🕯Hello Lovie🕯

You never thought it’d hit you like this until it does. Baby fever à la max. Even the word ‘fever’ undersells it—the feeling that overtakes you is like a blazing inferno, burning away every other want or desire apart from the one currently tearing you asunder. 

It’s all you can think about from that point on. Babies, babies, babies. The milky smell of their heads, the flexible cartilage of their noses, their pudgy, wrinkly yawns and soft sighs. You make excuses to visit, offering to babysit whenever they look like they could use a night out, your agenda so transparent that anyone with eyes could see it. 

All you can think when you look at them is that your life has been looking a lot like a house of cards these days: all style and no substance. 

They get in your head, alright. That ominous they; not a specific person or group, just a nebulous, widespread opinion permeating far too many corners of your world. All that fearmongering about babymaking windows and that talk of rapidly vanishing fecundity—your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when you come across a TikTok of a thirty-six year old calling her eggs geriatric—and by the end of it, you swear you can hear your biological clock booming between your ears, one swinging gong after another. 

You’re able to keep the beast at bay for a bit by tricking yourself into thinking that it’s just in your head. Just one of those things. You’re getting older—of course at some point you’d start to worry about the things you never got a chance to do. FOMO. Regrets blooming into full-blown crises. It’s only natural that it would start to get to you eventually. 

Trying to convince yourself of that is not enough to shake the damn urgency from your blood though. You’re like a dog with a bone, too many late nights spent scrolling through parenting forums and conception tips, neither of which are of much use to you as a childless, partnerless person not currently trying for a baby. What does it matter to you if smoking reduces your chances of getting pregnant by forty percent? You don’t even smoke. 

You might actually want to have a baby though. Mindblowing after all this time, to think that maybe it wasn’t just a fleeting fancy. 

Mindblowing, then abruptly terrifying. 

Your present situation is a bit dire. It’s been several years since you last had a partner, none you ever would’ve ever considered having a baby with. Absurd—worse than absurd even. And despite everything, despite the self-imposed countdown ticking away in your head and the stress causing your spine to curl in a half-inch more every single day, you are, thankfully, not desperate enough to reach out to any of them. 

So you try. For a short period of time, you make a real, concerted effort to find a partner, going on three dates in a week, each more appalling than the last. It’s the last one that breaks you, your date not only unbearably dismissive to the waitstaff but also entirely uninterested in discussing anything about your life, completely preoccupied with recounting the minutiae of his own life story. 

A swing and a miss. You made an effort at least, put yourself out there. Tried to do things the old-fashioned way. 

It’s the twenty-first century though, for goodness’ sakes; there are more ways to start a family than just the tried-and-true method. 

And that’s how you wind up here, at a fertility clinic on a Tuesday afternoon, PTO plugged into your work calendar with a secretive little “Appointment” reason left for being out of office. It’s no office-busybody’s business though. They don’t need to know about the increasingly debilitating need to have a baby that’s been overtaking you these past few months. 

It would clear a lot of things up, but it still isn’t anyone’s business.

The waiting room is a simple, unadorned roost of a room, the walls lined with plastic eggshell-like chairs for all the eggs soon to be hatched. An oddly sterile space for the purpose it serves. It would be a little uncomfortable if it weren’t like every other waiting room in existence, minus any snivelling sick people.

There are other people besides you. Or rather, there were people. People that have already come and gone, not quite so anxious as to turn up an hour early for their two o’clock appointment, their stomachs grumbling from skipping lunch. 

And so after the third couple goes in for their appointment with the specialist, you’re left on your own for a bit until a new person walks in. 

A man this time, all by his lonesome. 

And boy is he a specimen so fine that you can’t help but hope that he’s come to make a deposit. If they let you pick your donor based on build and gait alone, you think you’d have your man right here. You can barely drag your eyes away from him, glued to the rounded muscle of his back, gliding over the curve of his shoulders and up the thick of his neck.

After a brief conversation with the receptionist to check in, he drums his fingers across the counter and takes a seat on one of the little egg chairs along the wall facing yours. 

Where he then proceeds to lift his head and lock eyes with you. 

In retrospect, you wish you could describe it as a magical moment, but in reality, you just freeze in place, embarrassed at being caught staring. He’s a decently handsome enough man to be good fodder for any later self-care. Square-jawed and bearded.

Good hairline for his age, which you don’t want to take a crack at guessing, but if you had to, it would have to be somewhere around his mid-forties. Maybe late. But it touches him in just the right way, evident in the lines on his forehead and the pull of the skin around his eyes, his beard just ever so slightly flecked with the barest hints of grey. 

The writing on the threadbare shirt he has on, almost hidden beneath the plaid shirt layered over it, is barely legible after countless washes. You can almost see straight through it. If you pinched the fabric between your fingers, you think your nails would poke right through. You could rip it right off him, get a better look at the dense pecs that you can just barely make out through his shirt.

You swallow, that thought catching you off guard. 

Despite your own embarrassment, his gaze holds steady. Some people aren’t born with shame as a built-in foghorn. Some people look out into the world and genuinely believe it is theirs to conquer, raised on a diet of self-confidence and boldness, free-range audacity. 

He’s bold enough, in fact, to rise to his feet and cross to the other side of the waiting room, taking a seat right beside you. He sits down beside you like you're old friends, like there's nothing strange about a man sitting beside a veritable stranger in a completely empty room.

It’s such a bold move that you don’t even know what to say at first, head turned towards him in the chair next to you now with some dumb expression on your face, gobsmacked.

“Can I help you?” you hear yourself ask, years of socialization coming to the rescue. Thank god the gears start turning in your head after that brief second of bewilderment. 

“Not at all.” And what a voice too, as if his looks weren’t enough. All unintentional deep-chested purr, leonine English rumbling out of the depths of him, Northern accent to top it off. “Just thought I might introduce myself. Be polite, seeing as how we’re both here for the same reason.”

Unless he ran ahead of a wife still on her way up the elevator, you don’t think that’s the case. You glance around him just to double check the door. “Are we?”

“Maybe a pick-up instead of a drop-off in your case,” he concedes, a droll little note curled up in his voice. “But that’s not so different when the end result’s the same.”

You swallow and force an awkward smile, ignoring the way your heart speeds up. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, nice to meet you, um, circumstances aside.” You hold out a hand, which he doesn’t hesitate to take.

“Nothing wrong with the circumstances, but pleasure to meet you too, love.”

His palm feels huge around yours, a warm, firm grip that only yields a few moments later when you have to make an effort to pull your hand away, holding on for the fleetingest of seconds, long enough for a spark of anxiety to shoot through your chest. 

You hope that’s the end of it when he finally lets go of your hand. Not because you don’t want to chat up an incredibly attractive stranger, but because you couldn’t imagine the timing being worse. 

He, however, seems to have no qualms with carrying on. “Has it taken yet or are you shopping for donors today?”

It’s a horribly invasive question, but you answer it anyway, all buttoned-up and ginger. “Um. No, I’m just here for a consultation. There’ll probably be a lot of paperwork before, um…before we get started.”

“A lot of nonsense for something I reckon we could get done a lot easier together.”

It doesn’t register until it does. Then you just have to look at him and blink, confused. 

“Excuse me?” you ask. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “I haven’t got this wrong, have I? You said you’re here for a baby?”

“Uh, yes, that’s—that’s what I just said.”

“And I’m here to help someone like you have a baby. Seems like we’d be making both of our lives easier if we just skipped all the red tape and saved you the expense.”

“‘Save me the expense’?” you repeat, stunned. 

“Won’t cost anything the natural way.”

You know what he’s insinuating, but you can’t believe it. You actually can’t believe that this man—a stranger, handsome as he might be, good-looking as he might be, husband-envy-inspiring as he might be—would openly proposition you in the waiting room of a fertility clinic. Offer to get you pregnant ‘the natural way’, as if it were a cold drink on a hot day. A side of fries with your order. 

“I—I’m sorry, but that’s incredibly inappropriate,” you eventually wheeze out. 

That gets a laugh out of him, one of those amused huffs that erupts out of him like a bear flicking a bee off its snout. “Can’t be cagey about this sort of thing, love. You have to be direct when you want to get things done.”

“You do know we’re in public, right?”

“I’d be happy to take this somewhere private.”

The heat under your cheeks might actually result in a physical burn. “I…think I’m going to find somewhere else to sit.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that, love, I’m gonna head out anyway.” A satisfied smile tugs at his mouth. “I think I got what I actually came for.”

Your frown deepens. “You haven’t even been called in yet.”

“Not what I meant.”

Before you can ask what he means, he shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you for just a second, but long enough for your heart to suddenly go wild and your pupils to go big as dinner plates. 

“Here,” he grunts, lifting a hip to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, flicking it open and plucking out a business card. He flips your hand over and puts it down on your palm. “That’s my number. When you’re done here, give me a call. I’m sure we can come up with something better than this.”

He taps the card in your hand with a finger. It ricochets through you, the tap rippling up your arm and chest, nearly rocking you back in your seat. Everything he does must be punctuated with the same echoing weight. 

He nods to you on his way out, a secretive smile on his lips, just the barest hint of a lift that you might’ve missed had you not been staring at his face. All you can do is stare though, still absolutely floored, practically speechless as you watch him leave. 

And then you’re alone again, in an entirely different headspace than when you first sat down. 

“John Price?” the receptionist calls out from behind the desk suddenly, but with the man gone, there’s no one else in the waiting room apart from you. “Mr. John Price?”

You blink, stun-locked. You can’t have been the reason he decided to back out of his appointment at the last minute. He must’ve decided to bail at the last minute before throwing a Hail Mary in an attempt to get laid. 

That has to be it. He wouldn’t leave because of a brief interaction with you. 

The waiting room feels a lot emptier without him now that he’s gone, as if by being made aware of his presence, everything has been indelibly altered. Changed. Slightly less interesting somehow.

You hover somewhere between bewilderment and affront until a flicker of giddiness steals in. Tamp that back down. He's gone, and with him the impossible audacity of what just came out of his mouth. You stare at the door that he just disappeared through, lips parting around a reply you'll never get to deliver, then let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. The gall. 

And yet, despite yourself, you can't quite smother the giddiness bubbling low in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers curl around the business card in your hand. 

Eventually it’s your turn. You almost miss the sound of your own name until a lady in purple scrubs repeats it, sending you shooting to your feet. You follow her as she leads you down a hall and towards an open office just as clean and spartan as the waiting room. All there is in her office is a desk, a bookshelf, and a mobile ultrasound machine. Practically empty for all intents and purposes.

Ok lady, you think, sitting down across from her, what’s it gonna take to put a baby in me?

“Four thousand dollars,” she says matter-of-factly, the earlier part of your conversation long forgotten after hearing the price. 

That just about knocks all the wind out of you. “Oh,” you bleat, the prospect of ever getting pregnant suddenly a sad and distant dream.

“Per cycle,” she further clarifies, much to your dismay, sliding a couple pamphlets your way. “We’re always hopeful that it’ll take on the first cycle, but we typically see about three to four cycles of IUI before conception occurs.” 

IUI—intrauterine insemination. The sperm they have to shove up inside you to just and knock you up. At four thousand dollars a pop. 

“There’s no…first time discount?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like the, um…like the home buyer’s loan.”

She seems vaguely apologetic when she shakes her head at least, though that doesn’t really ease the sting. “No, unfortunately. Most of our customers are first time parents, so—”

It wouldn’t make much business sense. “Yeah, no, I get it.”

You do your best to pay attention to the rest of the conversation and ask the right questions, but the sticker shock makes it hard to focus. At some point, the consultation must end because she sends you off with a folder full of pamphlets and QR codes to scan, and a follow-up appointment booked two weeks out for a blood test and a pelvic ultrasound.

No music on the drive home, just silence to let the events of the day marinate. 

You know it’s likely just this clinic. It’s not like there aren’t other, probably cheaper clinics. But it’s the principle of the matter, the one factor that you hadn’t considered in this whole endeavour—you’d assumed, obviously, that raising a child in and of itself wouldn’t be cheap, but you hadn't even contemplated that the run-up to actually getting pregnant might be so cost prohibitive. 

If you even get pregnant. You exhale in a rush, the thought hitting you like a sledgehammer. God, you might not even get pregnant. You might go through the whole treatment, waste thousands of dollars, and go half-crazy begging the universe to let you get knocked up, and it might not even take. 

Dinner is a glass of white wine and burrito straight from the freezer, in no mood to cook or clean even a single dish. You should be cutting down on your alcohol consumption in anticipation of fertility treatments, but that’ll be a task for a later, less devastated you. You’ll rinse the hot sauce off your plate when you’re done eating and leave it in the sink for tomorrow morning. 

It’s not how you wanted the day to end. You were hoping to come home invigorated and inspired, already prepping for the next steps in the process. Instead it feels like you’ve taken a massive step back. 

Occasionally you like to look up flights to other countries just to imagine what it might be like to get away from your life for a bit, but the ticket price always brings you back down to reality. 

This isn’t like that though; this isn’t some temporary flight of fancy or some pie in the sky that you’ll spend decades chasing down in your dreams, hoping for just a single bite or even just a whiff. This is something you actually, genuinely want. A baby. Something you can take with you into the future, something you can build your life around.

There’s got to be another way. 

It’s a physical weight in your front pocket. You can feel it now, burning a hole in your hip. When you pull it out, the name John Price is printed on the card in a crisp, typewriter font, his phone number and occupation printed in the same sized font just beneath it. 

You stare at the card long enough for your eyes to go dry. Blink. Breathe out, reluctance giving way to acceptance, as tentative as it might be. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing to ever happen. A fun night with a good-looking man, with the added benefit of getting a baby out of it, no strings attached. Not the most irresponsible decision anyone has ever made. Some people join the army, after all. 

A shiver runs up your spine when you remember the way he worded it though. Sweat on your upper lip that you have to lick off, the salt sinking into the ridges of your tongue. You don’t think he meant turkey basters and plastic cups by getting it done ‘the natural way’. You saw the way he looked at you.  

You could do it for a baby. Let him—and here, you have to squeeze your eyes shut and cover them with your fists—let him do what he has to do to get you pregnant. Cut out the middle man and just let him fit the heavy weight of his body over yours and pry your legs apart to let him sink between your—

"No," you whimper, breathless, but he's changed the angles of his thrusts and your whole body is shivering it's way to a climax. "Simon, no, just you, just -"

"Just me," he growls, and his voice is ragged against your ear. His hands are hard when he hikes up your hips to grind in, in, in. "You think I don't know you was watchin' 'im, last time we was out? So cute when y' flirtin', lickin' y' lips 'n gigglin'."

You shake your head, but words get caught behind your teeth.

“No?” Simon's laugh makes you shiver. One of his hands slides under your hips, fingers zeroing in on your clit. "Weren't givin' Gaz fuck-me eyes? 'E might not've noticed, the way 'e was eyein' ya. Bet 'e touched 'imself that night, wonderin' 'ow y'r pussy looks when she's gettin' what she needs."

Your brain conjurs up Kyle’s face, handsome and attentive, and you can’t help the way you whine again. Reaching back with one hand, you grab at Simon's hair as your body ratchets closer to climax.

"Might 'ave to let him find out," he growls, and his voice is starting to waver with his own orgasm approaching. "'E's got a real pretty cock, bet you'd make real pretty noises - "

Whatever else he says is drowned out by the way you nearly shout as the tension in your belly snaps. It’s hard to gasp for breath as he works you through it, ignoring the way you jerk as oversensitivity takes over. A second peak wracks your whole body, right on the heels of the first, and every muscle in your body goes rigid. That sets Simon off, and you echo the moans that tear their way out of his throat.

Simon’s breaths are heavy against the back of your neck by the time you float back down into your body. The weight of him is grounding, comforting, even as you put your face into the bedding and groan with exhaustion and embarrassment. Simon snickers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he rolls you both to the side and wraps his hands around your waist.

You scrub a hand over your face and leave your hand over your eyes as you moan, “What the fuck was that?”

“Experimentin’.”

“Simon.”

“Figurin’ some stuff out,” he mumbles, running a hand up your belly and cupping one of your breasts gently. “Jus’ playin, ‘s all. You liked it?”

You wiggle around until you’re laying on your back, then peek through your fingers up at him. He blinks sleepy eyes down at you, head propped on one hand and looking just as relaxed as he ever does. Like he didn’t just bring up flirting with and fucking his coworker. He grins when he sees you pouting, big and self-satisfied before dipping down to press his lips against yours.

You tug gently at his hair as he pulls away. “What’re you figuring out?”

“’Ow best to surprise ya,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Figure Gaz is a safe bet. Thinks y’ gorgeous.”

“You want to sleep with Kyle?” You gasp, then gasp again. “Wait. Why do you know what his dick looks like?”

“Communal showers.” Simon plucks at one of your nipples, just a tease, before cupping his hand over that side of your chest again. “After ‘n op, after the gym. Easy to get a bit worked up.”

“You’ve seen him hard?”

“We’ve all seen each other ‘ard.” He shrugs. “Rude to stare, but in close quarters, y’gonna see somethin’. I’ve seen Johnny strokin’ off more time’s ‘n I c’n count. Cap’s got more restraint, but ‘ve seen ‘is favorite porn star.”

“Focus. We’re talking about Kyle,” you remind him, poking at his chest. “You said his dick is pretty.”

“Oh, so ‘e is your favorite.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Yeah? You just wanna hear more about ‘is cock? ‘Bout ‘ow I bet it’d hit all those nice spots if ‘e ‘ad you layin’ on your back like this?”

His hand squeezes, fingers drawing up toward your nipple in the way that he knows prompts your letdown. The fuzzy static of it makes you slap at him. But Simon just catches your hand and brings your knuckles to his mouth for a quick kiss. It’s a trap, of course, and he grabs your other hand in short order before bringing them up above your head. With an arched eyebrow, he presses them against the pillow before letting go, and then his fingers are back to stroking and plucking at you until milk starts beading up under his fingers. There isn’t much to give, since you’ve already done your pre-bed pump, but it’s still an overwhelming sensation so soon after orgasm.

“’E’s thick, like you like,” he says, breezy and casual as you squirm. “Just a bit o’ curve. Y’r lips’d look real nice on it.”

Your stomach swoops as he licks his fingers. Then his touch drifts lower, light and almost ticklish until his fingers can pet gently over your clit. Sensitivity makes you twitch your hips away, but he follows, keeps the pressure consistent while he waits for you to settle. Only then does he pet over your mound and thighs, gentle and teasing.

“Likes to take ‘is time,” he murmurs, licking his lips. His eyes are dark and hungry when he meets yours. “Was waitin’ for exfil, once. Nothin’ to do. ‘E pulled up some porn, somethin’ slow. Don’t remember exactly what. But ‘e didn’t skip ahead. Said ‘e likes to let things build, when ‘e’s got the time.”

His thick fingers dip between your legs, and you have to bite back a small noise. Simon’s always talkative, in bed, but this feels different, fragile. There’s none of that almost frantic, middle-of-sex energy forcing the words out. He’s not trying to get either of you off, not quite, not… not yet. He’s just… admiring his friend, sharing the intimate views he thinks you’ll appreciate with him.

That image you have of Kyle changes in your mind, becomes something quiet and warm. You can almost imagine the two of them, in some small, dim hotel room. You know what Simon looks like, when he’s not yet focused on sex, but willing to be convinced. Is that what he’s like, after an operation? Does he drape himself on a bed or a pull-out couch and watch porn quietly on his phone? He never hesitates to lean over your shoulder to get a better look at whatever you’ve pulled up. Does he do the same to Kyle? Would Kyle let him? Do they sit close, pulling something up on a phone, until their hands end up down their pants?

“Showed ‘im a picture of you, last time we was out,” he chuckles, interrupting your musing and setting your heart racing again. His voice dark and smoky, the way it gets when he’s preparing to pull you along through something that’s going to push all of your buttons. He leans down to steal another kiss when his fingers start to dip into where you’re wet and relaxed. “That one I like, the one from the beach. ‘Is cock weren’t out, but I bet ‘e wished it was. Just lookin’, that time, we was on watch. No time to do nothin’ about it.”

“You did not,” you whimper around a hitching breath.

“I did,” he he counters, grinning against your mouth. “’E said I’m a lucky bastard, and ‘e’s right. Prettiest girl in the world, you are. Can’t blame ‘im for wantin’ a taste.”

Your stomach flutters, and you want to touch him, so you lift one hand to play with his hair. “Did… did he say that?”

“Might ‘ave.” Simon’s fingers push deep, slowly, and he grins when you shiver. “Might’ve just looked hard an’ bit ‘is tongue. Can’t exactly tell ‘is superior officer ‘e wants to fuck ‘is wife. Gotta wait for an invitation.”

You swallow a moan as he adds another finger, pressing deep. You’re so wet that the movement is loud in the quiet room. Still, he moves slowly, palm rocking purposefully against you, just the way you like. It’s impossible to resist chasing the sensation with slow rolls of you hips, so you don’t try. It’s hard not to let the pleasure drag you under again. All you can do is take a couple of deep breaths to remind yourself not to move too fast.

“You want…” you have to swallow twice, force your mind to concentrate on the words instead of the way his hand unravels you, again, “Want to give him an invitation?”

“Might ‘ave to, the way you’re gettin’ worked up so fast.” His laugh is just the slightest bit mean. “If ‘e was ‘ere, I bet ‘e’d already be fuckin you. Nice’n slow, like this, give this greedy cunt everythin’ she wants while I’m recoverin’.”

His cock is thick against your hip, not quite hard again, yet. The way he nudges his hips into you makes you want to spread your legs, so you do. And then you’re moaning into his mouth as his fingers massage steadily against your g-spot. Without your input, your hips rock up, chasing that sensation, trying to coax him to move faster.

“Look’t you, Pretty. So needy. What kinda man would I be if I wasn’t makin’ sure you’re taken care of, hm? Bet Kyle’d be real nice to you, ‘specially sweet as y’are right now. Soft ‘n wet, fuck, gushin’ all over ‘is cock jus’ like this. Messy, but ‘e wouldn’ mind.”

The building pleasure makes you pant up at him, eyes locked on his face. He looks hungry, the corner of his mouth quirked up to expose some of his teeth. A part of you realizes that he’s excited at the way he can thrill you, certainly, but this isn’t just for you, is it? He likes that you like the idea, but it’s his fantasy, his friend that he’s imagining fucking you.

“Si-” you whimper.

“Yeah. Gonna make ‘im work for you to say ‘is name?” he growls, crowding even closer and using one of his legs to spread yours further. He doesn’t speed up, but his fingers press harder, just where you want and need it to start really working toward another peak. “No, I don’t think so. I think once you start thinkin’ wi’ that pretty pussy, y’ gonna cry so pretty, callin’ for ‘im to speed up, get you right where you wanna be. Say his name nice, I bet ‘e’d give you whatever y’ want.”

You whimper as his other hand captures your wrists and presses them into the pillow. “Simon!”

“Yeah, y’ gonna come? Wonder if ‘e could resist comin’ w’ you squeezin’ all around ‘im. ‘Specially if ‘e gets his mouth on y’r tits. Bet e’ tries, but can’t. Bet ‘e gives you those deep strokes y’ like so much, fucks ‘imself deep and makes a pretty mess f’ me to fuck back int’ ya.”

The orgasm crests, easy and overwhelming and wet. Simon growls, shifting over you until he can remove his fingers and push his cock into you in three hard shoves. His groan almost drowns out the wet noises of skin against skin, but every thrust seems louder than the one before. All of your senses are filled with him, his panting breaths, his thick waist between your legs.

You wonder, wildly, if Kyle would hold you while Simon chases his orgasm in your body.

It’s so unexpected, so jarring, that your belly flips and your body locks up, again. An embarrassing noise squeezes past your throat, you think, as your arms wrap around Simon’s neck again. He feels it, of course, and laughs breathlessly as he lifts your leg so he can fuck himself even deeper.

“Ah!”

“Yeah,” he pants into your mouth. “One more, pretty, ‘m close, jus’ a little more, jus’ like that.”

You can’t make your tongue cooperate, but you try, “K-Ky! Please, Simon.”

He groans like you’ve wounded him and presses close and deep, until you can’t catch your breath. His cock jerks so hard that it pulls a gasp from you, and you bury your face in his shoulder as he huffs like a bull into your hair. His muscles are so rigid that your fingers slip on his sweat, but still, you wrap yourself around him the best you can as you both shake.

You stay like that for a beat, and then his breath explodes from between his lips. The muscles holding him up go slack, all at once, and he barely manages not to land directly on you as he collapses. You’re still a bit squished under him, but there’s just enough space that you can gulp a couple of hot breaths.

A giggle ripples out of you. “Oh my god. You want to fuck Kyle.”

“Fuck,” he laughs. “’S that all you got out of that?”

“You came when I said his name!”

Simon laughs, breathlessly against your hair. “You came thinkin’ about ‘im.”

“Yeah.” Post orgasm, it’s easy to admit. You pet a hand over his side, then tweak his hip. “Does that mean you actually want to fuck Kyle?”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” He scrubs a hand over his face and props himself up on one elbow. “Give me twenty minutes, Bambi, I can’t feel my fuckin’ legs.”

In spite of his words, he’s smiling, warm and happy. You hum as he dips down for a slow kiss. A yawn interrupts you, first you, then him, and you giggle again as he flops back into the bedding.

Bodies rock and jut up against you, some with intention. You never open your eyes. You let the sensations fall around you, siphoning the feeling of bare skin against yours: heated, molded, sticky. There's no concern about losing balance here; the crowd moves as one, sensuously, and you can feel them all like prickles along your damp skin.

Then there are hands clasping around yours. You're spun around to face bright eyes staring hungrily at you from a pretty face, the lights turning his eyes almost neon and unnatural. He's compact and all shoulders and upper chest, keeping you trained on his wide grin.

"Yer a good dancer, hen," the man yells over the music to you. Dark, shaggy hair, curled around his ears. Cute in a boyish way. Strong incisors flashing as he spins you again.

"I think I need to sit down," you holler back, squinting an eye at him blearily. His face is smearing into the bright pitch behind him.

"Yer alright," he laughs sharply, hauling you up against him. You can feel his hard length against your ass immediately, and he makes no efforts to hide it. He smells spicy and clean, swamping your senses. His hands swarm down your front and clutch at your waist, pinching it in like he's measuring you. "Ye feel so good, hen."

"No, thanks," you mutter and pull away from him, swerving between the throng of dancers until you're alone again.

A slow throb of a song pulls you in tight and you finally relax your head back, neck tendons stretched, until you meet wide and thick muscle. Your eyes slowly open, and you twist just enough to see a large, broad-backed chest under a bemused smile under a thick dark moustache under a pair of crinkled eyes under a shelf of heavy eyebrows. Hardy.

"Pardon me, love," he says low into the sweat of your throat and his big hands firmly cup your hips as he moves past you through the crowd, leaving you with a tingling feeling where his flesh sat. Your eyes flick over and trace him, his shirtsleeves pushed up, the strong fat of his forearm bulging over the fabric, coarse hairs laid flat around a thick sturdy watch. Where his collar hung open, thick chest hair curled out, a thin gold chain pressed into his own sweat. You feel the pulse low in your centre, spreading its fingers out to seek more of him.

You float buoyant over to the bar where he disappeared to. He shoots you a even more bemused, almost surprised look when you tuck in beside him. You beam lushly up at him. "Thirsty."

He laughs and it's a pleasant, rich sound. "Workin' up quite a sweat out there, s'no wonder."

"Mm," you hum brightly, trying to snag the eye of the bartender. "You watching me then?"

He huffs knowingly. "Hard not to, love. What's your poison?" His large body's already caught the bartender's attention.

"Umm, surprise me," you laugh. "I'm easy."

There's a sharp look in his dark eye before he trains it back behind the bar. Orders an English beer for himself, and something for you — hopefully not fruity, but you said you were easy.

You check your phone while you wait. "Oh, for fuck sakes!" You mumble down into it. "My fucking…stupid…" Your words trail off, as you flip through your group chat messages, the rideshare app, your banking app.

"Y'alright?"

You turn slightly away from him to hide your phone. "Sorry, yeah, just…my friends were supposed to come back and get me, and…" Waving a hand, you force a smile tightly on your face and turn back to him. "Nevermind. I'll figure it out."

He presses a cold, sweating glass into your hand, his hand brushing yours deliciously for a slow exchange. "Need a ride then?"

"Ah," you laugh shyly. "No, no, that's okay, I'll manage with public transit." You don't indicate which mode.

His eyebrows slide down in concern, a fatherly expression almost molding his eyes and mouth. "Don't be daft, love. Enjoy your drink, go cut some shapes, an' I can drop you off wherever you need to be."

"No, really, that's okay. You've already been nice buying me a drink." You take a polite sip of it. "Cheers." You clink against his beer and sip again.

"Broke the rules there, love."

"What?"

"S'posed to wait to drink after cheers, and you're meant to make eye contact while saying it."

You roll your eyes, giggly. "My bad."

"S'alright. Give it another go then."

You stare at him over the rim of your glass, trying to parse if that amused smile is just for show. "Uhh…okay. Cheers?" Your mouth hovers, lips over glass lip, as your eyes lock onto his, lit-up strange under the bar lights. The expression on his face makes something inside you flip funny.

"Cheers," he finally agrees after holding your eyes just a moment too long. He tips his head back to drink and you look hungrily at his Adam's apple bobbing, the hair under his chin and down along his neck, the tendons and muscles all working. He swallows hard, eye fixed on you fixed on him.

You look away too slowly. "Well, thanks again." Sliding away from the heat he gives off, you slink back through the press of people onto the dancefloor with your cold drink. Glass is forbidden out here, but it's too busy tonight for the bouncers to notice or really care, so you sip slowly and melt back where you belong, into the aching thumps of the music. Eyes closing once more, slipping back into it, shutting the world out around you.

The drink is cola-sweet down your throat, icy in this sweating heat, and over the shift of songs into the early-morning dripping sleazy bass, you're feeling it sluice through your bloodstream, thick and viscous. Your eyes stay closed and your body feels looser, like the connective tissue holding you up and together is fraying slowly, pieced apart by the music and bodies touching you.

"S'alright now, come on." Dream-dark voice and hands and a lovely smile to think about, attached to those big arms and big chest.

"—smells good," someone murmurs.

Low chuckles rumbling through skin and hair. "Watch your head, love." A shift from sweat-hot to brisk-cold to stale-warm. Your head is fat and empty and heavy, the heaviest it's ever been maybe. It's as if your eyelids have been pressed down by layers of braided silk, warm and thick, banding but not oppressive.

Get—hands—now—good—here

"Music?" You ask, but the first part of your question is swallowed up.

"—long?"

A heavy press against you, finally something solid to lean into, seek. You moan against it, a writhing serpentine sound winding out of you. You don't know what you're seeking, but it's close, right here.