mel

You notice him the second he walks in, not because he’s loud, but because he isn’t. He doesn’t blend into the usual crowd of men who stumble in already drunk on noise and expectation; instead, he stands just inside the door for a beat too long, scanning the room with a focus that feels out of place here. His leather jacket looks worn in a way that tells stories, his posture loose but coiled underneath, like he’s always ready to move and when his gaze lands on you, it doesn’t slide away. 

It stays, steady and assessing, and something about that makes your lips curve before you’ve even decided to approach. You’ve seen every kind of man walk through these doors, but there’s something about this one (Dean, you’ll learn soon enough) that feels like he carries a different kind of weight.

By the time he reaches the bar, you’re already there with a drink, leaning your elbow against the polished surface, one heel hooked loosely behind the other and hips popped to the side as if you’ve been waiting for him all along. Up close, he smells like leather and something sharper underneath; whiskey, maybe, or something that clings to him no matter where he goes. “You lost, or looking for someone in particular?” you call out without moving, voice smooth, carrying just enough to reach him without inviting anyone else in.

His head turns immediately, sharp, and when his hazel eyes lock onto you, it doesn’t slide away like most do. “Neither,” he answers as he approaches, a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Just looking.” You hum, dragging your gaze over him slowly, deliberately, taking in the worn leather jacket, the way he holds himself like he’s used to trouble. “Careful,” you murmur, turning slightly so the light hits your glowing skin just right.

“Most guys who come in here looking don’t leave with what they expected.” He stops close enough now that you can smell whiskey and something darker on him, something that doesn’t belong to the club.

“Yeah?” he says, leaning one elbow on the bar beside you. “What do they leave with?” You tilt your head, eyes flicking to his lips for half a second before meeting his gaze again. “Usually less money,” you reply, a small smile curling your mouth. “Sometimes even worse.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that, but there’s something distracted about it, like he’s already losing track of whatever brought him here. “Name’s Dean,” he says, and you take your time before responding, fingers tracing idle patterns in the condensation of your glass. “You don’t get mine that easy,” you answer lightly, glancing at him from under your lashes. “But you can earn it.” His brow lifts, interest sharpening. “Oh yeah? How?” You push off the bar then, heels clicking softly against the floor as you take a step back, letting him look, really look; at the shimmer of your outfit, the way the thin straps sit against the fat of your hips, the slight sheer of your lingerie set. 

“You play cards?” you ask, and when he smirks like he already thinks he’s won, you know exactly how this is going to go. “Poker?” he says. “I’m decent.” You laugh, soft and knowing, already turning to lead him toward a quieter table tucked under dimmer light with more privacy, letting him have a view of your ass bouncing with each step you take. 

“That’s what they all say,” you toss over your shoulder. “Strip poker,” you add without looking back, and you don’t need to see his face to know you’ve got him now. “You serious?” he calls after you, and when you glance back, it’s with a smile that’s all promise. “Dead serious. You in, or are you just here to stare?”

He follows, of course he does.

When you sit across from him, crossing your legs slowly, deliberately, you can feel the shift in his focus already, the way he tries to stay sharp but keeps getting pulled back to you. The way his hazel eyes lingers on the sparkling set of lingerie like he can see through it, the way his tongue slides past his lips to wet them, or the way he sighs quietly when looking back at your face.

The cards feel familiar in your hands, smooth and easy as you shuffle, your movements unhurried, deliberate, giving him time to settle, to get comfortable enough to lose properly. “Rules are simple,” you say, dealing the first hand, your voice dipping slightly as the music pulses around you.

“You lose, something comes off.” He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking between your face and the slow, precise way you handle the cards. “And if I win?” he asks, already sounding like he’s picturing it. 

You glance up at him, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Then maybe I take something off.” He exhales through his nose, amused. “Maybe?” You shrug, crossing one leg over the other, letting your heel swing just slightly. “Depends how good you are, Dean.” The way you say his name makes his fingers tighten slightly around his cards, and you don’t miss that. You never miss anything.

You let him win the first round, you always do with clients. It builds confidence, makes the fall sweeter. “Told you,” he says with a grin, leaning forward as he sets his cards down. “Decent.” You hum like you’re impressed, even as you reach up and slide one strap just slightly down your shoulder before pushing it back into place, more tease than reward. “Lucky,” you correct, and by the second round, that luck runs out. 

You take his jacket first, tugging it from his shoulders yourself when he hesitates just a second too long. “Don’t tell me you’re shy now,” you murmur, fingers brushing briefly against his neck as you pull the leather away. “Not even close,” he replies, but his voice dips just enough to give him away. The third round costs him his flannel, and the fourth has him leaning back with a frustrated exhale as you reach for his belt, your fingers slow as you undo it, making his hips jerk toward your hands mindlessly.

“You hustling me?” he asks, watching you too closely now, his attention slipping from the cards entirely. 

You glance up at him, lashes low. “Would I do that?” you ask sweetly. He snorts. “Yeah. Yeah, you would.” You laugh, and it’s soft, pleased, entirely unbothered. “Maybe you’re just distracted,” you say, and when his gaze drops to your chest again, you tilt your head knowingly. “See? Something on your mind, I suppose?”

By the time his shoes are off and his things are stacked neatly beside you, he’s shaking his head, a disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face. You lean back in your chair, stretching slightly, letting the movement draw his eyes to your belly again as you gesture lazily to the pile of cash you’ve been collecting between rounds. “Look at all the money I just won,” you say, voice light, teasing.

He glances at it, then back at you, something warmer creeping into his expression now. “You enjoying this?” he asks. You hum, nodding your head. “Maybe you deserve a little compensation,” you reply, and before he can respond, you’re already standing, already stepping toward him.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes then; something that shifts from frustration into something warmer, something more intent and when you mention compensation, you can practically feel the tension tighten between you. His eyes are focusing on you, watching as you step closer; the way your skin glows under the strip-club lights, the tiny set of lingerie and the high-heels that sound dangerous.

When you slide onto his lap, it’s slow, controlled, your hands bracing lightly on his shoulders as you settle against him, and the way he stills beneath you is immediate. “Hey, remember the rules,” you murmur, close enough that your lips brush near his ear, “no touching.” His breath catches, a quiet, shaky sound that makes something flicker low in your chest. “You’re kidding,” he says, hands hovering awkwardly at your sides, unsure, restrained. His fingers close in fists, trembling like he just wants to put them on your body and touch the softness of your epiderm, feel the lotion you so carefully put on before working.

You pull back just enough to look at him, a small smile playing at your lips. “Not at all.” He lets out a breath that turns into a laugh. “That’s cruel.” You shift slightly in his lap, subtle but intentional, and the way his jaw tightens doesn’t go unnoticed. “Then maybe you should’ve played better,” you tease. His hands hover closer now, fingers flexing again like they’re fighting against instinct. “You really expect me to just—what, sit here?” he asks, voice rougher now. 

You nod lightly. “That’s the game, Dean.” He shakes his head, but there’s no real protest left in it. “You’re killing me,” he mutters. “Am I?” you ask, leaning closer, your nose brushing his. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, you are.” Dean can feel his heart skipping a beat inside his chest; he doesn’t know if it’s the thrill of having you so close, if it’s passion, if it’s curiosity but it’s surely something new.

You shift slightly in his lap once more, not enough to be obvious, but enough to make him react, enough to feel the way his body responds even as he tries to stay still, to follow the rules you’ve set. His voice drops when he speaks, rougher now, threaded with something that sounds dangerously close to pleading, and you can’t help the way your smile softens just a fraction at that. “It’s torturous, hope you are aware of that. I really want to touch you.”

When he asks for a kiss then, it’s quieter than everything else he’s said so far. “C’mon,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. “Just one.” You tilt your head, pretending to think about it, even as you let your lips hover dangerously close to his. “Are you begging?” you ask softly.

He huffs a weak laugh, but he doesn’t look away. “Maybe,” he admits, voice low. “Please.” That lands somewhere deeper than you expect, and for a second, you just look at him, really look at him, before you close the distance.

The kiss is slow at first, your lips pressing to his in a way that feels almost gentle compared to everything leading up to it, and the sound he makes against your mouth is quiet but real, like relief slipping out before he can stop it. His hands twitch at your sides, lifting just slightly before stopping themselves, hovering there, trembling with restraint. “Careful,” you murmur against his lips, and he lets out a soft, breathless laugh. “Don’t care,” he replies, leaning into you just a little more. You deepen the kiss just enough to make him react, just enough to feel the way he melts into it, before pulling back slowly, leaving him chasing it for a second longer than he should, his eyes half-lidded and looking at your face.

You can see it in his expression; the way he’s a little undone, a little dazed, like he’s not entirely sure how he got here but isn’t questioning it either. You let your thumb brush lightly along his jaw, a small, almost absent gesture that feels more intimate than anything else you’ve done so far.

“That’s it?” he asks, but this time it comes out softer, rough around the edges in a way that makes it sound less like a complaint and more like something pulled out of him without permission. His eyes don’t leave your mouth, like he’s already chasing something he hasn’t been given enough of, and when you brush your thumb along his jaw for the third time, he leans into it just slightly before he can stop himself. “C’mon,” he adds, quieter now, voice dipping into something almost boyish despite everything about him. “You can’t just… that’s not fair.”

You tilt your head, studying him, the way his composure has slipped so easily, the way his hands are still hovering at your sides like they don’t know what to do with themselves. “Not fair?” you echo, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You agreed to the rules.” There’s amusement in the way you say those words, slightly teasing the man beneath you.

“Yeah, well,” he exhales, shaking his head with a breathy, almost embarrassed laugh, “I didn’t know you were gonna—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening as his gaze flicks back to your lips again. “Please,” he says instead, more direct this time, and there’s no hiding it now. “Just one more, please?”

That word lingers between you, heavier than it should be, and you can feel the shift in the air, the way the teasing curls into something warmer, softer at the edges. You let him wait half a second longer: just enough to make him feel it before you lean back in, closing the space again.

This kiss isn’t as careful.

It’s still slow, still controlled on your end, but there’s more of him in it this time—the way he leans up into you instinctively, the way his breath catches and then deepens as your lips move against his again. His hands lift without thinking, hovering closer now, almost brushing your waist before he stops himself at the last second, fingers curling like it physically hurts to hold back. “God,” he mutters against your mouth, barely pulling away for a second. “You’re—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if he can’t even find the word.

You don’t give him time to try to speak up as you kiss him again, a little deeper this time, just enough to make his restraint snap tighter and just enough to feel the way he almost forgets himself completely. One of his hands drifts upward again, hovering just inches from your side, and this time his voice breaks through, low and pleading. “Please—just let me touch you,” he murmurs, the words catching slightly, like he’s not used to asking for things like this. “Just a little. I won’t… I’ll be good, I swear.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, lips still close, your breath mingling with his, your expression soft but unyielding. “No touching,” you remind him quietly, and there’s no teasing in it this time but just a firm line he can’t cross. Rules are rules, Dean knows that.

He lets out a frustrated breath that melts into a quiet laugh, head tipping back slightly before his eyes find yours again, a little dazed, a little wrecked. “You’re really not gonna give me anything, huh?” he asks, but there’s no bite to it, just disbelief wrapped in something that looks a lot like admiration at you not wielding.

You smile faintly, and instead of answering, you lean in again, pressing another kiss to his mouth: shorter this time, softer, like a reward you’re choosing to give rather than something he’s earned. He chases it when you pull back, just barely, like he can’t help himself. His breathing is labored, the apple of his cheeks are rosy and almost hiding the pretty freckles he has on.

“Hey—” he starts, voice low, almost desperate now, but you’re already shifting, already sliding off his lap before he can say anything else. The absence of you hits him immediately: you can see it in the way his hands drop uselessly to his thighs, in the way he exhales like he’s trying to steady himself, like the room feels a little too quiet without you pressed against him.

“If you want more,” you start, but your voice softens just slightly as you shift your weight back onto your heels, one hand gliding down the curve of your waist to your hip like you’re grounding yourself back into your body after being so close to him, “you’ll have to come back.”

He doesn’t answer right away, no, he’s still looking at you like he hasn’t caught up yet, like he’s somewhere between the kiss you just gave him and the absence of you now, and it shows in the way his chest rises a little too fast or in the way his hands flex uselessly against his thighs.

“You’re—” he starts, then cuts himself off with a quiet, frustrated breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “You can’t just do that and walk away,” he mutters, voice low and rough, a clear thread of something almost pleading slipping through. His eyes flick back to your lips again, then up to your face. “C’mon… just stay a little longer.”

You don’t move closer again, but you don’t step away either, letting him sit in that space between you, letting him feel it. Your smile is small, knowing, just soft enough to take the edge off your refusal. “That’s not how this works, Dean,” you murmur, and there’s something almost gentle in it now, even if you don’t give him what he’s asking for.

He huffs out a breath, shaking his head, but there’s no real fight left in it but just that same dazed, caught look you’ve seen take over so many men before, except it sits differently on him. “Yeah,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you. “Yeah… figures.”

You let your gaze linger on him for just a second longer before you finally turn, but you don’t rush away, you never do. Instead, you gather what you’ve won first, bending slightly over the table, the neon light catching along the curve of your back as you collect the scattered bills with practiced ease. Your lingerie shifts with the movement; thin straps stretching across your hips, the sheer fabric barely there, rhinestones glinting like tiny stars against your skin. 

When you straighten, you don’t reach for a bag or a pocket. Instead, you slide the folded bills into the delicate strap of your thong at your hip, tucking them there with a slow, unhurried motion, letting the gesture linger just long enough to be seen. 

The contrast is almost deliberate: the soft shimmer of your set against the crumpled edges of cash, chains resting against your chest as your fingers smooth the fabric of your bra back into place. It’s casual for you, routine even, but you don’t miss the way Dean’s breath hitches again, the way his gaze drops and then lingers before he forces it back up.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, like he’s overwhelmed by the simple act of watching you exist in this space.

You glance back at him over your shoulder then, a small smile playing at your lips, and for a second it feels like the rest of the club fades again, like it’s just the two of you caught in that quiet pocket of neon light. “You gonna be okay?” you tease softly.

He lets out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head as he leans forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees like he’s trying to steady himself. “No,” he admits, honest in a way that surprises even him. “Probably not.” His eyes lift back to yours, something intent flickering there again despite everything. “You serious though?” he adds, voice dipping. “About me coming back?”

You hold his gaze for a moment, letting the answer sit between you before you give it. “Yeah,” you say quietly, and this time there’s no teasing in it at all; just something certain, something real enough to keep him hooked.

He nods once, slow, like he’s committing it to memory. “Yeah,” he repeats, softer.

And then you turn fully, heels clicking against the floor, ass bouncing as you slip back into the glow of the club, disappearing into pink light and movement and music, leaving him exactly where you want him; breathless, a little undone, and already thinking about the next time he’ll see you again.

It's endearing and lovely and you'd be embarrassed.

He's staring. Is he a creep? So much drowsy, besotted fuzz has roiled his mind, he can't consider it for very long, but decides that he isn't. How could this one and only pure, tender thing he feels make him creepy? Doesn't seem right at all.

Your knee bumps his upper thigh and lazily cascades down to his knee until they both meet. Dean can't breathe; doesn't let himself, has to remain very still, though resisting to indulge is asking a lot from somebody this fond of you.

He whispers your name, and everything is quiet besides your unconscious rustling of sheets.

You're gravitating to his body. Delicate fingers mold the slope of his shoulder and trail lazily up until they reach the honeyed hair at the back of his neck, his skin pricks tiny bumps. Green eyes wide and wider when your face comes to his, nose so close.

He'd like to peck a kiss there. You're sleep-soft and pretty.

"Angel," he murmurs, knowing you aren't listening, and settles his hand onto the plush of your waist with such bravery. Your breath fans the subtle dip of his cupid's bow.

If given the chance to slow this forever, Dean would. Doesn't protest when your arms cling and cross over his back, squeezing tight. You pull him towards the crook of your neck and he follows obediently, allowing himself to meld and sniff and sink.

In the morning, he stirs more refreshed than he's ever been, needles in his heart as he sits and slides from the blankets, and doesn't mention anything when you blink awake.

“C’mon, baby, you can do better than that.”

Sam’s voice rumbles against your center. It’s hard to tell just how long he’s had you pressed against the mattress like this, panting and trembling under his tongue. It feels like it’s been hours since you started, but you haven’t gotten to cum once — all because he’s been edging you, trying to get you to moan nice and loud for him. 

It’s not that Sam doesn’t treat you well — there’s not a single other person on this planet that could possibly make you cum as hard as he does — but you’re naturally quiet in the bedroom. Whether it’s your own hand, a toy, or Sam’s cock stuffed inside you, you’re typically silent during sex, save for some heavy breathing and the occasional low whimper. 

Sam isn’t the type of guy to take it personally at all, but — well, he’s long since had a morbid obsession with trying to break your quiet streak. Call it research. He wants to know what you would sound like, if he could pull some obscene noises out of you. He’s not looking for cheap porn star moans — he wants the real thing. 

So here you are, shuddering and clutching at his hair. You try to tug him back down so you can rub your clit against his nose and finally get off, but the second he realizes what you’re doing, Sam pulls away. You whine petulantly, reaching for him, but you wind up clawing at the air instead of his head. 

“Not yet,” he murmurs, sitting back on his knees between your parted legs. “I told you, baby, I wanna hear you first.” 

“Sam, come back,” you grouse, close to tears. “Please, that’s enough. I wanna cum.”

He smiles at you so sweetly that, had you not witnessed him torturing you for the past hour, you’d find it endearing. 

“I know,” he says, looking almost a little guilty as he kisses your knees. “I know, and you will. I just wanna hear that you like it, that’s all. Not so hard, right?” 

You huff, frustrated and needy. If you weren’t so desperate to get off, you’d up and leave him alone on the bed; you already attempted some time ago to sneak your hand down to your clit, but Sam made you close your legs and just sit there until you promised to behave yourself, so that’s out of the question. Besides, it’s already hard enough finding time to get in bed with Sam without his brother unintentionally cockblocking, so you might as well suffer through it. 

When you’re finally relaxed again — as much as you can be, at least — Sam trails his mouth down your inner thighs, alternating between each, until he’s hovering over your puffy folds. He kisses your slick, glistening cunt before licking a stripe up the middle. You whimper, dragging your hands over the sheets below you. They bunch up into fists when Sam’s tongue juts out further, slipping into you and flicking upward. You audibly squeak, the sound squeezed out of you from your restraint. 

Sam chuckles against you, repeating the motion. His laughter vibrates from your pussy all the way up your body, lighting up every nerve ending. You arch your back, trying to grind against his face, but Sam doesn’t let you — he clamps his hands around your thighs, holding them against the side of his head. His hair tickles your skin, making you jump and shiver while he bobs his head, tongue-fucking you, then sucking your clit, then repeating the actions. 

He eats you like he’s been starving for it — and honestly, he just might be. If there’s one thing you know and love about Sam, it’s this: he loves to taste you. 

Sam is beginning to moan by this point, losing himself between your legs. He starts to eat you out more voraciously, digging his fingertips into the meat of your thighs — and it’s that possessive gesture that makes your hips twitch, and a weak sound escapes you. It’s not quite the full-on moan he’s been waiting for, but he’s getting closer to where he wants you now. 

He pulls his head back briefly, hiking your legs up to sit around his shoulder now. Sam yanks you down by your hips, and you yelp, tugging the sheets down with you. Sam lands on your cunt again with a dark chuckle under his breath. He openly groans, lapping you up and rubbing his nose against your clit like you were hoping for earlier. The sensation is like a zap of electricity to your body — you moan aloud, squeezing your legs around his head. A shuddering sigh escapes you, then another loud whine when his tongue squirms around your clit. 

“That’s it,” Sam mutters between tastes of you. “There you go, just like that.” 

Tears puddle in your eyes, wetting your lashes. You’ve been on the edge for so long now, and the end is finally in sight. Sounds rip from your throat that you didn’t even know you could make — low, warbling sounds and animal-like wails. Sam smiles against your cunt, shoving his face against you until he can hardly breathe. His mouth closes around your folds, kissing and suctioning his lips to make you squirm and moan all over again. He grabs ahold of your hips, lifting them up to meet his face, and stars speckle the outskirts of your vision. 

With a loud cry of his name, your walls clench, then release. You gush right onto his waiting tongue, and Sam eagerly laps up the cum that pours out from between your puffy folds. He doesn’t let a single drop hit the sheets; he slurps it up, making obscenely loud noises that have your cheeks burning hot. 

You’re too sensitive to take much more of his ministrations. One hand lazily reaches for his head, curling into his hair and lightly tugging him off of your pussy. Sam lifts his head up, eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles at you. His lips and chin are glistening under the lamplight; he makes no move to wipe away your release.