crown is enough – more than your sore body can take – but you can’t let him leave without getting closer to him. 

He holds himself back, his touch joining your own as you stroke him together. His forehead rests in the crook of your neck, his strained breaths coating your skin. Your thighs bracket his hips and your lips kiss his shoulder, and you stroke together until you feel his body grow tight with his release. Bringing his mouth to yours, you use the first pulse of his spend to ease him into you with a smooth, thick slide. His cum eases the passage, everything thick and wet, finally as close as you need him to be. 

Resting his head on your chest, you lay together, your fingers carding through his hair. He hums, pushing his arms under your back to hold you tight. When he speaks, the words are slow with sleep. “I’m gonna miss you.” He presses a lingering kiss to your sternum, his eyes closed. “I miss this when I’m gone.”

A heavy weight settles in your chest, soothed by the comforting weight of his body on top of yours. You’ll miss him too, though you’d never say it out loud. You can’t. 

At your silence, he lifts his head, his eyes searching yours. When you don’t answer, he slides his body up just enough to capture your mouth with his. 

Everything you want to admit, you put into your kiss. Everything you want to say, everything you feel. It’s wrong, it’s the first rule of the brothel – and yet you can’t help letting your emotions seep into your touch, hoping that he knows just how much you’ll miss him too. He sinks into you, molding your body against his, and you try to memorize the way it feels, so you can recall it when he’s gone. 

He kisses you until you sigh underneath him. Until your hold sways from a tight grip to a loose embrace. Until you’re on the edge of sleep, soothed in his presence. 

Waiting until your eyes flutter shut and stay shut – only then does he pull away. 

“Are you going to miss me?” he whispers. 

More asleep than not, you softly nod.

Smiling, he slides his nose along the lobe of your ear, breathing you in. 

“This is the Kid,” Din explains. “Or, that’s what I’ve been calling him at least.” 

He pulls you to his side, ducking to press a gentle kiss to the slope of your neck. His lips linger in place for a moment, and when he pulls back, you take in how tired he looks. Weariness etched into his face, he lowers his voice so the boy won’t hear. “He won’t tell me his name yet.”

Your mouth pops open with more questions, and he gives your hip a quick squeeze with a subtle shake of his head. “I’ll tell you more upstairs.”

Leaving you with the child, the two of you watch as he approaches the madam at the end of the bar. She’s been watching him with narrowed eyes ever since he walked in, and though the noise in the room covers most of their conversation, you can tell from their expressions they’re arguing. 

Well, from her expression. She looks outraged, while he stays firm, the picture of unyielding. Biting the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling, you watch as he wears her down. 

“This is no place for a child, Din,” you hear her chide, and to this, he simply responds by placing a sizable sum of money into her hand, closing her fist around it. 

Both you and the child raise your eyebrows, glancing at each other. 

The madam gives Din a long, stubborn look – and then snaps her fan open, signaling to a couple girls in the corner. 

At this, you lead the boy over. 

“He needs dinner,” Din instructs the women, busy enveloping the boy in their embrace. “And a bath.”

They wave away his words, cooing over how handsome he is, clearly overjoyed to be tasked with babysitting for the night versus any other obligations.

They lead him away, and Din takes your hand in his. 

“Come on, girl,” he sighs. “Let's go upstairs.” 

–

In the bath, he’s quiet. Perched on his lap, you stay silent, unsure if he’s waiting for Gracie or if he is savoring the moment of peace. With the way he lets his head tip forward to rest against your sternum, you think it’s the latter. 

Slipping your fingers into the soft hair at the base of his neck, you feel him melt against you, the stiff set of his shoulder relaxing at your touch. He sighs, the weight of his worries ghosting along your skin and his hands splay over your hips, as if seeking an anchor in your soft warmth. 

“Everything okay?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he squeezes you tighter.

His mouth brushes warm and delicate over the swell of your breast, an action that pulls at a thread of longing from deep within you. His handling of you is so much more tender than you’re used to, so much more reverential – but before you question the emotions it brings forth, Gracie lets herself into the room with a bright and eager smile. She’s always loved a good story.

“I heard you have a little friend with you,” she greets Din, sitting down on the edge of the tub. Bracing herself on the rim, she leans down with an offer of a kiss. Water trickles as he lifts his hand to cradle her jaw, attempting to turn the kiss into more, but she slips from his grasp.

“Not –,” another peck on his lips, “before–,” she sighs, letting his mouth slide down to taste the hinge of her jaw, “ – you tell me where he came from.”

Letting himself sink back into the warm water, he does. 

–

Tracking a bounty about a hundred miles south of a nearby town, it had taken Din a week to get there. Just like the landscape, every person along his path had been rough and unyielding. Every lead had been hard won, every piece of information paid for in coin or with muscle – and even then, the search was half luck. 

Luck that had clearly run out, resulting in a dead end.

Frustrated in his failure, he had doubled back to the last tavern he visited to see if he could drum up any more information. 

He had been riding for about an hour when he heard a loud shot echo across a field. Narrowing his eyes under the brim of his hat, he spotted a small house on the horizon, a barn tucked behind it. Between hunting and farm life, it wasn’t unusual to hear a gunshot, and he continued for a moment before another shot rang out.

At this one, he pulled his horse to a stop. 

The sound of it felt wrong to him, off somehow. Acting on instinct, he rode over to find the front door hanging open on its hinges, the front window broken out. Grunts and thumps of a struggle came from within the house, and drawing his pistol from the holster, he carefully rounded the doorway. 

Inside, he found the dead bodies of a man and a woman, slumped over a wooden floor pooled with blood. 

He also found the man he was searching for. 

The man held a boy in his grip, the two of them locked in a fight. The child‘s small body frantically kicked and squirmed, trying everything in his power to get away while the man struggled to hang on tight, his other hand reaching for his gun that was lying on the floor. 

Then, several things happened at once: Din stepped forward, and the man snatched up the pistol. The quarry reflexively cocked the hammer with his thumb, aiming his gun straight at the boy's temple – and without hesitation, Din aimed his own pistol at the man and pulled the trigger. 

The quarry slumped over, dead. 

With fear-flooded eyes, the child scrambled up and bolted from the house. 

Letting the boy run, Din stepped over his quarry’s body with a sigh. All that work for nothing – the flyer in his saddle said “Alive”, not “Dead”. 

He salvaged what he could: the pistol on the floor, a knife in the man’s boot. Then, he set to work gathering supplies for the child. He rifled through the bureau in the corner, stuffing some clothing in a sack. He grabbed what little food he could from the kitchen. He took a pair of shoes for the kid, a spare blanket from the closet, and at the last minute, the sole picture on the mantel. 

Leaving three dead bodies behind him, he went in search of the kid. 

He found him hiding in the hay loft, his tear streaked face appearing over the edge when Din walked through the barn doors. Understanding that sudden movements and sharp orders were the last thing that were going to work, Din was patient and soothing, with a stillness to him that eventually won the child out. 

Knowing there was nothing left for the boy there, Din lifted him onto his saddle and climbed up behind him. 

With a spur of his heels, they left the house behind. 

–

“He wouldn’t leave my side at the sheriff’s office,” he finishes. “They said there was a place for him with the nuns, but he won’t go.” Kneading the soft flesh on your hips, he slides his hand up. The plump side of your breast fits within his palm, and he runs his thumb over your nipple, making it swell under his touch. 

“I don’t blame him,” he adds. “The nuns are a little too prim for me.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, and he winks. 

“Well, what are you going to do?” Gracie asks, worried. “You can’t just keep him, can you?”

“If he won’t go with the nuns and if his parents are gone, I guess he stays with me,” he shrugs. “Traveling with me is no life for a kid…but I don’t know what else to do. I guess from now on, wherever I go, he goes.”

With both parents dead and almost getting killed himself, you can’t imagine what that child has gone through. Even more, what else he’s going to be exposed to trailing around with Din. Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession – a hard life full of violence and struggle, constantly nomadic, never stable. Frowning at the thought, you’re pulled from your reverie when Din cups your jaw, bringing your attention back to him. 

“Hey now,” he soothes, the lilt of a tease in his tone. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take good care of him.”

Your head tips to the side with silent skepticism, an objection he answers with a press of his mouth against yours. Firm and sure, his kiss silences your worries, distracting you with a slow, lush slide of his tongue against yours. You deepen it, and his hips shift restlessly beneath your straddle, the heft of his stiffening cock pressing along the inside of your thigh. 

“I know what will cheer you ladies up,” he says lowly, capturing your bottom lip with a tug of his teeth before soothing the swollen skin with a kiss. He pulls back, just enough for you to see a glint of dark lust in his eyes. “Let’s play a game.”

–

With Din, you have come to learn, a game could mean different things depending on his mood.

Sometimes, it meant an actual game, like the time he challenged the two of you to strip poker. Extreme in his confidence, he forgot that you and Gracie watch men play poker all day long. In no time at all, the two of you had him down to his drawers, an outcome that had him protesting that you must be cheating. His claim was that you had spare cards hidden under your (nearly transparent) clothes, so you answered by taking them off. Gowns tossed onto the floor, you both climbed onto his lap, and with a straddle over his firm thighs, the game was quickly forgotten. 

Tonight however, you can tell he doesn’t mean that kind of game. 

He means one of his games, the kind he makes the rules for.

Out of the bath and dried off, he explains the rules. 

“Gracie is the bounty hunter,” he says, deftly securing his heavy belt across her naked hips. It sags low on her body with weight, and he checks to see that it’s fastened tight by dipping his fingers beneath the band of leather. They brush through the sparse curls that cover her cunt, and when he looks up from his crouched position, her thighs squeeze together to quell her visible need. 

Satisfied, he presses a kiss to the soft slope of her belly before standing up straight. Turning, he rests his dark eyes on you. “And you, girl. You’re our quarry.” 

He winds a length of rope around the width of his hand, your breath catching at the sight. Everything about his movements scream predatory: slow steps forward, his eyes raking over your body. Unbearably erotic too, given his stark nakedness. The width of his shoulders and the competence in his hands only serves to make him feel even more intimidating, and the want on his face paired with the implication of his words is so blatant. 

Flushed with your own need by the time he comes to a stop in front of you, he teases the rope just under your belly button, and your cunt clenches, the cradle of your hips tight with anticipation.  

His eyes stay fixed on yours when he gives his order. “Hands out.”

Deft and quick, he binds your wrists together. When he’s done, he gives the rope a sharp tug to test its strength, pulling you toward him. 

“You look good like this,” he praises, drinking you in. His nose skims along the column of your neck, goosebumps following its path. 

Taking a breath, you try to steady your thrumming heart. 

“You ready?” he murmurs. 

Swallowing hard, you nod. 

Stepping back, he drags a chair to the middle of the room with a scrape across the floor, sitting down to openly admire your positioning. The two of you to play with, his to do with what he wants. His posture exudes arrogance: slouched low in the chair, feet planted on the floor, legs spread wide. Tension fills the small, warmly lit space and arousal pulls up inside you, slick and wet between your legs. He looks gorgeous in this light: his skin a golden brown, his hair dark with dampness, his eyes almost black. 

Your gaze lingering on the broadness of his shoulders and the trail of hair that collects along his belly to run down towards his lap, you hear Gracie sharply inhale when he brazenly palms his stiff cock, taking himself in hand. His forearm flexes as he gives himself a leisurely squeeze, stroking from base to tip. 

“Okay, girl,” he prompts. “Beg.”

You do. You put your whole heart into it, knowing he likes the show. There is something about the struggle, something about seeing you bound and at his mercy that makes his cock harden, makes his stomach cinch as he sits up straight to get closer.

“Please,” you beg, tugging against the ropes. “You’ve got the wrong person. I swear. I’ll do anything.”

He tilts his head, a smirk gracing his lips. “You can do better than that. What do you think, Gracie?”

“That was nothing,” she plays along. 

He raises his eyebrows in challenge, and you try again. “Please, please. Please, just let me go, I promise– “

The door opens, and the three of you turn your heads at the sound. 

“Is everything okay in–,” the madam starts, her words caught in her open mouth at the sight in front of her. 

Gracie, a heavy belt low on her hips. You, bound and begging for your freedom. Din, lording over it all. Every one of you without a stitch of clothing on. She’s seen all manner of requests, but even this is a new one for her. She blinks, and another girl walks behind her through the hallway, doing a double take.

Making no effort to explain, Din lifts his chin in command. 

“Close the door.”

Without a word, she does – and he’s out of his chair just as fast. 

“This one is gonna get us in trouble. I think we need to gag her.”

You give him a wary, mischievous look, taking a step back for every one he takes towards you and you stop when you bump into the soft warmth of Gracie. She wraps her arms around you, her breasts tight against your back, her small hand curling at the base of your throat to hold you in place. 

“You got something to stuff in her mouth?” she teases, and you can’t help your smile. 

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “That’s so – oh fuck.”

The heat of Din’s body crowds you close to her, his hand finding a home between your thighs. His thumb swirls a slick circle over your clit, and he watches your face as you falter, your expression softening into arousal. He keeps going, enjoying the way you struggle to stay upright and Gracie’s delicate touch skims down over your hip, sliding down the inside of your thigh to hold you open for him. 

“What was that?” he asks, his voice like gravel. “What were you saying?”

Sliding his touch through your slick cunt, he teases your aching entrance before filling you swiftly with two thick fingers. His thumb stays on your clit, and he works his touch in tandem: his fingers sliding out to sink back in, his thumb working, working, working. They curl, drawing out heady arousal, your body trapped captive between them. 

You sag into Gracie, and she mouths a kiss to your shoulder. 

“Please,” you whine, your hips canting forward, chasing the fill of his fingers. “I want more.”

His body is so warm and firm, his masculine scent going straight to your head. Paired with the silky touch of Gracie, you close your eyes, letting everything inside you build higher and higher. Your nipples tighten, and her lush mouth presses sweet kisses along your shoulder while you feel the humid skate of Din’s breath over your sensitive skin. 

“Yea?” he asks, bending to take your nipple in his mouth. Your eyes open at his first hard pull, a moan breaking free when he sucks on the peak, toying at it with the tip of his tongue. “You want more?”

“Please.”

Obeying, he slides his slick fingers deeper, working his thumb faster, opening his mouth wider to taste more of your flesh with a savoring pull. He groans against your skin, his other hand skimming up your side with a weighty drag, and Gracie tugs at your other nipple with a delightful pluck. They work as a team, one playing off the other, and Din’s hand cups your chin, just as the other abruptly stops its slick glide. 

You whimper, and he grips your chin tight, leaning in to murmur his words directly under your ear. 

“Too bad we don’t bargain with quarries.”

–

It’s a lot after that. 

Shoving you down on the bed, looping your bound wrists over the bedpost so you can’t escape. Stretching out on the bed beside you, making Gracie ride him. Forcing you to watch while she fucks him hard and fast, his grip tucked under the leather belt to guide her hips forward and back with sharp tugs. He’s filthy and base, feral in his sounds and in his need and slick warmth coats the inside of your thighs, the sheets underneath you damp with arousal. You’re so turned on it hurts, and he watches you struggle against your ropes – a sight that only seems to spur him on. 

Gracie comes with a high cry, collapsing down to the mattress to catch her breath, and before you can even make room for her, he’s shouldering your thighs open, spreading them wide. His hot mouth drags against the skin on your inner thighs, teasing a wet path upwards before giving your clit an open mouthed kiss. Neglected and aching, your hips jerk forward at the sensation, and he bands his thick forearm across them, keeping you in place. Forcing you to take every lick, every lave, every suck and pull and kiss – all the while, paying attention to every detail your body gives away. 

Clenching around his tongue, your hips grind needy and restless against his mouth, the pitch of your moans more and more breathless as you get closer to your peak. “Oh fuck. Din. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He forces you closer and closer to the edge, dangling you over it until you’re babbling and pleading–and then he stops. 

You let out a sob, pulling at your restraints. “No. No, please.”

Again and again he does it, dragging you to the top of your peak without letting you come. 

Sweat beads along your hairline, your skin slick with moisture. Your muscles ache and his hold tightens. His mouth gets messier, hungrier, and Gracie kisses you through it all, alternating between swallowing your cries and worshiping your tight, aching breasts. 

Only when your voice is raw with real begging does he let you come.  

The force of it pulls you under, upending you. Your back bows against the mattress, your thighs clenching so hard they cramp. Soaked, your arousal smears on the sheets and is slick on your skin and glistens on the lower half of his face – everything sticky and slick and wet. Pliant and limp, you lay there with your arms suspended above you as he shoves up onto his knees, making a space for himself between your trembling thighs. You let out a soft whine when you see him grasping his cock to line himself up. 

As tired as you are, you want it. He teases your clit with the tip of his cock, tapping the weight of it against the sensitive bundle of nerves and you crave the thick fill of it, the satisfying stretch only he can provide. He always fucks so thorough and so deep, and you need him to fill you up, to finally give you relief.  

Your hips squirm on the bed, and he pinches the inside of your knee with a teasing tweak. “Hold still, or I’ll have Gracie sit on your face.”

Your face collapses into a frown of pleasure, and Gracie giggles breathlessly beside you. 

Bracing himself heavily on your hips, he pins you in place as he leans his weight into the hold, rocking his hips forward to slide into you with a smooth, full stroke. Your breath hitches it feels so good, even more so when he pulls out to glide back in again. He bottoms out, breaking you open again and again, and tears gather along your lashes, your shoulders sore with the effort of being tied up. 

Dropping forward to rest on his forearms, he guides your legs high around his waist as his strokes get deeper, harder.  “I’m not gonna let you go until I’ve had my fill,” he threatens, and you know he’s telling the truth. 

Your eyes fluttering shut, you give into your body being a vessel for him to use. Sensation fills you from the inside out: his hot skin pressed against yours, his bruising grip, the filling weight of his cock. His sharp thrusts, his humid gusts of breath that skim across your feverish skin. He kisses you, a thick, all consuming thing that steals the breath from your lungs and you chase the heat of his mouth when Gracie tugs his face to hers, pulling him in for a kiss. You whine, desperate and rhythmic to match every heavy thrust he gives you, and she swallows his corresponding groan of pleasure as it reverberates between his chest and yours. 

Another release gathers inside you, every kiss of his hips building it higher. Your hips cant up to meet him thrust for thrust, seeking the sharp edge of relief, but he grips your hip and holds it to the mattress, giving you no choice but to just take it. His hands splay and reach, his grip sliding down from your hip to your ass as he pulls at the skin there with a burn. Mouthing at the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, he pants harshly in your ear, his grunts of effort forcing you towards a bright, blissful edge. When he sinks his teeth into your skin, you come. 

Barely a voice left, the moan that pours out of you is a breathless, raw thing. Your jaw clenches around the sound, your cunt sucking him deeper inside you. He groans against your collarbone, palming your breast with a desperate squeeze as he freezes above you, holding his cock in place, letting you wring every last wave of your release out. 

“You feel so fucking good, girl. So good,” he groans tightly, grinding forward before he growls, forcing himself to pull out. He flips you into your stomach, his hands wrapping around your hips to tug them off the mattress, forcing the ropes to pull even tighter. Shoving his cock back inside your slick soaked heat, his strokes are fast and harsh, his hips pounding against your ass with rhythmic slaps, his white-knuckled grip tight on your flesh. He indulges in a frantic half dozen hard strokes and then, with a groan pouring out of his outstretched throat, he thickens, spilling inside you. 

Everything is hazy and decadent in your half-asleep state; his hips rocking into yours, languid and smooth. Every slide is syrupy and slick, almost soothing and when he slips out of you, you feel the wet spill of his spend trickle down the inside of your thighs. 

Sliding into sleep, you can feel his fingers loosen the knot of your ropes. Gracie slips your wrists out, massaging the tender skin and you hear them murmuring to each other, their words skating on the edge of your consciousness. The sound of his belt dropping to the floor, the feel of his calloused hands as they guide your arms down, his soothing touch as he massages your sore muscles. The mattress shifts and the light clicks out, just as Gracie lifts the blanket up and over. 

She curls into the space behind you, tucking her body against yours with a squeeze, and with the last of your energy, you roll, draping your arm over Din’s chest. Grabbing your hand, he nuzzles your palm, his lips brushing over the indented marks wound around the delicate skin on your wrists. 

“You did so good for me,” he praises, soft and low. “You always play my games so well.” He follows the line of marks, kissing a soothing path over the tender skin. “You're my girl,” he whispers. “Made just for me.”

–

Dawn breaks, and he is achingly gentle.

Knowing that you’re sore from the night before, he wakes you with murmured promises. 

“‘I’m going to use my tongue, okay? I just want to kiss it better.”

You let him: his tongue coated and dripping with saliva, soft, wide licks into your cunt as he parts it with his fingers. Never pushing into you, he keeps a steady, soothing pace as he glides his tongue over your clit, the motion just as sweet as it is filthy. Your hands splay through his thick hair, your nails gently dragging over his scalp as he works. 

He’ll be leaving soon, and your logic clouded with sleep, you ache for him to stay. 

“Come up here,” you beg softly; fuzzy, delicate light seeping into the room. 

Pressing a kiss just over your entrance, he crawls upwards, his mouth worshiping every curve on the way. When his lips find yours, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Decadent and rich, slow and careful, he kisses you until you reach for his cock, fitting just the tip inside you. The thick crown is enough – more than your sore body can take – but you can’t let him leave without getting closer to him. 

He holds himself back, his touch joining your own as you stroke him together. His forehead rests in the crook of your neck, his strained breaths coating your skin. Your thighs bracket his hips and your lips kiss his shoulder, and you stroke together until you feel his body grow tight with his release. Bringing his mouth to yours, you use the first pulse of his spend to ease him into you with a smooth, thick slide. His cum eases the passage, everything thick and wet, finally as close as you need him to be. 

Resting his head on your chest, you lay together, your fingers carding through his hair. He hums, pushing his arms under your back to hold you tight. When he speaks, the words are slow with sleep. “I’m gonna miss you.” He presses a lingering kiss to your sternum, his eyes closed. “I miss this when I’m gone.”

A heavy weight settles in your chest, soothed by the comforting weight of his body on top of yours. You’ll miss him too, though you’d never say it out loud. You can’t. 

At your silence, he lifts his head, his eyes searching yours. When you don’t answer, he slides his body up just enough to capture your mouth with his. 

Everything you want to admit, you put into your kiss. Everything you want to say, everything you feel. It’s wrong, it’s the first rule of the brothel – and yet you can’t help letting your emotions seep into your touch, hoping that he knows just how much you’ll miss him too. He sinks into you, molding your body against his, and you try to memorize the way it feels, so you can recall it when he’s gone. 

He kisses you until you sigh underneath him. Until your hold sways from a tight grip to a loose embrace. Until you’re on the edge of sleep, soothed in his presence. 

Waiting until your eyes flutter shut and stay shut – only then does he pull away. 

“Are you going to miss me?” he whispers. 

More asleep than not, you softly nod.

Smiling, he slides his nose along the lobe of your ear, breathing you in. 

“Wait. What do you mean, “his appetite”?” you question, turning back to the madam, but she’s already gone, cooing over someone else playing cards nearby. 

Giving one last glance at the door of the room he went into, you plaster on a smile and make your way towards the crowded tables. 

--

The next time he comes into town, the madam tells him you’ve been asking about him.

The settling of quarries, the payment of services, the collection of flyers among other useful pieces of information – he’s fresh from the sheriff’s office, his sparse patience running even thinner. His replies have become near one word responses while he drops a few coins towards the barkeep, in payment for a hot plate of whatever is available.  

“Is that so,” he asks, tipping his hat in thanks when the plate is set in front of him. A glass of  whiskey is poured next, followed by a tin cup of water. 

“Well,” she asks, leaning on his shoulder. “What do you think of her?”

Spearing a bite of food, he chews while his dark eyes study you from across the bar. Chatting with another girl, your face breaks into a smile at something she says. 

The madam’s head tilted in appraisal, her tone is thick with the sweetness of someone trying to sell their wares. “All the men love how sweet she is.”

“Sweet?” he questions, skeptical. Swallowing his whiskey in one go, he sets his glass down on the bar, giving her a side-long look. “I don’t think sweet –”

“Oh, hush,” the madam replies, swatting his shoulder with a fan. “Besides, the girls you had last time moved on. It’s been a while since you’ve been around.” She nods in your direction. “Give her a try. I think you might like her.”

–

He has a routine, the madam tells you. 

“Always two girls, always a bath first.” Opening the door to your room, she strides in, gesturing to a table in the corner. 

A girl of twelve scurries behind her, a maid. Placing clean towels down and laying a fresh bar of soap on top, she gets to work on filling the copper tub. The madam straightens the blanket on your bed, and you inwardly laugh. Like that thing stays straight. 

“Always the whole night, and the next day,” she continues. 

“The next day?” Gracie asks, her brows raised. “He keeps going?”

You laugh at the impressed look on Gracie’s face, and she gives you a wink.

“Most men only get an hour,” she muses. “He must be really generous if he gets the whole night.”

“The next day isn’t for him,” the madam replies. “It’s for you, so you can rest.”

Scooting the girl out of the room with an affectionate swat on her behind, your face sobers, and it’s Gracie’s turn to laugh. 

“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes. “They’d all like to think themselves so good.”

The madam gives her a knowing look. “You’ll see.” She starts towards the door, then turns around. “He’s one of our best customers. Make sure you give him what he wants.” With those final words, she shuts the door behind her. 

You immediately turn to Gracie.

“Think we bit off more than we can chew?” you tease, trying to hide the sudden nerves in your stomach. 

She waves your worries away. “We would have heard about him sooner if he was a rough one.”

That’s true. There are rough ones, and they are well known among the girls. 

One of the most popular girls since her start at the brothel, Gracie has been by your side since you started. Up for anything, she wasn’t fool enough to think she had actual agency in this world, but the little she did have, she used to the full extent. She knew she could reduce these men to nothing with the roll of her hips on theirs, with the whisper of her sweet words – and so she did. She didn’t take anything too seriously, and you loved her for it, especially in contrast to your natural inward nature. 

“I’ve only ever seen him that one other time,” you reply, testing the water with your hand. “Have you seen him before?”

“No. I would have remembered one like that. He is a handsome thing,” she replies, fixing her hair in the mirror. “He’s got tall, dark and mysterious written all over him. A bit dirty,” she shrugs, “but do at least he’s asking for a bath. More than most before they crawl into bed.”

Scrunching your nose, you agree. 

“I’m going to get ready,” she says. “Get him in the tub, and I’ll be back. Try not to have all the fun without me.”

Blowing you a kiss, she slips out of the room. 

Without the distraction of others, you fuss with the tub until it’s filled with hot water, steam curling above the surface. Shampoo, pitcher, basin. Towel draped to the side, and a sack for him to put his clothes in. The inn ran a laundry service that overnight visitors took advantage of, and you weren’t sure if he was the type to trust others with the clothes off his back, but you prepared for it just in case. 

Everything ready, you slip into a silk shift that skims your curves, and try to recall the anticipation and bravery you felt when you called dibs. The warning the madam gave has rattled you, and you wish Gracie were here to help distract. She’d help you shake the nerves free, crack jokes to help clear the tension from the room. 

Finding yourself fiddling with the edge of the blanket, you huff a laugh at yourself before a sharp knock has you straightening. 

He enters, and your greeting is automatic. 

“Hey there,” you smile with practiced sweetness. “Come on in.”

He tips his head in acknowledgment, and all bravado you had when you called dibs disappears, slowly replaced with hesitation. 

He’s so much bigger in your small room than he seemed downstairs in the main room, especially with the door closed. So much more intimating, his silence making it even more so. The amount of weapons on him doesn’t help. Hip holsters with two pistols, ammo slung low across his hips and attached to one of his boots. 

He looks dangerous – until he lifts his hat from his head, uncovering rumpled, dark brown curls. Dirty from weeks in the saddle, the sight of them is surprisingly vulnerable and helps take the edge off his appearance. He looks softer with them, even while working his holster open next, placing the heavy weight of his guns over the back of your chair. 

His silence is unusual. Most men are vocal, demanding, crass. They come in and take what they want, knowing full well they only have an hour to get it – though most of them only need about ten minutes. They are full of boasting pride, of rushed lust, or in the worst instances, poorly disguised condescension. They paid for the hour, which means they paid for you. It comes with a natural assumption that your body is theirs to do as they please, and it often brings loud-mouthed attitudes with it.

Piquing your interest, the man in front of you says nothing, continuing to get undressed. 

Maybe he wants seduction. Come on, you scold yourself. Give him what he paid for.

You stand, the thin strap of your shift slipping down off your shoulder. “Want some help?”

Stepping closer, you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. 

It’s unforgiving, but not unkind. Bold, unashamed, assessing. His eyes are a deep brown, almost black in the dim, romantic light of your room. Fringed with thick lashes, creased at the edges from the sun, showing evidence of living life in the saddle. A strong nose, a pouty mouth, a dark mustache with scruff that covers his cheeks. 

Handsome. Definitely handsome. 

He continues to look, curious, with a slight lift of his chin like he’s testing you. A natural arrogance, you assume, from having to navigate the rough world outside. There is a thrum of tension between your bodies, one you don’t usually feel with customers. Unsure if it’s his quiet confidence, or just his handsomeness you’re drawn to, you use it to bolster your own forwardness. 

Standing on your toes and bracing yourself on his chest, you lean in, whispering just under his ear. “I heard you like to get clean…so you can get me all dirty.”

Pulling back with a mischievous twinkle in your eye, you let your touch slip down the front of his shirt. “That true?” 

He waits a beat before answering, his darkening eyes rovering over your face as his expression relaxes slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. Like you’ve passed his own silent test. 

“It is,” he answers, in a rough baritone. 

“Well then,” you reply. “Let’s get these clothes off.” 

Keeping your eyes on his, you start with his vest, working the buttons free one at a time.

–

He waits in the bath, watching as you undress. His arms stretch wide along the edge of the tub, his broad chest and shoulders taking up space. Admiring the quiet strength held in the way he holds himself, you smile at the naked hunger clear on his face as you climb into the tub, lowering yourself onto his lap. 

“So,” you make conversation, “What do you do?”

“I’m a bounty hunter.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Sounds dangerous.”

“For some.” The reply reeks of confidence, of the implication that he isn’t one of the people he’s referring to. Relaxing, he sinks lower into the tub, closing his eyes. 

“How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”

A low sigh of relief slips out of him, his voice low. “Too long.”

Lathering the soap, you start with his hand, slipping your fingers between his. You work each finger, comparing the size of your reach against his. His palms are rough and calloused, worn from handling rope. Massaging as you go, you work your way up – over his thick forearms, up along the muscles in his arms. Your fingers dig into the firm rounds of his shoulders, and he lets out a grunt of appreciation. 

Sneaking a peek at his face, you’re startled to find him openly looking back at you. His dark eyes rake over your face and shoulders, dipping low and sweeping back up. His expressions – lust, blended with curiosity – aren't guarded at all, like he’s not used to hiding them, and you suppose his job has made him this way. The sensation is unfamiliar, and unmooring. Most don’t care enough to look as much as he has. None have ever studied you the way he has, that’s certain.

You swallow, reaching for the soap again. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

The bar in your hands, his blunt words make you look up, meeting his eyes. He is earnest, sincere. His statements have been blunt and to the point since he’s walked into the room, with right now being no exception. And somehow, that lets you know he’s telling the truth. 

Your own practiced expression slips before you can catch it, open vulnerability displayed on your face before you quickly reel it back in. 

“I know,” you reply, though you don’t – and he knows it. 

His head tilts to the side, waiting. Patient, letting you come to your own decision. After a beat, you dip your chin in acknowledgement. 

Confirmation at your reassurance, he closes his eyes and leans back, letting you continue. 

The tension broken, you resume. The quiet makes the situation seem so much more intimate than usual; the trickling of water, the soft sweep of your touch over his skin. Your thumbs work the base of his throat, your palms sliding over his firm chest. The sparse collection of hair along his sternum catches suds, and you soap under his arms, and along his ribs; his body releasing tension with every smooth glide of your hands. 

You can feel him harden underneath you, but he does absolutely nothing about it…and for some reason, that makes you relax around him even more. You can feel the evidence of how much he wants it, have heard from the madam how demanding he can be…but yet he waits, savoring this part. You suppose weeks without a bath will do that to a person, and you’re determined to reward him for the wait. 

Pouring shampoo into your palm, you lean forward to start on his hair. Pressing your bare front against his own, the sensation gives you your first real reaction since he’s entered the room – a low hum of appreciation, deep from within his chest. Lifting the corner of your mouth with a smile, you become bolder, and let yourself slide down, dragging the pressed weight of your slick breasts over his skin. 

He lets out a shaky breath, and dropping his hands from the edges of the tub, they find the meat of your hips under the water with a squeeze. Lifting onto your knees, you lean your weight into him again, lining your front with his. Breast to chest, stomach to stomach, hip to hip – the sensation of his firm, warm, wet skin pressed against your own has you distracted for a moment before you slide your fingers up through the curls at his nape, working the shampoo into his hair. Your nails drag across his scalp, your fingers twist in his curls, and he simultaneously melts underneath your touch while tightly bundled tension rises between you. 

“Feel good?”

“Yes.” His answer is immediate, low with desire. His hands squeeze your hips, hard, and he kneads your skin under the surface, his touch becoming bolder. Stretching his arms to reach your ass, he grabs greedy palmfuls, tugging you against his lap. 

The warm weight of desire fills the cradle of your hips, and reaching for a jug to rinse the shampoo from his hair, you yelp when he surprises you by gripping your waist to hold you in place and sliding down to submerge himself underwater. Suds float to the surface as he quickly scrubs the soap from his hair, and when he sits back up, you’re laughing – a sound that brings the first smile you’ve seen on his face. It’s quick, yet no less devastating, with two deep dimples in his cheeks that make you want to press your thumbs into the divots. 

A smile that makes you want to kiss him. 

Wiping the water from his face with a broad sweep of his palm, he slicks his dark strands off his face and the effect is startling. Still handsome – so handsome – but the vulnerability of the rumpled curls is gone, replaced with dominance. The hunger in his hooded eyes darkens, and feeding off the tension gathering between your bodies and greedy for another groan or smile, you grab the soap. 

Arching your back, you put on a show as you reach behind and slide your soapy touch up the length of his legs. Over his shins, behind his knees, up the top of his thighs. Stopping short right before his groin, you straighten again and reach the soap, but he plucks it from your hands. 

“Hey!” you protest, biting a grin. 

Keeping his eyes on your face, you watch as he slowly lathers it between his large hands and lets it drop into the water before splaying his hand across your sternum. Whether it’s the hold itself or the way he’s looking at you, you sense the shift of power in the small space as it transfers to him. Sliding his hand to the side with an appreciative hum, he palms your breasts, covering them with soap. He cups the weight of them, smearing his thumbs over your nipples with a slippery glide until they pucker under the suds, teasing them with exploring, needy touches that have you arching your back, leaning into his touch. 

Desire trickles down from the tight peaks along your spine, settling between your hips. Slick and warm, you begin a slow roll over his lap and dip your hand beneath the water in search of his cock.  When you find it with a firm grip, he sucks in a sharp breath. 

“You ready to get out yet?” you breathe, your hand stroking him root to tip. He’s thick, a heft to his cock that is more than most and your cunt clenches with anticipation. The space between you is filled with steam, with the slick warmth of the water, with the weighty charge of electricity. He swallows hard, the bob of his tanned throat calling for your lips and leaning forward, you press your mouth to his skin. Warm and wet and fragrant under the press of your mouth, you open up wider, your tongue slipping out for a taste.

The sound he lets out is delicious.

A rough scrape of need, a low growl as his touch grows needier, his hands scooping up your breasts with a squeeze. The soap aids in a slide of his touch down to your hip, his other hand curling around the nape of your neck as he guides you back, and your neglected chest heaves; your hand still working under the water. 

You want him. A rare feeling with clients, always fleeting on the rare occasion it happens, you can taste the edge of your arousal, the spark of it burning bright. He’s handsome, but there is also something about his patience and his attentiveness that has you feeling more comfortable than you have in ages. Usually, at this point, you’d be faking your interest just to get the hour over with. Right now, you’re surprised by how much you want it. 

“You just gonna stare at my mouth, or —“ Your words cut off with a gasp when he drags his thumb over your bottom lip, your question finishing in a whisper. “Or are you gonna kiss me?” 

Pulling you in, he does. Fuck, he does. 

The first press of your mouths together is sure and firm, his need leading your mouth. He tastes you like he’s been dying for it, like you’re an oasis in the middle of the desert. Fitting your mouth against his, he devours the whimper that you let out, drinking it down. His hands splay in their hold around your waist, sliding up over the smooth skin of your back and abandoning his cock to scoot closer, you wind your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. 

Grinding down against his lap, the steamed air above the bath fills with the sound of ragged breath, of low groans, of the gentle lap of water as your mouths taste and part, only to seal again. He meets your need with his own – savoring, full sweeps of his tongue over yours, kisses that are lazy until they’re not. Breaking the kiss to taste your neck, his teeth scrape over the delicate skin before he sucks, groaning against your throat. His tongue smears over your skin, and you reach for the soap, wrapping your arms around him to wash his back. 

“Stop, he groans, his lips brushing against your skin, and you pause.  

“You don’t want me to wash you?”

He growls low in his throat, cupping your jaw with his hand. He slides his thumb over your lips again, pushing against their plush softness and when you suck on the pad, his eyes fixate on the sight. He shakes his head slowly, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip. 

“I want you to get on that bed, girl.”

Girl. 

The word should be demeaning, but it’s not. It slips through your torso, shivers along your spine, the weight of it curling low between your hips. The word is like the man – forcing you to yield. He’s been lying in wait this whole time, letting you believe you have the advantage until you get comfortable, letting you come to him…just like you assume he does with his quarries. You fell for the trap, and you don’t even care. 

Scrambling out of the tub, he follows you — and that’s when Gracie walks in. 

“Oh,” she breathes, openly appreciating the size and breadth of his nude body. Her eyes drag down and back up again, a pleased smile playing at the edge of her lips. “Aren’t you a sight.”

He jerks his head towards the bed. “Get in here.”

“Whose in charge here, mister?” she teases, and he replies without hesitation. 

“I am.” 

“Yes, sir,” she coos with a little shimmy, shutting the door behind her. 

–

That night, you learned who he was. 

Not only his name – Din Djarin – which was exchanged in the middle of the night, with your body draped over his, but who he was, as a man. Blunt, straight forward, used to being in charge. Your bodies sore, spent and sated – he had spent hours putting you through your paces, and your eyelids were as heavy as your limbs as you relaxed into the warmth his bare skin radiated. 

Gracie curled into his other side, the reasoning behind two women became evident after that first night: he was touch-starved, with the desire to be immersed in skin to skin, buried underneath someone or within them. Two women at once allowed him this luxury, while also providing him ample resources to expend his excess...energy. 

You also learned that he seemed to care about your pleasure. Needed it, in fact. Demanded it from you, pulled it from your body even when you thought you couldn’t give him any more. He pushed and pushed and pushed you, and that night, you understood the madam's earlier comments. 

He didn’t seem satisfied until you were just as wrung out as he was, and afterwards, he left you sated and sore, thoroughly used – and thoroughly asleep. 

He had spoken to the madam before he left the next morning. 

“I always want that one. Make sure of it.”

–

Since that first night, he’s shown up a few times. 

Always weeks apart: saddle weary and dusty, worn around the edges and ready for a softness that only you could provide. 

Tonight, when he gets to your room, you’re already in the bath with Gracie perched on the side, soap and rag in hand. You take turns with him: you, washing his body from your seat on his lap, Gracie leaning over to offer her mouth. His kisses are demanding and deep, his hands reaching to hold her in place while his mouth tastes everything she gifts him. When you interrupt to wash his hair, he shifts to you, cupping your breasts to latch that same hungry mouth onto the peaks. The swirl of his skillful tongue is distracting, decadent, and a hum pours from your throat when his nose brushes along the length of your neck, his mouth sampling the hollow under your ear. His hand travels down your back and over your hip, his thick fingers pressing between your legs. 

“I’ve been dreaming of that cunt of yours,” he confesses, his voice like gravel. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his middle fingers parting you under the water, sliding through the slick wetness he’s pulled from you already. “Let me taste it.” 

It doesn’t take long until he stands, pulling you from the water and guiding you backwards onto your bed with a push. 

“You’re going to get my bed all wet – oh my god,” you moan, arching into the wet heat of his mouth. From the bath to his knees, he’s found his way between your thighs with a rough jerk of your body to the edge of the mattress. His shoulders spread you wide, his mouth devouring your cunt in a wet, decadent kiss. Gripping behind your knee, he shoves it up to open you up wider, and his tongue smears and licks across your spread center as he groans, savoring the taste.

Kneeling on the floor next to him, Gracie wraps her hand around his thick cock with a stroke, an action that has him pressing his face closer. He’s messy, open mouthed and hungry, like he’s starved for it and you roll your hips against his greedy mouth, losing yourself in the sensation.

She strokes him harder, faster and breaking his kiss to your cunt, he circles the nape of her neck, tugging her in for a kiss. You watch, his glistening mouth meeting hers, his other hand still splayed with a grip on the inside of your thigh to hold you in place. Slipping your fingers down across your soft belly, you find your clit and swirl a practiced circle over it – until his hand swats yours away. 

“It’s mine,” he orders. “That cunt belongs to me.”

“Then take care of it like it’s yours,” you challenge. Your tone is sweet and soft, but the lift of your chin tells him it’s an order.

He likes the way you push against him, you’ve come to find out. His need to make you submit is only satisfying if you push back, if you play at fighting against it. It needs to feel hard won for him, but not in a way most men like to win. Not with harsh, demeaning words and cruel orders. No – he needs to overpower with pleasure, needs to make you succumb because you can’t fight it anymore. Begging, pulling against restraints, pushing against the weight of his body as he forces you to take it – those are the ways he likes it. 

Giving you a look that pins you in place, he spreads you wide as his hands grip and pinch. He bends, his mouth sucking and biting at the soft skin of your thighs, soothing it with wide sweeps of his tongue. Your head tips back, a moan pouring out of your throat towards the ceiling and you feel the bed dip beside you as Gracie crawls onto it. Reaching over to you, she tips your chin towards her and pulls you in for a kiss. 

She’s so much softer than the man at your feet: her lips lush and pliant, her breath sweet. Her hand cups your breast with a gentle squeeze, toying with the peak while taut pleasure fills the cradle of your hips. His eyes on your face, you can feel his possessiveness in the way his mouth devours, and the combination of her sweetness mixed with his intensity pushes you closer and closer to the edge. The attention is all consuming, your thighs trembling with the release he’s building deep inside you. Breaking away from Gracie, you beg him for relief. 

“Fuck – Din,” you moan, threading your fingers through his dark curls with a tug. Letting yourself drop back into the plush mattress, you reach for Gracie as he moans into your spread cunt, and she holds your hand while your back arches, your heels digging into the firm muscles of his back. “I’m – you’re going to make me cum.”

Your voice breaks when you do, a bright wave of taut warmth spreading from your core outwards. He licks you through it, sliding his tongue through the gush of wetness, focusing his efforts on your swollen clit. Your hips jerk and you whimper, a sound Gracie hushes with another kiss. 

Focused on her and still floating, you don’t notice he’s stood up until you feel his sure hold slide up over the top of your shins, guiding your knees back against your chest. He steps forward, and you can feel the thickness of his cock pressing against the slick dip of your entrance. 

“You ready, girl?” he asks, grinding his hips into you. His breathing is ragged, pent up, his chin glistening and wet. 

You can feel how soaked you are, his movement smearing your wetness into the curls at his base, over his thick shaft. He positions the weighty, blunt tip of his cock in place, groaning when he feels you clench against it. When he breaks you open, your lips catch against Gracie’s, your hot whine fanning over her mouth. 

He’s so much – so filling, so thick, the slide inside so satisfying it makes you want to cry. He reaches further than most, pushing forward with a grind and though Gracie has your mouth, he leans to focus your attention on him. Pulling out and sliding back in with a firm roll of his hips, he breaks your kiss with a grip of your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

“Look at me,” he commands, another slide out, another grind in. Another, another. Trying to match your rhythm with his, you can’t move your hips with how he has them pinned in place, forcing you to take it. 

“So –,” he hisses, pulling out to slide back in, “So fucking wet. So tight,” he groans, picking up pace. You bounce lightly with the motion; the muscles along his ribs rippling with the action. “Gracie, look at her gorgeous tits. They look neglected to me.”

The smile she gives him is affectionate and sweet, though the situation is anything but. Crawling to you, she bends and licks a wide stripe up the soft underside of your breast, before giving it a lingering kiss. 

“Din –,” you beg, arching into her wet mouth. He’s already building something low in your tummy, ratcheting it higher with every thrust of his hips, even higher with the unrelenting grip he’s using to pin you in place.  

Gracie switches breasts with a wet path from one to the other, nibbling at the stiff peak of your nipple. The two of them work in tandem: her sweet mouth with his unrelenting pace, her softness paired with his strength. 

She pulls back and Din bends forward just enough to give you a rough, hungry kiss, one that has your knees pressing into your chest and then he’s fucking down into you, his hips pounding into your ass, your mouths hovering over each others as you drink down his panting, ragged breaths – 

“Gracie,” he tells her, a soft grunt between each word, “Show me your fingers. That’s right,” he praises her, as she dips them inside herself with a sigh. “Get yourself nice and wet for me – you’re next.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Gracie rolling her hips against her hand, her soft thighs spread wide, the silk nighty she’s wearing twisted around her torso while her eyes glaze over watching him fuck you.

You whine underneath him, earning yourself a quick, breathless kiss. “You can take it, girl. I know you can.” He gives a couple of particularly rough thrusts, groaning over your higher moan. “Go ahead, girl. Tell her how good it feels. Tell her –”

Before he can get the words out, you pull his head down to seal his mouth with yours, breaking again underneath him with a hoarse moan. Stronger and more intense than the last one, your cunt squeezes him so hard you feel him stutter a grunt against your mouth, trapped in place. Everything is so wet: your sore cunt, his lap, the sweat that clings to his lower back and along your hairline, the kiss you share with him, as you come down from your peak. 

Pausing to let you catch your breath, he’s tender with his touches, brushing your sweaty hair back from your face. “You did so good for me girl. So good,” he murmurs between kisses. Giving a final caress to your cheek, he gently eases himself out of you. “You stay there and rest – it’s Gracie's turn.”

So tender and soothing with you, his rigid cock betrays his yet unsatisfied need as he shifts his focus to her. She looks delighted at the sight – a desperate Din, his muscles rigid with tension, his stomach taut with effort. Limp and pliant, you lay still while he gently eases your thighs open with a sweep of his hands to look at your cunt. His expression clearly torn between tasting the sticky, slick mess you’ve made for him and leaving you be, he wets his bottom lip, before sliding two fingers through the mess, feeding it to Gracie. 

Radiating dominance and tightly wound need, he watches as she sucks on his fingers like it’s nourishment, scrambling up on her knees to pull him towards her. He jerks the neckline of her nighty down, palming her bare breasts with a squeeze and her hand reaches for his cock, eager for him to fill her. Pushing her backwards, the bed bounces with the weight of their bodies falling together and bracing himself on his forearm, he reaches down to slide into her in one, brutal stroke. One hand fisting into the bedding over her head and the other roughly massaging her breast, the flesh of it spills out between his fingers as he pounds into her, needing to be rough. 

It’s a lot, even for her — but you can tell she loves it. Worked up and waiting for her turn, her fingers dig into his ass, pulling him into her as her hips grind against his. Reaching for her wrist and pinning it into the mattress above her head, he presses his weight into the hold while his hips shove into hers, over and over. 

Everything about the way he fucks is so filthy and base. Almost feral, frantic with need. He demands so much from both of you, but also of himself. Edging himself until he’s exhausted. Seeing just how long he can go and how many times he can make you come before he allows himself the same pleasure. 

“What do you think, girl?,” he asks, looking over at you. “Can she take it?” 

Gracie moans loudly at a particularly rough thrust and he turns back to her, clamping his hand tight over her mouth while continuing to push her further. Her dazed eyes widen above his broad hand before rolling back, her brow bunching when they slide shut. 

Pressing a kiss over the top of his hand where her lips would be, he shushes her. “Shhh. It’s okay, filthy girl. I thought –” he groans, “ – I thought about making a mess of your pretty little cunt, but I – fuck – I think I want it in your mouth instead.”

At this, Gracie comes – her legs squeezing tight around his waist, her whines still muffled by his palm as her body arches underneath him. Digging her fingers into his bicep, he holds himself still as she sobs underneath him, trembling with her release. 

At the edge himself, he pulls out of her and quickly climbs up over her body, he pinching her cheeks together until her mouth opens up. Fisting his cock with an audible stroke, he rests the tip between her lips and cums, hard. 

There is so much of it. Coating her lips and tongue, his release pours into her mouth, dripping down her chin. She sits up, eager for more, swallowing him deeper and he hisses, his hips jerking forward to chase the wet heat. She looks up at him with a warmth of adoration, eager for praise, as his hands cradle her jaw while his hips roll lazily against her mouth. Staying there until he’s too sensitive, he slips out and slumps forward, catching himself on the bedframe. 

“Fuck me,” he pants, the tension in his muscles slowly ebbing away. Sluggish, he moves like he’s drugged and the two of you shift on the bed to make room for him. Him in the middle, he gathers you into his arms, while reaching back to ensure Gracie is tucked tight behind him. 

The first time he held you in his arms, you fell asleep immediately, exhausted from all he demanded from you. He slept like the dead as well, finally being able to let his guard down. Tonight, you resist the urge to close your eyes, savoring the warm weight of his arm curled around your waist, and the firm, solid tuck of his body behind yours. Delicately tracing his knuckles, you think about how no other man has ever held you like this. So used to them taking what they want and then leaving, you know you shouldn't get too attached or read too much into it…but it’s nice, the weight and comfort of his warmth. 

In the small hours of the morning, you wake to the sensation of his nose gliding up the nape of your neck, his lips peppering kisses along the top of your spine. The room is dark, before dawn, and rolling over to face him, you see Gracie curled up behind him, dead to the world. 

He’s achingly soft with his handling of you: sweeps of his palms over your soft skin, kisses that have you aching for more. It’s hard to see him in the darkness of the room, but that only makes every sensation more heightened. You focus on other senses: his low, rumbling hums, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth. His hand teases down the slope of your body, finding a home between your legs. Cupping your cunt, he preps you to take him again. 

Swirls over your clit, fingers slipping inside to draw out slick wetness. Bringing the digits to his mouth, he coats them thoroughly with his saliva before bringing them back down to your cunt, easing them into you. 

Half awake, everything feels like a dream, saturated with sensation. The weight of his body on yours, the filling push of him inside. His warm breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his mouth along your jaw. 

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, his forehead sliding against the soft skin on your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin. “You always take me so well. You make me feel so good.”

Your fingers thread through his curls, guiding his mouth to yours for a kiss. Deep, just like his achingly slow thrusts inside of you. Deep, like the aching feeling in your chest at his tenderness. 

Swallowing your moans, he breaks the seal of your mouths just long enough to make whispered promises in the dark: that he’s going to come back in a month, that some day he’s going to settle down in this town. That someday, he’s going to build a house and take you home with him, just to keep you all to himself.

At the last promise, you let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back into the pillow as he runs the bridge of his nose against your throat, nuzzling the soft skin. 

“They all say that,” you tease. 

You feel him smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Knowing that he’s going to have to leave soon, you shift your focus on giving him everything he asks for – your legs hitching high on his hips, your thighs squeezing him tight as he rocks into you, deeper, harder. With every grinding slide, he makes you repeat his words back to him, each statement sounding needier than the last: 

No one fucks me like you do. 

I can’t think about anything else when you’re deep inside me. 

I’m your girl. Only your girl. 

When you both come, he rests his head on your chest for a while, listening to the rapid thrumming of your heart as you stroke his soft hair away from his temple. The sun begins its ascent outside, the room slowly becoming hazy with dawn. 

With one last kiss for you, and a kiss placed on Gracie’s temple, he pulls himself from the bed. 

You watch as he searches for his clothes, his belt, his boots.