gri

He hooks a finger beneath the sleeve of his golf polo and rolls it a little higher on his bicep, adjusting the fabric before dragging the back of his hand across his forehead. The UV index has to be somewhere around ten and he feels every bit of it.

“The only reason I’m out here is because she said it’d be good for me.”

Topper snorts and Kelce’s chip barely makes it out of the sandpit.

“And you’ve been thinkin’ about leaving since hole one,” Topper chuckles, shaking his head.

“Hole one? That’s insulting,” Rafe breathes.

“Sorry, hole four—”

“Parking lot,” Rafe cuts him off. “I was thinkin’ that since the parking lot, Top.”

But even that’s a lie. He was thinking that the moment that he watched you wave to him over your shoulder before you stepped outside—that little string bikini peeking out of the top of your shorts, tormenting him beyond belief.

Ever since then he’s been crossing holes off in his head like an advent calendar from his own personal hell.

“He’s not even listening,” Kelce teases.

Rafe looks over at him, blinking slowly a few times with his lips pursed and his hands resting on his hips.

“‘Course I’m not.”

“Unbelievable,” Topper sighs. “I was just telling Kelce we could do another eighteen holes—”

Rafe can’t even contain his disgust—wincing, brows pinched tight, nostrils flared with a side eye dripping with judgment.

“We’re not inviting you, Cameron. Calm the fuck down,” he blurts.

Ding! Rafe’s hand moves, diving for his pocket like someone challenged him to a goddamn duel.

Kelce drops the head of his putter against the grass, shaking his head judgmentally. Rafe rolls his eyes, unlocking his phone without a shred of shame.

“You’ve got a problem,” Topper says.

“A legitimate fucking problem,” Kelce adds.

“I can’t help that neither of you like your wives,” Rafe mutters and both of their mouths hang open in disgust. “Whatever,” he says, sounding so genuinely unbothered. ‘Cause he is.

Then he looks down at the screen and suddenly nothing else matters.

You’re stretched out across one of the lounge chairs beside the pool with a book propped open. The afternoon sun reflects off your skin. The book covers half your face, but that isn’t helping him concentrate because the rest of you is impossible to miss—the soft swells of your breasts pressed against the pool chair, the curve of your ass, just a taste of your thighs. Your feet are crossed, the little anklet he bought you glittering in the North Carolina sun.

“Look at him,” Topper says, nudging Kelce with his elbow.

“Not a single thought in that head,” Kelce adds as he steps forward and rests his putter behind the ball, taking his time while he studies the break.

The green goes quiet for a second while everybody waits for him to hit it. Before he can even pull the putter back, Rafe steps directly into his line and sinks his putt without hesitation.

Topper starts barking out a laugh and Kelce stares at him in complete disbelief as his ball rolls toward the hole. “You are such a prick,” Kelce says.

“We’re done.”

“We are absolutely not done.”

“This feels done,” Rafe answers, bending down to grab his ball, starting toward the flag before the argument is even over, Kelce’s ball still rolling toward the cup.

“You’re unbelievable, Cameron—”

Rafe cuts off Kelce’s critique, kicking the ball, sending it careening away. “It was gonna hook left anyway,” Rafe says over his shoulder, digging his keys out of his pocket, heading toward the parking lot as the two bitch behind him. “You two suck at golf, by the way,” Rafe calls back.

“Fuck you, Rafe,” Kelce laughs weakly, walking toward his ball.

“Short game’s terrible.”

“Rafe!” Topper calls but he flicks him off in response.

“Don’t even get me started on you, Top. You read greens like an eighty-year-old man with cataracts, fucking useless.”

“Jesus Christ,” Topper gasps.

Rafe doesn’t even bother organizing his clubs when he reaches the parking lot. He yanks them out of the cart, tosses the entire bag into the trunk with absolutely no regard for the thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment inside.

He jogs around the side of the car, yanks the driver’s door open, and practically falls into the seat before firing the engine to life.

Gravel spits behind him as he throws the car into reverse, backing out of the spot in one smooth movement before shifting into drive.

The second he hits the main road, he grabs his phone and calls. His thumbs drum against the steering wheel as the summer wind whips through the car, his pulse hammering, still racing from that power walk to his car.

“Hey, baby,” your voice fills his car and he softens in his seat, hands wrapping a little tighter around the wheel as he smiles.

“Hey pretty,” he hums.

His voice is softer now, gravelly from talking all day and sweeter than it has any right to be considering the way he’d been speaking to Topper and Kelce five minutes ago.

If you’d been standing on that green listening to him threaten both of them, you’d absolutely have something to say about it. He already knows exactly what you’d tell him too. Be nice. Stop being grumpy. They’re your friends. The problem is that he doesn’t care about any of that right now.

“Where are you?” You ask curiously, and he can hear in your voice that you know he dipped out of there sooner than he should have.

“Just left.”

“You just left?” You giggle.

“Mhmm...” Your voice comes through the speakers and instantly makes him feel better than the entire golf outing did.

Traffic slows for a red light and the drumming starts again as he waits for it to change.

“You weren’t gonna get a drink or something?” You ask. “Relax?”

“Absolutely not.”

The answer comes so fast that you start laughing again. The corner of his mouth twitches as he shifts in his seat. “They were stayin’ to practice puttin’, baby.”

“Really?” You ask, not convinced in the slightest.

“Yeah. Their—uhhh… Their short games suck.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“They’re fuckin’ terrible, baby. That was a long-ass day,” he grumbles and you giggle. He leans back against the headrest as he lets the moment breathe for a minute. “Kids been easy on you today?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Just laying by the pool,” you say.

“Sounds rough.”

“Fuckin’ terrible, baby,” you echo his words back to him and he smiles. “They’re actually at Wheezie’s.”

The car accelerates, completely subconscious on his part, but you hear it loud and clear. Rafe’s eyes flick briefly toward the speedometer while a grin starts pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“Rafe Cameron, slow down.”

The grin only gets worse, sinking a little lower in the driver’s seat, as one hand falls to the shift stick.

“I’m goin’ slow, baby.”

“You are not,” you answer. “You accelerated the second I said the kids weren’t home.”

“Did I?” You can practically hear the grin in his voice now as he weaves through traffic. “So.”

You start laughing, knowing exactly where he’s going to go with this. “Winnie’s in Charleston with Jackson.”

“Got it. And Max?” He asks eagerly.

“He left like an hour ago.”

“On the boat?” He asks, knowing that’s an all-day affair.

“Mhmm…”

Rafe’s laugh rumbles through the phone. “Interesting,” he says.

“Interesting?” You laugh and sigh sweetly.

“Sounds like I get you to myself all day?”

“Sounds like it.”

By the time he turns into the neighborhood, he’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. The gates open and he barely slows down as he pulls through them, already spotting flashes of blue water between the houses.

“You’re almost here, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he hums. “See you outside, baby.”

The second he turns into the driveway, the car barely has time to rest before he’s throwing it into park, killing the engine.

The garage door rumbles overhead and he doesn’t wait, ducking underneath it before it can open all the way. His shirt’s halfway over his head before he even reaches the mudroom. By the time he steps inside, he’s carrying the polo in one hand, snagging his swim trunks from the laundry room with the other.

He stumbles slightly, kicking off his golf shoes without ever breaking stride. Future Rafe can deal with that problem. Present Rafe has more important things to do.

His golf shorts are already undone by the time he reaches the hallway. He steps out of them, steps into the swim trunks, and keeps walking without stopping once to grab his hat, tugging it on before he flicks it to the back.

Now he’s finally home and the only thing he cares about is the backyard door sitting at the end of the room. He reaches it a few seconds later and quickly slows down, dragging the glass door open.

And that last bit of tension breezes out of him, because there you are.

You’re curled up in a chair with a book open in your hands, completely unaware that he’s standing there.

He admires you for a moment—one leg crossed over the other while sunlight dances across the pool behind you. He soaks in the scene he’d spent eighteen holes waiting to get home to.

Then a sharp whistle rips through his lips.

Your head lifts at the sound.

The book lowers into your lap and a smile breaks across your face so fast it makes something in his chest tighten.

You start to uncross your legs, already leaning forward like you’re about to stand, but he points at you.

“Nah, baby,” he says. “Stay right there. I’m comin’.”

You laugh under your breath and fall back against the chair.

The cushions dip beneath his weight as he climbs on top of you. One hand braces against the armrest while the other finds your thigh, his broad palm sliding higher as he guides you closer.

“Miss me?” He asks. Rafe’s smile tugs a little wider when you whisper yes, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your thigh.

He slides a hand along your side, guiding you onto his lap as one arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest while the other lifts to cup your cheek.

“Goddamn, I missed you. Don’t make me do that shit again,” he mutters, shaking his head once before leaning back enough to look at you properly. “M’not home enough for that.”

“Okay, baby,” you laugh.

“I mean it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t try to charm me after that, pretty. That was hell.” He leans in first this time, forehead brushing yours for a second before his lips find yours. “I love you,” he murmurs.

Your hand presses against his chest, nails scratching lightly down sun-warmed skin. He pushes the cup of your bikini to the side, wrapping his lips around your skin while his other hand drifts between your thighs.

“Out here?” You ask with a laugh.

“We’re all alone, baby. Why not?” His lips brush yours again before trailing along your jaw. “We can go inside too—”

“Right here,” you whisper.

“That’s what I thought,” he hums. “Who’s my girl, huh?”

You smile, fingers hooking beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. “I’m your girl.”

“Mhmm.” His thumb drifts along your collarbones to your shoulders, nudging one strap down before the other. “You’re my fuckin’ girl.” The words come out rough enough to pull a smile from you.

You reach up and untie the small bow holding your swimsuit top together. The fabric slips loose between you.

Rafe’s eyes drop as you toss it away. “Jesus Christ, baby.” A low groan slips out of him as he tips his forehead against yours for a second, hands lifting to squeeze your tits in his big palms as his mouth finds yours again.

You glance down briefly, catching his swim trunks sitting low on his hips from where you’d been tugging at them, bunched slightly against his muscular thighs, the fabric stretched tight across them.

“Take these off,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your lips before he slides down in his seat, tugging down his shorts with him, his heavy cock smacking against his toned stomach with a snap, his eyes locked on your body.

His hands squeeze your hips, digging in as he drags your clothed pussy on top of him, head pressing back into the chair. The sun beats down on your skin. A thin line of sweat catching his chain before it rolls in a lazy train down his chest.

“They said I got a problem,” he mumbles through a smirk, his jaw tightening as you keep moving against him, the heat of your body bleeding through the fabric of your swimsuit, finally snapping whatever patience he had left.

“Yeah, baby?”

“You see any problems here?” He asks breathlessly as he reaches for the bows at your hip, tugging them free, yanking away the rest of the fabric in a hurry as his hands close around you again.

He blows out a breath like he’s finally gotten rid of the last thing standing between him and what he wants, his hand diving between your thighs.

His fingers press inside and he gasps, working you with his hand as you rest on his chest, feeling his heart bang underneath, his muscles flexing with each push of his hand.

“Just jealous they don’t have a woman like you?” He hums as he pulls his hand away just long enough to drag you in.

Rafe’s lidded eyes connect with yours, lips falling open with his as he pulls you down on him. You grip his shoulders, hands trembling as a deep groan thunders in his chest, feeling your wetness wrap around him tight.

“Fuck, me,” he mutters under his breath, dragging you closer, smiling against your lips before capturing your mouth in a tender kiss.

“Oh my god,” you whine.

“Pussy’s so perfect.”

His eyes lift to yours in a lust-ridden daze, muscles flexing as he works you over on his length. You bounce on his lap, wet slaps of sweat and slick filling with air around you mixing with your soft whimpers and his deep groans.

You grip the arm rests, circling your hips and he throws his head against the back of the chair to get a better look, his eyes drifting between your face and the bounce of your tits, falling to his lap where your pussy swallows him up each time you sink down.

His legs spread a little wider, feet resting on the ground, hips pitching to fuck up into your soaked hole. Your head throws back as you rise on your knees, letting him hit that perfect spot, the knot in your belly tightening, your body impossibly hot.

“Rafe,” you moan.

“Yeah?” He asks, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Been playin’ this shit over and over in my mind, pretty. Let me have it.”

You cry out as he pounds your pussy with his thick dick. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably, as your pussy flutters around him. He looks up at you in a haze, lips parted, brows softening as your release wets his lap and thighs.

“Oh shit, that's my girl… That’s my baby,” he praises, making you gasp when he rolls you onto your back, not giving you a moment to breathe before he’s on you again.

He looks down at you with a smile, adjusting his hat, staring at the wet mess between your thighs. “Why the fuck would I ever wanna leave you, huh?” He asks as he pushes your legs against your chest, hooking your ankles over his broad shoulders.

You whimper out a little breath as he taps his cock against your pussy, muscles jumping with each slap.

He pushes in slow, tilting closer to get as far as he can go, pressing a deep kiss to your trembling lips. “Gonna cum in your pussy,” he whispers, his voice breaking with pleasure. “M’so, so fuckin’ close.”

His face turns slightly, pressing a kiss to your ankle, right against the charm. His ab muscles clench as he rolls his lips, sweat sliding down his temple.

“I’m so deep,” he mumbles. You nod quickly, lip bitten between your teeth, hands gripping the arm rests tight.

“So fucking deep,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” He asks breathlessly. “Fuck me.”

He loses his rhythm, thrusts growing uneven as he snaps against your skin. His muscles quake, shoulders trembling, slamming into you in one heavy thrust.

His eyes pinch shut, head falling forward, cumming deep inside you with your name on his lips.

He lets your legs go but he doesn’t let you get far, snuggling into you again, kissing your forehead—then your nose and your lips.

“Goddamn,” he mumbles, lingering while your breathing slows together.

He sits down next to you, dragging you close, kissing you as he grabs your thigh, tugging it over the top of him—close not close enough.

“This,” he huffs out a deep breath through a smile, relaxing into the lounge chair. “This is what’s good for me.”

“Yeah?” You giggle, tilting your chin up for a kiss that he gladly steals. You rest your head on his shoulder, the warm summer breeze blowing against your skin, the soft music that you had playing while you were reading filling the space in between.

“You sent that picture to me on purpose,” he breathes.

A smile stretches on his lips when you don’t answer right away, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“Holy shit, you did? Didn’t you?” He asks, tilting his neck to look you in the eyes and you shrug and smile.

“Thought it would get you home quicker.”

His hand comes down heavy on your thigh as he dips in, brushing his nose against yours, chuckling deeply against your lips before he kisses you.

“That’s my girl.”

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“I’m fine, Rafe,” you stop him before he can start. “How are you, baby? How was your day?”

He doesn’t answer, just walks toward you. Your hands dive back into the sink, scrubbing the next dish harder, faster in a feeble attempt to appear busy.

He wraps his arms around your body from behind, his large hands settling over yours before gently guiding you to set the dish back down in the sink.

One by one he pulls the rubber gloves off your hands. Your arms fall around your waist as he hugs you tightly from behind, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Slow down, baby. You’re alright,” he murmurs softly against your neck, pressing a slow kiss there.

“Mom!” Winnie shouts suddenly from the top of the staircase. “When’s the pizza getting here?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Rafe beats you to it. “Soon,” he calls, vague enough for her to nod and walk away—vague enough that you could get away without admitting you forgot, but the way your shoulders fall in defeat after you hear her question tells Rafe everything he needs to know.

He hugs you closer still, nuzzling his face in your neck again, breathing deep. “Bad day, baby?” He mumbles.

“Work was… this. Just everything.” You gesture to the house as Rory and Poppy run across the wet, sandy mess Max left behind, slipping and falling to their bums, giggling it off before starting up again.

“I get it, baby, I’m sorry,” he soothes.

Your cheek melts against him as his arms tighten around you.

“I’m gonna get Max and those shitheads to clean up this mess, dishes too—the twins and I will go get the pizzas, and you… You go do whatever’s gonna make you feel good for the meantime, alright?”

“Rafe, I—”

“Yes, sir,” he chuckles softly as he kisses your cheek playfully. “That’s the only thing you should be sayin’ to me, pretty. No excuses.”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, a small laugh slipping out of you despite the tears. “Really… I’m okay,” you whisper.

“You had a bad day,” he says gently, turning you into his chest. “This is the least I can do, baby—let me do it.”

You nod as he cups your cheeks, tilting down to press a lingering kiss against your forehead.

“Boat’s outta gas,” you sigh, trying not to laugh but Rafe’s already scoffing like he expected no less—like he’s tired but he wouldn’t change a thing.

“Of course it is. Story of our fuckin’ life, huh?”

“Mhmm…”

“You got plans for tomorrow?” He whispers as he pulls you close, letting his forehead rest against yours.

“Nothing,” you smile, your voice still trembling a little.

“Perfect,” he hums. “Gonna fill up that goddamn boat… Get you your favorite meal—some drinks. And we can just sit. Silence. Sunset. You and me.”

“I’d love that,” you sigh.

“Mmm… I love you, baby,” he hums, leaning down to meet your lips again.

“I love you too.”

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He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t suck in, and doesn’t brace. He just looks down at you, mildly amused that you’ve seemingly taken a break from putting your own breakfast together. You couldn’t give less of a shit about breakfast if you’re honest – he could be your breakfast, and you’d be left just as satisfied.

He’s just being domestic, but looks indecent to your eyes. You wonder how you got so lucky.

“What?” he asks as one corner of his mouth curls up into a half smile.

“Nothing,” you say, already pressing your palms flat against him.

He’s warm. He’s always so warm. You touch the comfortable heaviness of his middle, fingers spread out, and it makes you feel small in the best way.

You let your fingers curl into his sides, testing his softness there, even though you already know it by heart.

“Are we in a mood?” he chuckles, says ‘we’ but means ‘you’.

“Mhm. Just… jus’ give me a minute.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that. At how transfixed you look. At how wrecked you sound. There’s no novelty here, just appreciation.

You slide your hands up his stomach and over his chest, making his t-shirt ride up on your forearms and exposing his whole front. His body doesn’t resist your touch, it never has. It welcomes it instead, which is nice. His shoulders are also nice, wide under your palms. When you pull at him to face you a bit more so you can press your cheek against him, he follows easily. You feel the weight of him settle naturally against you as he leans in a bit more.

You know you’ve got him when you hear the butter knife he was still holding clatter on the counter.

He’s given in.

He’s giving you a minute.

You press a slow kiss right in the centre of his chest, then drag your mouth down over the curve of him. His stomach isn’t flat, but it isn’t meant to be. You give it sweet love, pressing kisses all over his soft, warm skin.

You can feel how his hands settle at your waist.

“What are we doing?” he murmurs, using ‘we’ again but definitely still meaning ‘you’. It’s cute.

“Mm. Nothing.” You ignore the faint scent of burning toast that’s starting to slowly fill your kitchen, and you hope Joe does too. “Just– let me appreciate this for a second.”

You press another kiss lower, then flatten your palm against his stomach again, spreading your fingers like you’re claiming territory you’ve already claimed a thousand times before.

You love this part of him.

Love the way he feels when he leans into you.

Love the way his weight pins you softly against the counter when he steps forward.

Love the way his body presses fully against yours, his chest, stomach, thighs.

You love all of it. Love all of him.

You step back deliberately and tug him with you until your back hits the counter. He easily follows you and lets his body settle into yours, but not before he’s leant down a bit to kiss you back. His lips find yours as he rests against you, as he lets you feel all of him.

Suddenly, the toaster ejects two slices of bread, darker than Joe meant them to be, demanding your attention, but before Joe can even so much as turn his head, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him even closer.

“Mmcareful,” he murmurs against your mouth, his stubble scratching at your cheek.

“Don’you dare move.”

He lets a throaty chuckle escape him softly, but he obeys, letting more of his weight sink into you. His stomach presses warm and firm against yours and his arms cage you in without effort.

You feel how he adjusts his grip on you a little, palms spreading a little wider over your hips as he flexes his forearms. His muscles shift underneath his skin, and the cotton of his shirt pulls a little tighter across his shoulders when he bends slightly at the knees. You tense your thighs automatically as your knees part just enough to make space for him.

There’s a tiny sound that escapes you, half laugh, half yelp, because no matter how many times Joe lifts you onto the counter, there’s always that split second of weightlessness that you can’t get used to.  

“Unfair,” you murmur, slightly breathless.

“Hm? What is?”

“You being this strong underneath all that.”

His mouth twitches as his eyes scan your face.

“All what?”

You slide your hands down his arms, squeezing deliberately. “This.”

You genuinely think it’s unfair. He’s got no business being all these things you like, and then also, for whatever reason, really fucking handsome as well.

You give him a good look, head tilted to the side as your eyes follow your hands that run down his sides, squeezing lightly.

“You’re staring again,” he says, squeezing his fingers into your thighs in response.

“Yea, well… you look nice. Let me look.”

Your fingers press into the comfortable curve at his waist before they slide back up. Your eyes find the pudge beneath his jaw, that faintest bit of softness that shows up extra when he tucks his chin in like he’s doing now. You linger there deliberately, kiss him there softly, and you can hear how he shudders on an exhale.

“You’re obsessed,” he murmurs softly.

“S’not my fault.”

Because you truly think it isn’t. There’s just something terribly intoxicating about a man who feels like this, all solid and substantial. Warm, not carved from marble, but built from muscle and softness and heat.

“All right, whilst you do that, let me just…” you feel movement as Joe reaches for his toast behind you. You’d complain about how he reaches for the butter knife he’d dropped next, but instead, you just enjoy the show of a body pressed into you even further whilst a big arm stretches out to grab it.

You press your forehead to his chest and try to steady your breathing. Joe’s not exactly making this any easier on you. Especially not when you can feel his muscles move beneath his skin as he tries his best to butter his toast whilst remaining in this position.

The scrape of a knife to toast fills the space as his weight settles over you, and it feels protective without being overwhelming. Like you’re being held. You could stay here all day. Set up camp here. Live here forever, even though that sounds a bit claustrophobic, you’d take it over anything else, no problem.

You can’t help but slide your hand between your bodies and drag your palm down his stomach again, slow and deliberate.

“I love you like this,” you say quietly, and you hope he doesn’t think you’re joking. That he’s not one to struggle with your compliments. You worry sometimes that he doesn’t understand that you really mean it.

He pauses, leans back a little and looks down at you, confused. “Like what?”

“Like you.”

That’s it.

Just Joe.

Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Soft stomach you can grab and kiss and hold without hesitation. A body that feels like something you can sink into and stay there.

You watch his face scrunch up under your affection before he leans in for a kiss that presses deeper, not without risk of getting butter in your hair. When he hums into it, you break to giggle and quickly let your mouth drop to his collarbone where you press kisses all the way out to his bicep.

“Love you like this.” Joe speaks into your hair, and you don’t ask what he means.

He leans back a bit and lets a terribly burnt piece of buttered toast hover in front of your face, offering you the first bite.

You don’t take it.

Instead, you do what you’ve wanted to do all morning and let your teeth sink into his arm.

“Ow, hey!” Joe laughs as he pushes at your forehead with his whole palm. “Are you done?”

You smile. Bite at the air to make him fight you off, getting butter into your hair for real this time. You don’t give a shit. Just want to grab onto his face to pull him in for more kisses. Want him to squish you into the cabinets until your spine clicks and pops and you feel completely rearranged by him.

Are you done? Who’s he kidding?

“No. Not even close.”

---

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Eddie, standing quiet in his room, peering silently down at your sleeping form. You knew he’d be home late tonight; it’s Tuesday. He was at the Hideout, sweating it up with a meager crowd of eight, tonight — though, on days like today, he would have much rather been curled up in bed together with you.

It wasn’t quite an argument — it was barely a tiff — but he wasn’t happy with the way he’d left things back at the trailer… And apparently, neither were you.

You, delicious you, who knew he’d be home late, so you donned your tiniest frilly panties from the shared cabinet under the sink. Two steps into his bedroom, one fleeting look at you, and he’s practically bursting from his briefs. It takes all but the might of King Arthur to hoist himself out of his sweaty jeans, every scrape of fabric chafing his already-leaking cock, needy with precum just for you.

You’re being petty, of course, but you fight back a wicked grin and keep your pretty eyes shut when Eddie starts humping your ass. Grinding, panting, really going for it — letting go of all the frustrations he’d kept inside before the sunset sank below the stars.

Because what good is living with Eddie, if you can’t tease him with an old T-Shirt and frilly panties, every once in a while?

Then he bites your neck, knowing you better than you know yourself, and he mutters low in your ear —

“Are these just for me, Sweetheart?”

You release a breath, skin erupting in goosebumps. But when you turn to look at him, the words bubble up like vomit instead;

“I’m sorry, Teddie.” Whatever you said earlier, you didn’t mean it. You only want to help him, now. Just want to make him feel good.

“My little angel,” he coos, and means it. “It’s alright, sugar. Let me hold you.”

Eddie’s rings slither underneath your shirt, reaching your heartbeat through your naked tits… And when he twirls your nipples in his fingers, your body sings. You writhe when he keeps going, restless, and spread your ass open around his leaking cock.

“Atta girl, honey… Let Daddy rub his cock on your pretty little ass. Then, if you’re good, I’ll let you fuck him when I’m done.”

✦ Author’s Note: Claudia, ilu as always ;3 I haven’t written anything since April. 😭⭐ Feels good to be back, think I got a little carried away. It’s been a CRAZY year… I guess I do sex work, now? I guess I’m a performer? 🥴💫 REBLOG + COMMENT, if you enjoyed :)

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 🫧

Looks right past you when he laughs.

Right past you when he leans in to hear someone speak.

Right past you when you shift your weight and try not to stare at the familiar line of his profile, of his shoulders, the soft, sinking curve of his throat.

You’ve put on something that made you feel a little reckless when you looked in the mirror.

You’d planned on walking up to him, brushing his arm, saying something teasing just to see him look at you in that way he always does when he’s caught a little off guard.

But there’s a woman at his side now.

Some friend-of-a-friend who keeps touching his wrist when she laughs. You’ve seen her before. She’s fucking stunning.

You watch the interaction like you’re pressing a bruise just to see if it still hurts. He doesn’t pull away from her when she moves into him. He doesn’t look uncomfortable at all. He’s just… fine.

Fine without you.

That shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it does. Shouldn’t make the room feel smaller. Shouldn’t make you check to see if anyone else has noticed that you’ve been staring.

Ugh.

You’re being ridiculous. You don’t actually care about this. He can flirt if he wants to. There’s no real tension between the two of you, and if there is, it isn’t mutual.

Nothing you do really affects him, and nothing he does really affects you. Not anymore.

It’s what you try to tell yourself.

But then Joe tilts his head towards her, and leans into her as he laughs, follows it with something said into her ear and you can see how her smile softens.

Something sharp snaps open under your ribs.

“You lost your friends?”

That’s when the stranger appears.

“Not that you seem lonely or lost, but…” this guy’s all easy charm, twinkling eyes and confidence too bright, smiling at you like he’s been waiting for you specifically.

“If you fancy some company…”

You let him talk, even though your eyes keep drifting over his shoulder towards Joe.

Joe, who still hasn’t noticed you.

Joe, who looks more and more comfortable by the minute.

Joe, who doesn’t even seem to be aware of the people directly around him, let alone this lonely girl on the other side of a packed room.

You laugh at something the stranger says to you, not because it’s funny (it is, a little, you should give him that) but because you need Joe to see how you’re laughing with someone else.

He doesn’t look over.

Not even once.

Fuck.

You agree when the stranger offers to buy you a drink.

You agree when the stranger asks if you want to step outside for some fresh air.

You agree when the stranger says he lives close, actually, and he could make you a drink himself, if you want?

You do want that, you think.

You’d agree to pretty much anything he’d offer, actually, because the alternative is standing on your own as you watch Joe actively not see you.

As you’re lead outside, the stranger’s fingers brush your lower back with the kind of eagerness Joe would never show in public.

You don’t let yourself look back, but you can feel the force of Joe’s absence pulling at you like gravity. The invisible threat only tugs free as the door closes behind you, and you’re not sure what hurts more… the fact that you want Joe to chase after you, or the fact that he doesn’t.

The cool air hits your skin and it feels like a slap to the face. It sets you straight. Fuck it. If Joe won’t look at you, then maybe it’s enough that this other random guy will.

With your pride too fragile, you let yourself get walked down the street. Get lead over to where he lives because, “It’s only around the corner,” and you follow. You let him usher you into the dimness of his flat and pretend that this is exactly where you want to be right now.

You’re mentally half-elsewhere by the time the door shuts behind you.

Hands touch your waist, and your very first involuntary thought is, Joe wouldn’t have touched me like that. These hands are bold, slide down your body without hesitation, no second thoughts detected at all.

Joe would’ve been more cautious. Even when he felt a little reckless, he’d quietly test the air between the two of you, would give you a moment to lean in or back off.

This man doesn’t leave you space for a single breath, doesn’t give you the time to think about it before it’s already happened. Maybe that’s exactly why you’re letting it happen.

Your top gets pulled at, too sudden and too hungry, and you don’t feel fully present as your hands move to steady yourself. The last time Joe hooked a finger under the hem of your top comes to mind. It was just to tease you, all slow and slightly amused, tugging once, then again, silently asking a question that he already knew the answer to…

You blink, and the man in front of you is still the same stranger, still touching you.

This is good.

Healthy.

People hook up with strangers all the time and it’s fine.

You should move on, and this will help.

He kisses your neck, and you tilt your head automatically – not because of him, but because your body has learnt the motion from someone else. You love getting your neck kissed, but his mouth lands too firmly, all too purposeful. There’s no lingering softness that Joe always used when he traced your skin with his lips to memorise every single inch of it. For a second, you shut your eyes and the room flickers. The breath on your neck is warm, and your mind supplies the sound of Joe’s low exhale when he thinks you’re not paying close enough attention.

You squeeze your eyes shut tightly.

Oh, shit.

This feels wrong.

The stranger senses something’s changed within the girl he’s holding, and he pulls back.

“You okay?”

His tone is wrong. Flat where Joe’s would dip. Concerned but not curious. Polite, but careless otherwise. Not like Joe, who would always check in and mean it.

“Yea,” you answer, and refrain from sharing how your mind is split into two parallel spaces at the moment.

He leans in closer, presses his forehead to yours and slides his hands up your sides. You wish you could fall fully into this, into what this man is doing to you. Wish you could shut the door on every memory that’s trying to claw its way to the surface.

But you can’t.

You get hit with another one before you’ve even shook the previous one from the forefront of your mind.

It’s all Joe.

Joe’s face, close enough for you to count the freckles on the bridge of his nose.

Joe’s breath, exhaling a laugh through his teeth that softly warms your cheek.

Joe’s voice, softly murmuring, “Tell me if you need a second…” in the most tender tone because something you would need a second, and Joe who notice it. Sense it. He’d just know and you were always so grateful.  

The stranger that’s holding you isn’t talking. He just watches you and waits for you to move first. The silence feels expectant and impatient rather than kind and loving.

You kind of hate it.

This doesn’t feel natural.

None of it familiar.

He kisses you again, and you kiss him back out of instinct. Not desire. It’s a nice enough kiss. It’s just not what you want. You just want… you want…

You know what you want, and when this guy suddenly drags a thumb across your jaw, the world tilts.

Joe used to do that.

You inhale sharply, and he takes it as encouragement as you get pulled into him even more.

You’re not really here.

You’re in your kitchen, about five weeks ago, and Joe is leaning against the counter, brushing your jaw with his thumb because you were grumbling through a deep frown, and he wanted to see if you were being serious or not.

You’re in his bathroom next, the mirror steamed up, his breath ghosting your neck as he tries to pretend that keeping his hands to himself is easy when your damp skin is wrapped up in nothing more than a towel.

Then you’re on his sofa, and his fingers lazily graze your collarbone as he intently watches something on TV that you don’t care about at all.

The stranger shifts his weight and guides you towards the wall with a sense of strength that should ground you. It doesn’t really, the impact of it fucks you up a little bit. It’s too hard and too sudden, and your mind automatically conjures Joe’s alternative.

Joe would’ve paused fist.

Joe would’ve checked your eyes. Checked your breath. Your pulse if he could’ve.

Joe would’ve let his voice drop low and would’ve asked, “Here?”

And you would’ve nodded, would’ve eagerly told him, anywhere, would’ve felt safe because Joe took care to give you the chance to say no before any question had even fully formed.

Your throat goes tight.

The contrast is unbearable.

You can feel the memory of Joe beneath your skin and it means that whatever this guy is trying to do just feels hollow. You’re chasing aspects of Joe even though you’re kissing someone else, and you know that’s very much not the same as getting over someone. It might even be the exact opposite.

The stranger pulls back just enough to whisper your name, and that makes you pause.

The syllables land wrong.

You feel sick.

“Hey… you sure you’re okay?”

You’re not, but you nod, because you want to desperately convince yourself that you’re doing the right thing here. It’s a lie though, and an obvious one at that. Truth is, you’re just here because you’re trying to dilute Joe in your veins. Blur him. Make all of him easier to manage for yourself.

Instead, every touch sharpens Joe. Every small little difference is a reminder, and every slight overlap stings. You’re remembering the right person in the touch of the wrong hands, and it fucking sucks.

You don’t want this man.

“No, actually. No.”

You want the one who isn’t here.

The one who didn’t look at you tonight.

“Sorry, I’m not.”

Who didn’t stop you from leaving.

Whose absence overshadows every soft kiss and tender touch this stranger is presenting you with.

And you’re not sure you’ve ever wanted anything more.

It’s Joe.

“Can you let me out?”

It’ll always be Joe.

Joe tells himself he’s here because he’s being nice to a friend.

He said he’d think it’d be fun to tag along, that he could use a good night out, so he leans against the bar and looks the picture of someone having a decent time.

He isn’t having a decent time.

He sees you almost immediately.

It’s fairly difficult not to, something in his body that just senses you’re near. You’re at the far end of the bar, angled towards the door, and you look good. Too good. Joe’s ribs tighten in a way that forces him to take a slow breath in, and knows he’s going to need a drink or two.

You move your face towards him, and he looks away quickly.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to look, he actually finds that he wants to look too much, but you don’t deserve a ruined night.

Joe tries to act like he didn’t see you at all.

Tells himself, she’s here with someone else. Or, for someone else.

Someone says something to him, and he laughs at the joke that he barely heard. He keeps his eyes fixed on his friend and the girl he got introduced to, the one who keeps touching his arm and smells like coconut and confidence.

She’s nice.

Pretty.

He tries to focus on that. Makes that his anchor.

Pretty girl. Pretty girl who laughs at all the things he says. Pretty girl who slowly but surely glues herself to his side.

He tries not to look at you again.

He can’t help it though.

He glances over five minutes later.

Then again after three more.

Then once again after one.

It’s just little check-ins he’s sure you won’t notice.

You’re laughing at something someone said at the bar. Your hand brushes your hair back. You tilt your shoulders slightly. You let a man drape an arm around your shoulders. Then your lower back.

Fuck.

Joe swallows hard and forces his eyes away before he can imagine it’s him, but it’s too late. A familiar mix of want and restraint sits heavy in his chest. Want, because you’re you. Restraint, because he’s him.

This is hard.

The girl besides him says something, and he nods. Smiles. Plays along.

It’s fine, actually.

This is good. You’re talking to another guy, and he’s got another girl talking into his ear, and it’s fine.

Except it’s not fucking fine, because the next minute he lets his eyes dance over to you, you’re gone. One second you were there and now you’re not, and fuck off, where did you go? He searches, eyes scanning the room frantically, and then he finds the back of you as you are heading outside.

For a moment, Joe forgets to breathe.

His jaw tenses, his fingers curl around his drink, and he stares hard at where he sees the door fall shut.

Shit.

“You okay?” the girl asks, touching his arm once more, a little softer this time.

“Yea, fine.” he lies flatly, because what else is he supposed to say? That he just watched the one person he shouldn’t want but deseperately does walk out with someone who isn’t him?

So instead, he lies, clears his throat, stands up a little straighter, and forces himself to be here. Right now. In the present. Absolutely fine.

“You want to get out of here?”

The fastest way to shut the door on the ache is to kick another one open.

“Yea, let’s go.”

Her place is tidy. Smells nice, looks nice, feels nice. All of this checks out – the girl’s nice. It makes sense. She smiles at him like she means it, so it’s only polite to try and do the same.

Whilst he’s taking in the place, she steps closer and lets her fingertips brush his arm, trailing upwards to his shoulder. It’s light and careful, and Joe is just a man. His body responds the way that bodies do, heat stirring, breath shifting, but… something inside of him stays a little rigid and distant.

Joe tries to be present.

Really tries his bestest best.

But the first thing he thinks when her fingers reach his jaw is that you wouldn’t have touched him like that. Your touch is different. You never touch him just because you think he’d like it, your touches aren’t to make him feel nice. You touch him to make yourself feel nice; you want to touch him because you want to feel him under your hands, and Joe can tell the difference just by the press of a couple of finger tips. He remembers the way you’d stared at him for a moment and had then just reached out touch his cheek. He’d been in the middle of a story, and he’d paused, unsure of what you were doing, and you’d said, “No, keep going. I’m just… yea, go on.”

He'd felt that touch linger for hours after you’d left.  

Joe tries to force himself to focus on the girl in front of him.

Be here. Right now. In this room. With this other person.

Fucking, just, focus.

But then she leans in and tilts her head and Joe feels a flicker of a memory you had never meant to leave him with: you’d sometimes tilt your head in a half-second pause just before you’d say something.

This girl doesn’t pause.

Just pressed her mouth right to his.

And she’s nice.

She is.

So Joe kisses her back.

He tries to commit to the moment. Tries to let the warmth of her touch drag him fully into his own skin, but then her mouth moves and he’s right back with you. He thinks of how your lips brush before they press. Of how you giggle quietly against him whenever he startles you. Of how you always taste faintly of the drink he’d just poured you.

Joe slides his hand along her waist and gets startled by the fabric of her top.

It’s silky and unfamiliar and it feels like the stitching must be itchy and it’s all wrong, it’s… it’s not something you’d ever wear. The stuff you wear is… he’s not sure. Just different. Better.

Not that he cares.

He does, but he’s pretending he doesn’t, so. Shut up.

He tightens his grip on her waist. Kisses her back. Tells himself to be present once more.

But then her throat makes a little noise and Joe’s eyes were already closed but he squeezes them tightly shut, because suddenly it’s a month ago, and he’s back in your doorway, standing too close, ignoring how you’ve both got jobs and obligations and people that are waiting and you’ve got to say goodbye now, he’s really got to leave.

He hadn’t for ages.

You’d just stood there until he’d received a phone call and he’d told the person on the other end that he was on his way, “Give me five minutes.” And he knew it was going to be at least forty.

He doesn’t regret leaving late that day.

He regrets leaving at all.

And Joe tries and tries. Tries pushing memories away, but they keep flooding back. You keep coming back.

“Joe?” she whispers, and it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. “You okay?”

Joe pulls back a little. Nods. “Yea.” Wishful thinking. He wants to be okay. He wants this to work. To be able to be in this exact situation with a girl who isn’t you and to have it be real. Uncomplicated and satisfying and real.

Yet, every time he’s touched, he thinks of how you would’ve touched him differently.

Every time she leans in, he closes his eyes and imagines he’s going to feel your lips on his.

Every time he tries to stay present, his mind drifts to where it shouldn’t go – to you. Your laugh. The way you bite your lip when you walked out of that place with another man.

God.

He feels ridiculous.

Feels like he’s being unfair. To this girl. To himself. To you, probably, in some sick way.

All he can think is, this isn’t her. It’s not her. This is not you.

He’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything more than the one person he knows he shouldn’t chase.

But it’s you.

I’ll always be you. 

---

The Taglisted

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“Oh lord,” Mrs. Cameron mutters into her drink as Rafe bites back a chuckle, burying his smile in her neck.

“He has a name, you know.”

“I don’t care what his name is. I’m sure it’s stupid.”

A tiny, wounded gasp ricochets through the living room. Poppy whips her Barbie around to glare at the Ken doll in Max’s hand. “His name is Anthony.”

Max answers with a low, petty growl, dripping venom. “Anthony… I knew it was stupid.”

Winnie silently laughs, hand over her mouth as she twists around in her chair to watch. “They get really into it,” she whispers.

“And he doesn’t just have a surfboard, Kenneth,” Poppy continues with the gravitas of a scorned woman.

“Not my government name,” Max whines.

“It’s serious,” Poppy insists. “He has… a car.”

“A car… I can’t compete with that,” Max mumbles miserably, like a grown man losing his wife, his dignity, and his Malibu dream house.

You bite your lip, holding back a giggle as you peek into the living room—Max lying on his stomach in a backward hat and cozy hoodie, clutching Ken in one hand. He’s pacing the doll back and forth across the floor, mumbling under his breath about how ungrateful Barbie is.

“I’m taking the kids,” Poppy announces, her Barbie’s tiny plastic pumps thumping across the marble. “All of ‘em.”

Max gasps dramatically, scrambling after her. “But they need their Dad!”

“You’re not their dad anymore,” she says, deadly serious, “because you’re in time out.”

“No,” Max groans in defeat, laying his Ken doll face-down on the cold, hard floor. “Forever?”

Poppy thinks about it for a moment, sighing like she’s exhausted by his foolishness. Nose tilted in righteous judgment.

“Five minutes.”

“SO FOREVER!” Max fake-sobs, rolling his doll onto its back as Poppy corrals the children and stuffs them into Anthony’s pink Jeep.

“I’m taking the plant too—”

Max’s voice cracks. “You wouldn’t… that’s all I have.”

“You should have thought twice,” Poppy says, lowering her voice to a dangerous whisper, “before crossing Barbarella Jones.”

“The government name…” Max whispers it like he’s afraid to even breathe it.

“It’s that serious.”

Rafe flips his wrist and checks his watch, pushing off the island with a sigh. “Okay, princess. Bed.”

“Ugh, Fiiiiiine,” Poppy groans, drawing the word as she throws her head back to the ceiling in protest.

Mr. Cameron scoops her off the floor in one smooth motion. He disappears toward the hallway with her, her little voice still going a mile a minute; softer and softer as they press further into the house.

Crackle.

You hear the feedback from a walkie talkie crackle to life. Max reaches into his back pocket, grabbing the little Minions walkie talkie he had stuffed in his pocket.

“Hey, buuuddy,” Max says sweetly as he rolls to his back, fixing his hat to the front.

“It’s ready,” Rory whispers excitedly.

“I owe you, man,” Max smiles, rolling his head to the side to lock eyes with you, and his grin only gets wider, softening even more. “You ready, baby?”

You nod, stepping off the barstool as he pops to his feet, walking over to you. His big arm wraps around your waist, lips pressing a kiss against your hair.

“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Cameron,” you say as you look over your shoulder and she smiles warmly.

Max leads you through the massive house, giving you a little tour—the two of you running from the airport to Thanksgiving dinner—finally able to slow down.

“They really love you, you know,” Max smiles as he draws you in a little tighter.

You lean into him without thinking, warmth blooming in your chest at the quiet sincerity in his voice. The house feels softer now—lights dimmed, laughter settling into the walls, the lingering smell of cinnamon and sugar still drifting through the hallway as the chaos of the day fades behind you.

Max keeps one hand warm on your waist, thumb brushing in slow, absent circles, guiding you through familiar space, framed memories lining the walls.

You both slow as you reach the guest room door. A narrow strip of light flashes under it, moving across the hardwood. Max nudges open the door for you.

The planetarium light Rory brought from his room spins soft constellations across the high ceilings—slow and dreamy, glowing blue and silver.

The room’s lavish and homey at the same time; the king-sized bed is crisply made, a generously packed welcome basket resting on the nightstand.

You walk closer and look at the tag. Welcome, cutie 🩵 —From the Camerons written in Winnie’s bubbly letters and glittery gel pen. Inside, it’s stacked with a new fuzzy robe and socks to match, Lush shower products all tied with a cream-colored bow.

“Aww,” you whisper, plucking a note perched against a Lego flower arrangement you can only assume was put together by Rory.

“The kid got you flowers, huh?” Max teases as his hands wrap around your waist, head tilting down to rest on your shoulder to look down at the note too.

“How are you gonna compete with that?” You mutter under your breath, feeling him chuckle against your neck as you throw back his words from his Barbie fight.

“Just don’t leave me for the CEO of the aquarium, please,” he whispers as you open the letter—rough crayon writing, Welcome to Are Home, with the Are scratched out and an Our doodled over the top, spelled adorably, beautifully wrong.

Inside, there’s a drawing of the ceiling; a little model of the planets and stars overhead, you and Max as stick figures holding hands at the bottom.

You tuck it back between the gifts and the moment you do he turns you around and lifts you off your feet. Your arms loop around his neck and he kisses you tenderly, slow and grateful in a way that makes your head float.

He tastes like sweets and champagne, his lips soft and warm as he holds you close. You can tell he’s happy—happy his family loves you—happier he gets you to himself now.

The planetarium light swirls across his jaw, faint blues catching on his cheekbones. He walks you backward until your back meets the door, pressing you into it, lips sliding down your throat before coming back up, soft and hungry all at once.

Click.

You hear the soft, unmistakable sound of the lock turning. You giggle breathily against his mouth, the sound warm and airy making him smile.

“Max.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “What?”

“They’re all out there,” you whisper as he gives you a little more of his weight. “What if they hear—”

“Hear what?” He asks as he pulls back, fake innocence, voice dipping into that velvety flirt that makes you swoon.

“You’re unbelievable,” you breathe as your nails scratch into his hair making him groan at your touch. “And, you’re loud, baby. So loud,” you tease and his nose scrunches and his eyebrows pinch as he scowls; like the man didn’t get a note from his neighbor two nights ago about the two of you keeping it down.

“I can be quiet,” he murmurs, dropping his forehead to yours.

“Liar,” you whisper back. That earns you a low laugh that goes straight through you.

“Oh yeah?” He challenges softly as he pulls away from the door, not letting you go. “Bet.”

His mouth trails along your jaw, down your neck, right to that spot he knows makes you melt. “You, on the other hand… You think you can stay quiet for me?”

“Mhmm,” you whisper, the answer shaking faintly.

“Atta girl.”

He walks you back toward the bed and sets you down, climbing over you in one smooth, hungry motion. His lips catch yours in a breathless kiss, hands slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, palms warm and rough against your skin.

“God, I missed you today,” he murmurs into your mouth, kissing you deeper. “Missed having you to myself.”

His tongue slides against yours, one hand pressing you into the mattress while he grinds his hips into yours, slow and purposeful. The sound that escapes you is soft—a gasp you don’t mean to let out.

“Shhh,” he teases, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Thought you said ‘you could stay quiet’, huh?”

Your fingers claw at his back, pulling him closer, desperate for more.

“I’m trying,” you breathe, head sinking back into the mattress as his mouth trails down your throat; thighs falling open for him.

“Yeah?” He asks softly, lips grazing your collarbone. His hand drifts lower, settling between your legs, rubbing over your panties and tights.

A sound breaks out of you again—small and sweet—and his breath catches at the realization that you’ve never had to be quiet with him before. The idea that you’re trying now does something to him.

“Sorry,” you whisper but he only smiles against your skin.

“Nah, baby. Run that back,” he mumbles, voice low and wicked. “Let me hear it again.”

His fingers hook into the tights, tugging just enough for a soft tearing sound to split the air. You gasp, eyes snapping open, lips parted in shock and heat.

He looks down at you with that boyish, dangerous grin—tongue poking between his teeth.

“Max,” you scold, but you don’t mean it, and he knows you don’t mean it.

His smile widens as his fingers press against the lace beneath, the only piece of fabric keeping you from him now, dragging another sound out of you—a little higher, a little needier.

“God, I love you,” he mumbles, lowering his mouth to yours again as his greedy fingers hook around the lace.

“I love you too,” you sigh, and he kisses you like he means it.

His voice dips, rough and sweet, right against your mouth. “Did I tell you how much I missed having you to myself?” He asks, letting your panties go, snapping back against your skin, making you gasp.

You giggle and nod ‘yes’ as his fingers play with the button of your skirt; easing it down slowly, the zipper following close behind as he lowers himself on the bed, lifting your shirt to kiss between your ribs and down your stomach.

“Let me show you.”