The Rodeo Rule: you only have to do it for the first time once.
The Rohan Rule: if you are at a social function full of new people and you want to be liked, find someone doing important work like setup or food prep and offer to help.
The Tutorial Mode Rule: to navigate an unfamiliar situation where you fear you will mess up an interaction, preface the interaction by mentioning that you've never done this before, and let them know if you have a specific concern or question.
The Rocket Science Rule: most new things you want to try seem very complicated but are simple when taken step by step.
The [X] Will Remember That Rule: if you need to make small talk with the same person on a regular basis, try to save one fact or current event in their life from a given conversation and bring it up next time you talk.
The Cool Binder Rule: by wearing clothes and accessories that are to your taste instead of trying to blend in, people will be more likely to compliment you and show interest in you as a person.
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Summary: You and Jack have been keeping your relationship quiet for months. It works, mostly, until a firefighter comes in as a patient and one of his teammates decides to flirt with you right in front of him. Jack trusts you. He does. But standing five feet away while another man acts like you’re available? That is a very different problem.
Author’s Note: Huge thank you to the lovely @jackr-abbott who requested this one. “He’s supposed to be your favorite man in uniform” immediately rewired my brain, and jealous, careful, secretly-in-love Jack was so much fun to write. I fear this may be my new favorite smut fic I’ve ever written. I hope this is everything you were hoping for.
Xoxo, Del
The firefighter came in bloody, pissed off, and trying very hard to pretend he was not in pain. It was just after two in the morning, which meant the emergency department had settled into that strange night-shift rhythm where everything felt too bright and too quiet until it suddenly wasn’t.
Crus was at the nurses’ station attempting to fix a jammed printer. Shen was half a hallway down, talking to a drunk college student about the emotional consequences of a fractured wrist. Ellis was already pulling gloves on when the ambulance bay doors opened. And Jack was beside you at the foot of trauma two, expression calm in the way that meant he had already started building a plan before the stretcher crossed the threshold.
“Thirty-four-year-old male, firefighter, injured on scene,” the paramedic said as the stretcher rolled in. “Partial ceiling collapse during overhaul. Took debris to the shoulder and left flank. No loss of consciousness. Vitals stable en route.”
The firefighter on the stretcher opened one eye. “You make it sound dramatic.”
“You got hit by part of a ceiling,” another firefighter said, walking in beside the stretcher with the run sheet in one hand. “It was dramatic.”
The patient frowned. “I walked out.”
His teammate looked down at him. “You were carried out.”
“I assisted,” the patient said.
“You complained,” the other firefighter corrected.
You bit back a smile as you stepped toward the bed. “Sounds like he’s alert.”
The teammate’s mouth curved. “Unfortunately.”
Jack’s mouth did not move, but you felt the almost-smile in him anyway. Jack braced one hand on the rail. “On three. One, two, three.”
The team transferred the firefighter to the trauma bed. He hissed through his teeth, jaw tightening hard as you helped guide his injured side down.
“I’m fine,” the firefighter said.
Jack looked at him over the end of the bed. “That usually means you’re not.”
You almost smiled again.
The firefighter’s teammate noticed. His attention shifted to you, quick and interested, and his mouth curved like he had decided the night had improved.
You held out your hand for the run sheet. “And you are?”
“Mason Brooks,” he said, passing it over. “Station Four.”
You glanced down at the paperwork. “Patient’s name?”
“Ryan Hale,” Mason said. “Lieutenant. Stubborn. Hero complex. Bad at following directions unless there’s active fire involved.”
Hale turned his head on the pillow. “I can still hear you.”
“Good,” Mason said. “Maybe this time it’ll sink in.”
You scanned the sheet. “Any meds? Allergies?”
Mason shifted closer to the end of the bed. “No known allergies. No daily meds. Unless coffee counts.”
“At this hour, it does,” you said.
Mason’s grin widened. “See, I knew I liked you.”
Jack’s hand paused for half a second on the bed rail. Half a second. Nothing more.
You kept your attention on the patient. “Lieutenant Hale,” you said, leaning into his line of sight. “I’m going to cut through your shirt so we can look at your shoulder and ribs, okay?”
Hale grimaced. “Whatever you need.”
Mason leaned a little closer, eyes still on you. “That offer extend to the rest of us, or just him?”
Crus, who had just stepped into the room, looked up immediately. Shen appeared in the doorway at exactly the wrong time, chart in hand. Ellis stopped opening a pack of gauze. You did not look at any of them. You also did not look at Jack. You could feel him perfectly well without that.
“Patient first,” you said, sliding the trauma shears through the fabric of Hale’s shirt. “Flirting never.”
Mason laughed, low and pleased, like you had given him exactly the answer he wanted. His eyebrows lifted. “Never?”
Jack reached over and adjusted the monitor lead near Hale’s shoulder. He did not need to. You knew that because you had already placed it. Still, his forearm came briefly into your space, a clean line of muscle and restraint under fluorescent light.
“Brooks,” Jack said.
The room went still in the way a room could only go still while everyone inside it kept working. Mason glanced at him.
Jack did not look away from the patient. “She needs room.”
Mason lifted both hands, grin still there. “I’m out of the way.”
Jack finally looked at him. “More.”
Crus looked down at the supply cart with sudden, religious interest. Shen pressed his lips together. Ellis coughed once into her shoulder. Mason took one step back. But he did not stop smiling. That was probably what did it. Because he was not being creepy. He was not interfering. He was not saying anything you could not handle. He was just obvious. Obvious enough that everyone in the room knew exactly what he was doing. Obvious enough that Jack had to stand beside you and pretend he did not care.
You palpated carefully along Hale’s shoulder. “Left shoulder tenderness. Possible clavicle involvement.”
Jack moved with you. Again. He stepped in at Hale’s other side, close enough that the two of you fell into the old rhythm before you could think about it. You checked the shoulder. Jack checked the ribs. You reached for gauze, and he passed it to you before you asked. Your fingers brushed. Barely. It was nothing. It was everything.
Jack kept his eyes on Hale. “Any trouble breathing?”
Hale shook his head. “No.”
Jack’s hand stilled near the bruising along Hale’s side. “Pain when you take a deep breath?”
You reached for the tablet beside the bed. “Already paging X-ray.”
Jack’s gaze cut to you. For one second, there he was. Your Jack. Not Dr. Abbot. Not the attending pretending he had not kissed you against your apartment door less than eight hours ago. Your Jack. The one who knew how you took your coffee on the night shift. The one who texted you to make sure you got inside when you drove home after dark.
Then he blinked, and the wall came back up. “Good,” Jack said.
Not thank you. Good. Professional enough to pass. Intimate enough to make your stomach turn over.
Mason glanced between you again, and even though he could not possibly know, you hated that he sensed something.
“So,” Mason said, looking at you while Jack checked the bruising along Hale’s flank, “you always make trauma look this easy?”
You reached for tape. Jack got it first. Again. He handed it to you without looking away from Hale. You stared at the roll in his hand for half a second before taking it.
“Only when men in uniform behave,” you said.
Crus made a strangled noise. Shen turned halfway toward the door like he needed a moment.
Ellis muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under her breath.
Despite yourself, your mouth curved. It was small. Barely there. The kind of smile you would have swallowed immediately if you had realized anyone was watching.
Mason saw it anyway. His own smile turned delighted.
“There it is,” Mason said.
You looked at him. “There what?”
Mason leaned lightly against the wall, still at the distance Jack had ordered him to keep. “That smile. I was starting to think you were going to make me work for it all night.”
Jack set the chart down. Quietly. Too quietly. Crus froze. Shen looked at Ellis. Ellis looked at you.
You kept your voice light, but final. “Mason.”
Mason held your gaze for one second, then nodded like he knew he had found the line.
“Too much?” he asked.
You gave him a pointed look. “Yes.”
Mason lifted one hand in surrender. “Got it.”
And he did. He stepped back, posture still easy, but his mouth finally closed, which you appreciated more than you wanted to admit. Jack moved to Hale’s other side, all precise hands and unreadable expression.
Jack glanced at Mason. “Anything else clinically relevant from the scene?”
Mason looked at him. This time, he did not smile. “No, sir,” Mason said.
Jack nodded once. “Good. Then we’ll take it from here.”
Mason looked toward Hale. “I’ll check back when they decide you’re not dying.”
Hale closed his eyes. “Bring coffee.”
Mason huffed. “You don’t deserve coffee.”
You smiled despite yourself. Mason saw it. Jack saw Mason see it. You knew because Jack stepped closer to the bed, blocking Mason’s line of sight like it was an accident. It was not an accident. Your breath caught. Mason’s gaze flicked to Jack’s back. Then to you. Then he nodded once, like something had finally clicked enough to make him curious.
“Nice to meet you,” Mason said.
You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”
Jack did not move until Mason left the room. Then the trauma bay exhaled. Crus was the first one brave enough to breathe like a person.
He looked at the supply cart. “I’m going to take these somewhere else.”
Jack did not look at him. “Good.”
Crus picked up a pack of gauze. “Great.”
Shen backed toward the doorway with the chart still in his hand. “I have a wrist fracture.”
Ellis gave him a look. “You personally?”
Shen ignored her and left. Ellis glanced between you and Jack, then dropped the unopened gauze onto the counter. “I’ll check on X-ray,” Ellis said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on Hale. “Thank you.”
Ellis left, too. Which left you with Jack, the patient, the beeping monitor, and the awful knowledge that Jack was standing close enough to touch you and still refusing to do it. Hale opened one eye.
“I’m on pain meds,” he said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice any of that.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
You pressed your lips together. “Notice any of what?” you asked.
Hale looked at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.
“Exactly,” Hale said.
The corner of Jack’s mouth almost moved. Almost. Then the wall came back up.
“Rest,” Jack said.
Hale shut his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
The trauma bay emptied out in pieces after that. Hale went to imaging. Mason left with the rest of Station Four. Crus disappeared the second Jack gave him another look, though you knew he would be back the moment he thought it was safe to breathe near you again. Shen pretended to have somewhere to be. Ellis actually did. Which left you at the counter outside trauma two, finishing the chart with one hip pressed against the cabinet and the leftover adrenaline of the call still humming beneath your skin.
Jack stood a few feet away, reviewing Hale’s orders on the computer. He had not said much since Mason left. That was not unusual for Jack during a shift. It was unusual for Jack with you. You were still trying to decide whether you should say something when another night shift nurse, Drew, slid up beside you with a fresh roll of tape in one hand and a grin already working its way across his face.
“So,” Drew said.
You did not look up from the chart. “No.”
Drew laughed. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to,” you said.
Drew leaned his shoulder against the cabinet. “I was about to say Station Four was looking very heroic tonight.”
You paused. Across the counter, Jack’s typing stopped. Only for a second. Then it resumed. You felt your stomach tighten. Drew did not notice. Of course, he did not notice. He lowered his voice in the exact way people did when they thought they were being subtle and absolutely were not.
“Brooks was flirting hard,” Drew said.
You sighed. “He was doing a handoff.”
“Please.” Drew rolled his eyes. “He was doing a handoff, making prolonged eye contact, and trying to get your number through trauma paperwork.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. Tiny. Controlled. You saw it anyway.
“Drew,” you warned.
Drew smiled wider. “What? He was cute.”
“I’m not dating a firefighter,” you said.
Drew frowned. “Okay, but we love a man in uniform.”
Jack went still. Not enough for anyone else to call it that. Not enough to be obvious. But the air around him changed again. You hated that your first instinct was to look at him. You hated more that you could not. Because looking at Jack right now would say too much. Instead, you kept your eyes on the chart and forced your voice to stay light.
“We?” you asked.
Drew pointed the roll of tape at you. “As a community.”
You gave him a look.
Drew shrugged. “A broad and beautiful community of people with eyes.”
Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Almost. Jack closed the chart on his screen. A little too carefully. You heard the click of the mouse. You felt it somewhere behind your ribs.
“I’m good,” you said.
Drew made a face. “You’re still doing that no-dating thing?”
You swallowed. The no-dating thing. Right. The harmless lie you had told people months ago when you and Jack had started becoming something neither of you had wanted to expose to hospital fluorescent lighting.
No dating. Too busy. Not worth the complication.
A clean little excuse that had felt easy at the time.
Now, with Jack standing five feet away while another nurse encouraged you to go for a firefighter who had made him spend an entire trauma case pretending not to know you, it felt cruel.
“I’m good,” you repeated, softer this time.
Drew studied you for a second, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if Brooks comes back asking about you, I’m telling him you’re single and mysterious.”
“Drew,” you said.
He lifted both hands. “What?”
You pointed at him. “Do not do that.”
Drew grinned. “Fine. Single and terrifyingly unavailable.”
Jack looked up then. You felt it. His gaze on you. Not long. Not enough. Just a brief, controlled flick of his eyes that landed like a hand around your wrist.
Drew finally seemed to register the temperature of the room. His gaze shifted from you to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” Drew said.
Your heart kicked once. Jack’s expression did not change.
“What?” you asked.
Drew blinked. “Nothing.”
“Drew,” you warned.
“Nothing,” he repeated, suddenly fascinated by the roll of tape in his hand. “I’m going to restock three.”
He left too quickly. You stood there with your pen in your hand, your chart unfinished, and the awful knowledge that Jack was still looking at you. For one second, neither of you moved. Then Jack lowered his gaze back to the computer.
“Patient in four needs discharge papers,” Jack said.
Professional. Careful. A clean line drawn in the middle of the hallway.
You nodded, even though he was not looking at you anymore. “Okay.”
Jack clicked into another chart. You watched the muscle in his jaw move once. Then nothing. No comment about Drew. No sharp little confession. No hint that he cared whether Mason thought you were single, mysterious, available, unavailable, or anything else. Just Jack going quiet in the exact way that meant he was locking something down before it could get loose.
That was worse, somehow.
Because you knew him well enough to hear everything he refused to say. I know you are not going to go for it. I know you do not want him. I know this is not your fault. I still hated every second of it.
For the next twenty minutes, Jack stayed close. Not close enough for anyone to call it anything. Close enough that you noticed. He took the chart from your hand before Shen could reach for it. He stepped in beside you when Hale came back from imaging. He passed you gauze before you asked, tape before you reached, a fresh pair of gloves when yours tore at the wrist. Every touch almost happened. His knuckles almost brushed yours. His shoulder almost grazed your back. His hand almost settled at your waist when he moved behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the supply cart. Almost. Almost. Almost.
And each time, Jack pulled back before contact could become evidence. It was maddening. It was careful. It was so painfully him that you wanted to scream.
When Mason came back to check on Hale, Jack was already at your side.
Mason stopped near the doorway, gaze flicking from Hale to you. “How’s he doing?”
“He’ll live,” you said.
Hale groaned from the bed. “Barely.”
Jack looked at the tablet in his hand. “No fracture. No pneumothorax. Observation for pain control and repeat exam.”
Mason nodded, but his eyes came back to you. “Good. I’d hate to think I left him in the wrong hands.”
You opened your mouth. Jack answered before you could. “She has it handled.”
The room went quiet. Mason’s brows lifted slightly. You looked at Jack. Jack did not look at you. His eyes stayed on Mason, calm and unreadable.
Mason’s mouth curved, slower this time. “I can see that.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. You set the tablet down before either of them could say another word.
“Lieutenant Hale needs rest,” you said, voice light but firm. “And I need both of you to stop having whatever conversation you think you’re having over his bed.”
Hale opened one eye. “Thank you.”
Mason laughed once, lifting both hands. “Fair.”
Jack finally looked at you. There was heat there. Frustration. Something too sharp to be professional and too controlled to be anything else. You held his gaze for half a second too long. Then Jack looked away first.
“Brooks,” Jack said, voice even. “You can check back in after he’s had some rest.”
Mason nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
He looked at you one last time. “Good seeing you again,” Mason said.
You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”
Jack moved before Mason fully cleared the doorway. It was subtle. A step to the side. A shift of his body. Nothing anyone could call possessive. But it put him directly between you and Mason’s line of sight. Your breath caught. Mason saw it. You knew he saw it because his expression changed just enough. Curiosity. Recognition. Not understanding, exactly. But close. Then Mason left.
Hale looked between you and Jack from the bed.
“I’m still on pain meds,” Hale said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice that either.”
Jack’s eyes closed again. You pressed your lips together. From the doorway, Crus made the mistake of appearing with Hale’s updated paperwork. He looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Hale.
“I can come back,” Crus said.
Jack turned his head. “Crus.”
Crus nodded. “Coming back.”
He disappeared immediately. You exhaled through your nose and grabbed the tablet from the counter.
“I’m going to restock,” you said.
Jack’s gaze followed you. “Now?”
“Yes,” you said, not looking at him. “Now.”
You made it halfway down the hall before Jack caught up. He did not call your name. He did not say anything at all. He just reached past you, opened the supply closet door, and said, low enough that only you could hear, “In.”
Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him. “Excuse me?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Please.”
That was worse. That was much worse. You stepped inside. The second the door clicked shut, Jack’s hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to turn you back toward him before you could take another breath.
“Jack—”
He kissed you.
The word disappeared against his mouth. For one stunned second, you froze, caught between the metal shelf at your back and the heat of him in front of you. Then your body caught up faster than your brain did. Your hands found his scrub top, fingers curling into the fabric as Jack stepped closer and kissed you like he had been holding himself back all night. Because he had. You knew it in the way his mouth moved over yours.
Controlled, but only barely. Careful, but not calm.
His hand slid to your waist, pulling you in once before he seemed to remember where you were and stopped himself from dragging you fully against him. When he broke the kiss, his breath was uneven. You stared up at him. Jack’s eyes were dark.
Your lips parted. “Oh.”
His jaw flexed. “Don’t.”
“You’re jealous,” you said.
Jack looked toward the closed door like it had personally offended him. “I’m not doing this here.”
“You pulled me into a supply closet and kissed me,” you replied.
Jack exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”
You lifted your brows. “That wasn’t talking.”
Jack’s eyes cut back to yours. There he was. Irritated. Wound tight. Too handsome for your peace of mind.
“You’ve been acting strange all night,” you said.
Jack dropped his hand from your waist, but he did not step back. “I’ve been working.”
Your eyes narrowed, “You’ve been keeping me within arm’s reach.”
Jack did not answer. That silence landed harder than a confession.
You softened your voice. “Jack.”
His gaze stayed on yours, stubborn and hot and miserable.
“Is this because of Mason?” you asked.
Jack laughed once, short and humorless. “Mason,” he repeated, like the name tasted bad.
You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack looked away, but this time there was something grumpy and sharp tucked into the movement.
“Drew had plenty to say about him,” Jack said.
The memory came back immediately. Station Four was looking very heroic tonight. He was cute. Okay, but we love a man in uniform.
Your mouth curved before you could stop it.
Jack saw it. His eyes narrowed. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
“That’s not nothing,” Jack replied.
You tilted your head. “You’re mad about what Drew said.”
Jack replied instantly. “I’m not mad about what Drew said.”
You gave him a look.
Jack’s mouth tightened. “He said you should go for it.”
You sighed softly. “He was teasing.”
“He said everyone loves a man in uniform,” Jack replied, short, slightly clipped.
You stepped closer, letting your hands smooth slowly up his chest.
“And you think I was looking at Mason in uniform?” you asked.
“I think,” Jack said, each word too controlled, “Brooks knew exactly what he looked like walking into that room.”
You hummed. “Did he?”
Jack's tone sharpened into a warning, “Baby.”
There it was. The first slip. The first crack in the professional distance he had forced between you all night.
Your stomach flipped, but you did not let him off the hook. “He’s not the man I want to see in uniform.”
Jack went still. Not tense. Not cold. Still. Like the words had gone straight through him.
“No?” Jack asked.
You shook your head. “No.”
The supply closet felt smaller suddenly. Too quiet. Too warm.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Careful.”
You continued despite Jack’s warning. “You are.”
His mouth parted slightly. You let your gaze move over him, slow enough to be cruel.
“And you know exactly what you look like in your SWAT gear.”
Jack’s hand braced on the shelf beside your head. He was not touching you. Not yet. But his body crowded yours, all heat and restraint, and your pulse jumped like it had been waiting for permission.
“I pulled you in here because I was jealous,” Jack said, voice rough. “And now you’re talking about SWAT gear.”
“No,” you said, fingers curling in the front of his scrub top. “I’m telling you, Mason could never.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hands.
You tugged him closer by a fraction. “He could never make me feel like you do.”
Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours.
“He could never kiss me like you do,” you said.
Jack kissed you again. Harder this time. The shelf pressed into your back as his mouth found yours, and you made a soft, startled sound that disappeared into him. Jack swallowed it like it belonged to him. His hand returned to your waist, fingers tightening once, and the possessive edge of it made your knees go weak. He kissed you like a man trying to prove a point he had no business proving at work.
Then he pulled back just enough to breathe. You should have stopped. You did not. You caught his wrist before he could move his hand away.
Jack’s eyes sharpened. “Baby.”
You held his gaze and guided his hand back to your waist. “He could never touch me like you do.”
Jack’s fingers flexed against you. You moved his hand lower, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted to. He did not. His palm settled over your ass, firm and hot through your scrubs, and his jaw went tight enough to make your stomach flip.
Your voice dropped. “Never.”
Jack’s breath left him roughly. His hand tightened once before he forced it still.
“You need to stop,” Jack said.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his scrub pants and pulled him closer. Not much. Just enough. Jack’s hips pressed into yours, and the sound he made was low, wrecked, barely controlled.
You looked up at him. “He could never fuck me like you do.”
Jack snapped.
His mouth was on yours before you could take another breath. This kiss was not careful. Not at first. It was hot and rough and immediate, his hand tightening on your ass as he pinned you back against the shelf with the solid heat of his body. Your fingers twisted in his waistband, pulling him closer while his mouth opened over yours, swallowing the small sound that slipped out of you. For one dizzy second, there was no hospital. No night shift. No Mason. No Drew. No secret. Just Jack’s mouth, Jack’s hands, Jack’s body pressed hard against yours as if he needed you to feel exactly how much he had been holding back.
Your hand slid up his chest. Jack’s hips pushed into yours again, and your breath broke against his mouth.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He kissed you once more, deep and hungry, and then stopped like it hurt. His forehead dropped to yours. Both of you were breathing too hard. His hand stayed on you for one more second. Then his fingers loosened.
“Not here,” Jack said.
Your eyes opened slowly. “Jack.”
His voice was rough, almost unsteady. “Not because I’m jealous.”
Your fingers were still hooked in his waistband. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint pulled tight through every line of his body. He lifted his head enough to look at you.
“Not at work,” Jack said. “Not where anyone can walk in and make you pay for it.”
Your chest squeezed, even through the heat still crawling under your skin. “You think I’d regret it?” you asked.
Jack’s expression softened for half a second, but his voice stayed wrecked. “I think I care about you too much to find out in a supply closet.”
You stared at him. “That is so annoying.”
His mouth twitched, though his eyes were still dark. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” You let go of his waistband slowly, even though it cost you. “Responsible. Principled. Deeply inconvenient.”
Jack’s hand slid from your ass back to your waist. Just once. Firm. Careful. Then he let go. He leaned close again, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.
“Finish the shift,” Jack said.
Your eyes fluttered. “And then?”
Jack stepped back, putting space between you like it physically hurt. His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your mouth before coming back to your eyes. “Then you come home with me.”
Your pulse jumped. You tried to smile. “And?”
Jack reached for the supply closet door, but he looked back before opening it. “And then you can say all of that again.”
You stepped out of the supply closet first. That had been Jack’s idea. He gave you thirty seconds, like that would somehow fix your mouth, your breathing, your pulse, or the fact that your whole body still felt marked by his hands. You made it three steps before Crus appeared at the end of the hall. He looked at you. You looked at him. Crus’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he looked at the supply closet door behind you.
You lifted a finger. “Don’t.”
Crus nodded immediately. “Wasn’t going to.”
Your eyes narrowed, “You were thinking.”
“I can stop,” Crus said.
You nodded once, “Do that.”
Crus pointed vaguely toward the nurses’ station. “I’m going to go over there.”
You nodded. “Great idea.”
Crus took two steps backward before turning around completely. You waited until he disappeared, then pressed the heel of your hand beneath your collarbone like that would keep your heart where it belonged. Thirty seconds later, Jack came out. You did not turn around. You did not need to. You felt him behind you the same way you had felt him all night. Close. Controlled. Ruining your life with restraint. Jack passed you without touching you, but his voice dipped low enough that only you could hear. “Breathe.”
Your eyes closed for half a second. “Don’t start.”
Jack paused beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “I’m not starting anything.”
You looked up at him. “You absolutely started something.”
His mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the hall. “Finish the shift.”
You exhaled shakily. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
Jack’s gaze cut to yours. For one second, the supply closet was there again. His mouth on yours. His hand at your waist. His voice against your ear. Then Jack looked away first.
“I didn’t say easy,” he said.
Your stomach flipped. He walked away before you could answer. You stood there for one more second, furious with him for being principled and even more furious with yourself for finding it attractive.
You lasted eleven minutes. That was generous, considering the state Jack had left you in. Eleven whole minutes of pretending you could chart, restock, answer Drew’s question about room six, and not think about Jack’s mouth on yours in the supply closet. Eleven minutes of watching him move through the department like he had not just pinned you to a shelf and then ruined your life by being responsible about it. He was at the nurses’ station when you looked up again, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee, the other scrolling through something on his phone. His shoulders were relaxed. His face was calm. He looked controlled.
That annoyed you. It annoyed you enough that you reached into your scrub pocket for your phone. The photo was not new. You had taken it two nights ago in Jack’s bedroom, sitting on the floor in front of his mirror while he was in the shower. Your face was hidden behind your phone, one knee bent, your other leg folded beneath you. Lace hugged your hips, one strap sitting soft against your shoulder, the whole thing intimate and quiet and unmistakably meant for him.
It did not show everything.
It did not have to.
Jack knew what that set looked like in person. Jack knew what it looked like on his bedroom floor. You stared at the photo for half a second. Then you looked across the department. Jack lifted his coffee to his mouth. You selected the photo. Underneath it, you typed: For the record, Mason never got one of these.
You pressed send. Across the station, Jack’s phone lit up. He glanced down. His thumb moved over the screen. For one second, nothing happened. Then his coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. Your stomach flipped. Jack lowered the cup slowly. Very slowly. His jaw tightened.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
Jack: Fuck. You’re beautiful.
Your breath caught. For half a second, all the smugness drained out of you. Then another message appeared.
Jack: And you know exactly what you’re doing.
Your mouth curved. You typed back. You: Good.
Across the station, Jack looked up. His eyes found yours immediately. Dark. Focused. Not even close to calm. Your phone buzzed again. Jack: Careful.
You slipped your phone back into your pocket and picked up the chart in front of you. Jack kept looking at you. You did not look back. That was the point.
For the rest of the shift, you behaved. Mostly. You answered call lights. You updated Hale’s chart. You helped Drew turn over room three. You gave Ellis the lab results she had been waiting for and listened to Shen complain about discharge instructions with the appropriate amount of sympathy. And every so often, you made Jack’s life worse. Not loudly. Never obviously. You were smarter than that. You brushed past him in the narrow hallway with just enough space between you for plausible deniability and not nearly enough for mercy. Jack’s hand tightened around the chart he was holding. You did not smile until you were past him.
Five minutes later, you reached around him at the counter for a roll of tape you did not actually need. Jack went still when your chest nearly touched his arm.
You kept your voice sweet. “Excuse me.”
His eyes cut to yours. “There are three rolls on the other side.”
You looked down at the tape in your hand. “I like this one.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. Drew passed behind you with a stack of blankets, looked between you and Jack, and immediately changed direction.
“Nope,” Drew said.
You turned toward him. “What?”
Drew kept walking. “I have no questions.”
Jack leaned closer under the cover of reaching for a pen. His voice dropped low enough that only you could hear. “You’re being a brat.”
Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him, all innocence. “Am I?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”
The word landed low in your stomach. You swallowed. Jack noticed. For one second, the corner of his mouth almost moved. Then he straightened, professional mask sliding back into place like he had not just knocked the air out of you with one word.
“Room four needs vitals,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, doctor.”
His gaze flicked to your mouth. “Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled because you had no survival instinct left. “Trying.”
You were not trying. You both knew it.
By six, the department had thinned into the gray, half-awake quiet that came right before day shift started filling the halls with fresh voices and clean coffee. Hale had been admitted for observation. Mason had not come back. Drew had given you exactly one suspicious look and then wisely chosen to become fascinated by a supply cabinet. Shen had avoided the trauma hallway entirely. Ellis handed you a stack of discharge papers without comment, then looked at your face for half a second too long.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
Ellis lifted one shoulder. “Nothing.”
You exhaled. “That sounded like something.”
“It was internal,” Ellis replied.
You nodded. “Keep it that way.”
Ellis nodded in return. “Absolutely.”
From the attending station, Jack signed off on a chart and handed it to Crus. Crus took it carefully, like it might explode.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Crus shook his head. “Nothing.” Jack stared at him. Crus swallowed. “Lots of nothing this morning.”
You pressed your lips together and turned away before you could laugh. Jack’s gaze found you anyway. It landed on the side of your face, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. You looked down at the chart in your hand and tried to remember how to read. When your shift finally ended, you made it to the staff room before Jack did.
A little after seven, you changed out of your scrub top with fingers that were not as steady as you wanted them to be. You shoved your things into your bag, checked your phone, then checked it again, even though nothing had changed. Jack had not texted. He did not need to. You both knew where you were going. Still, when you stepped into the hallway and found him waiting near the exit, your breath caught. He had changed into a dark jacket over his T-shirt, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding his keys. He looked tired. He looked composed. He looked like the man who had stopped himself in a supply closet and expected you to survive that information.
Jack’s eyes moved over you once. “You ready?”
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Are you?”
His jaw shifted. You watched him fight a smile and lose by half an inch. “Car’s this way,” Jack said.
You followed him into the parking garage without another word. The walk to his truck felt longer than it should have. Neither of you touched. Neither of you spoke. Your hands kept brushing close enough that you could feel the almost of it, and by the time Jack unlocked the truck, you were so aware of him it felt embarrassing.
He opened the passenger door. You looked up at him. “Still being responsible?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Trying.”
You quirked a brow, “How’s that going?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Poorly,” he said.
You slid into the seat before you could do something stupid in the parking garage, too. Jack closed the door with more care than necessary. The drive to his place was quiet. Not awkward. Just charged. The kind of quiet that had weight. The kind that pressed between your ribs and reminded you of everything waiting on the other side of his front door.
Jack kept one hand on the wheel. The other rested near the gear shift. Halfway there, you reached over and touched his wrist. Jack’s fingers flexed once, but he did not look away from the road.
You traced your thumb over the inside of his wrist. “You okay?”
His throat moved. “No,” Jack said.
Your chest tightened. He glanced at you then, quick and honest in the dark cab of the truck. “But I will be.”
You nodded and left your hand where it was. Jack turned his wrist beneath your touch and threaded his fingers through yours. It was the first real contact since the closet. His thumb dragged once over your knuckles. Slow. Controlled. The way he did everything when he was trying not to lose his mind. You looked down at your joined hands and felt your pulse jump. He was touching you now. He was still holding back.
Jack pulled into the small driveway behind his townhouse and cut the engine. For one second, neither of you moved. Your hand was still in his. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, slow and absent, like he was reminding himself you were there.
You looked over at him. “Jack.”
His eyes stayed forward. “I know.”
You waited. Jack exhaled through his nose, then turned his head enough to look at you. The porch light cut across his face, catching the tired set of his eyes, the rough edge of his restraint, the stubborn line of his mouth. He looked like he had survived the shift. Barely.
“You coming inside?” he asked.
Your heart kicked. You nodded. “Yeah.”
Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he opened his door. You watched him get out, watched him come around the front of the truck, watched him open your door like the silence between you was not doing half the work for him. He held out his hand. You took it. Jack helped you down, then let go immediately.
You frowned. “Really?”
He shut the passenger door. “Inside.”
The word landed low in your stomach. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and followed him toward the back door. He did not touch you while he unlocked it. He did not touch you when he stepped aside to let you in first. He did not touch you when the door closed behind him, and the lock clicked into place. That was how you knew you were in trouble. You stepped into the familiar quiet of his townhouse, and something in your chest softened before you could stop it. His boots were lined up neatly by the door. Your shoes from two nights ago were tucked beside them. The mug you always stole was upside down in the drying rack. The blanket you liked was folded over the back of the couch, neater than you had ever left it.
The sweatshirt you kept stealing was draped over the stair railing. Evidence. Everywhere. Tiny, domestic evidence that you belonged here. Jack set his keys in the bowl by the door. You watched his hands. Slow. Controlled. Infuriating. Then he turned back to you.
“Bag down,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. You lifted your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
His eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
You stared at him for a second. Then, because apparently you had learned nothing from the supply closet, you smiled. “Is this the part where you get bossy?”
Jack stepped closer, not rushing, not touching, just taking up space until the air between you felt thinner. “This is the part where you listen.”
Your stomach flipped. “Because I sent you a picture?”
Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “Because you sent me that picture at work.”
“You liked it.”
His eyes darkened. “I loved it.”
The honesty in his voice nearly ruined your smugness. Nearly.
You tilted your chin up. “Then I don’t see the problem.”
Jack’s mouth curved, but it was not soft. Not yet.
“The problem,” he said, “is that you knew exactly what you were doing.”
You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop gently beside your feet. “There,” you said. “I listened.”
Jack glanced at the bag. Then back at you. “Good.”
The single word moved through you like a hand. You swallowed.
His expression shifted by half a degree, the corner of his mouth barely moving.
“There she is,” he said quietly.
Your pulse jumped. “What?”
Jack stepped closer. “You were very brave at work,” he said.
You held his stare. “Was I?”
His hand came to the wall beside your head, not touching you, not yet. “Sending pictures. Brushing past me. Reaching for things you didn’t need.”
Your back met the door. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You had a lot to say for someone who still had a shift to finish.”
Your breath came shallow. “You told me to finish it.”
“I did,” Jack replied.
You inhaled. “So I did.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “You made it difficult.”
You smiled, slow and sweet. “Good.”
His hand finally came to your waist. Firm. Warm. Possessive enough to make your knees feel unreliable. Jack leaned in, his mouth near your ear.
“That’s the last time you say that without thinking first,” he said.
Your eyes fluttered shut. For one second, the brat in you went quiet.
Then you opened your eyes and turned your face toward his. “Or what?”
Jack went still. The room changed. His hand tightened at your waist once, not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he had heard every bit of challenge in your voice. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. But there was something else there, too. Something tired. Something honest. Something that made your chest ache even while your body was still humming from the way he had you against the door.
“Or,” Jack said, voice low, “you’re going to make me forget what I actually need to say to you.”
Your smile faded. “Oh.”
His thumb moved once against your waist. “Yeah,” he said.
You softened under his hand. “Jack.”
He looked at you for a long second. Then the confession started, quiet and rough and bigger than the jealousy. “I hated it,” he said.
Your chest went still. You searched his face. “Mason?”
Jack shook his head once. “No.”
You waited. His jaw worked like the words were fighting him on the way out.
“I hated standing there like I didn’t know you,” Jack said.
Your throat tightened. He looked away, but only for a second. When his eyes came back to yours, there was no professional distance left in them.
“I hated hearing him talk to you like you were available,” Jack said. “I hated Drew saying you should go for it and knowing I couldn’t say a damn thing.”
You lifted your hand to his chest. “Jack.”
“I know why we’re careful,” he said.
His voice was low. Controlled. But not cold anymore. Never cold. “I know why it matters. I know what people can be like, and I know your career matters more than me needing to prove a point in a trauma bay.”
You stepped closer. “It’s not more than you.” Jack’s expression shifted. You held his gaze. “My career matters. So do you.”
He swallowed once. “I know you didn’t want him,” Jack said.
“I didn’t,” you agreed.
“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “That was never the problem.”
You took another careful breath. “Then what was?”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he said it. “Careful felt a hell of a lot like pretending tonight.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes stayed on yours, tired and dark and finally honest. “And I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”
The room went quiet. The kind that settled around the two of you and made every other sound disappear. You stared at him. Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. For the first time all night, he looked uncertain. That did something worse to you than the jealousy had. Worse than the supply closet. Worse than his hand on your waist, his mouth at your ear, his voice telling you to finish the shift.
You slid your hand up his chest. “You’re in love with me?” you asked.
His eyes searched your face. “Yes.”
The word was simple. No defense. No sarcasm. No place to hide. Your heart folded in on itself.
You touched his jaw. “Good.”
Jack’s brows drew together. “Good?”
You nodded, your thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble along his cheek. “Because I’m in love with you too.”
Jack’s breath left him slowly. Your chest ached with it. “With me?” he asked.
You gave him a look, even though your eyes were starting to sting. “Jack.”
His mouth curved faintly, but the vulnerability in his eyes stayed. “I had to ask.”
You shook your head. “You did not.”
“I did,” Jack replied.
You shook your head again and stepped closer until your body nearly touched his. “You are a ridiculous man.”
Jack’s hand finally settled more firmly at your waist. Like he had needed to hear it first. Like he had been waiting for permission to believe you. You covered his hand with yours and pressed it harder against you. His eyes darkened.
“There,” you whispered. “That’s better.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “You have been a problem all night.”
Your mouth curved. “I have?” He gave you a flat look. You widened your eyes. “Was it the photo?”
Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. “Among other things.”
“I took that for you,” you said.
Jack nodded once. “I know.”
You slid your hands down his chest, watching the restraint settle back into his body for a very different reason now. “No one else gets that,” you said.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “No?”
You shook your head. “No.”
His thumb moved once against your waist. You let your voice soften into something sweet enough to be dangerous.
“No one else gets me in your room,” you said. “No one else gets your shirt on my floor. No one else gets those pictures.”
Jack’s breathing changed.
You lifted your chin. “And no one else gets to touch me the way you do.”
His eyes snapped back to yours. There he was. The same heat from the supply closet. The same jealousy. The same need. But now there was no hospital around it. No door someone could open. No chart waiting. No secret making him stand five feet away. Just Jack’s townhouse. Jack’s hand on your waist. Jack looking at you like he had finally stopped pretending.
“You said something like that earlier,” he said.
Your stomach dipped. “I said a lot earlier.”
His mouth curved, slow and rough at the edges. “You did.”
You held his gaze. “Which part?”
Jack’s other hand came to your hip. “The part where you said he could never.”
Your pulse jumped. You let your hands slide lower, fingers catching lightly at the waistband of his jeans this time.
“He couldn’t,” you said.
Jack stepped into you. Your back met the door again. The sound was soft. The shift in him was not. He crowded you slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, every chance to push back, every chance to choose something else. You chose him. You hooked your fingers more firmly into his waistband and pulled him closer. Jack’s breath caught.
You looked up at him. “He could never make me feel like you do.”
His hand slid from your waist to the door beside your head.
You smiled, because apparently you had not learned a single thing. “He could never kiss me like you do.”
Jack leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. His voice was low. “You’re still being a brat.”
Your stomach flipped. You held his stare. “Maybe you’re still jealous.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. “Yes, baby,” he said. “I’m jealous.”
Your breath caught. His mouth brushed yours, barely a kiss. “But I’m also in love with you,” Jack said. “So if you want to keep being a brat about it, you’d better be very sure.”
Your fingers tightened in his waistband. You smiled against his mouth. “I’m sure.”
Jack kissed you then. Not like the supply closet. Not like a man trying to steal something before the rest of the world noticed. This was slower. Deeper. Worse, somehow, because there was nowhere for either of you to go now. No alarms. No monitors. No hallway footsteps. No coworker who might round the corner and force Jack to become Dr. Abbot again. There was just his townhouse. The locked door at your back. His hand at your waist. His mouth moving over yours like he finally had permission to take his time. You made a small sound into the kiss and felt his fingers tighten.
Jack pulled back just enough to breathe. “Say it again.”
Your eyes opened. He was close enough that his nose brushed yours, close enough that you could see every careful piece of him coming apart.
You swallowed. “I’m sure.”
Jack’s gaze darkened. “Not that.”
Your chest went soft. Oh. You slid your hand up the side of his neck. “I’m in love with you.”
His breath left him. For one second, he did nothing but look at you. Then Jack kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other pressed at your waist and pulled you fully against him. You went willingly. Of course you did. You had been going willingly all night, even when you were being impossible about it. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and Jack made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled. You did it again, just to hear it.
He broke the kiss with his lips still brushing yours. “Careful.”
You smiled against his mouth. “You keep saying that.”
“And you keep not listening,” Jack replied.
You tugged at his shirt. “Maybe you should do something about it.”
Jack went still. Only for a second. Only long enough for you to feel the air shift.
Then his hand covered yours, stilling your fingers against his chest.
“You are really committed to testing me tonight,” he said.
You opened your mouth, but Jack kissed whatever answer you had been about to give right out of you. Your back hit the door again, softer this time, his body crowding you in. He did not trap you. Not really. The space was there if you wanted it. You did not want it. You wanted him closer. You slid both hands beneath his jacket and shoved it off his shoulders. Jack let you get one sleeve down before he helped, shrugging out of it and dropping it somewhere near your abandoned bag. Your fingers went right back to his shirt. Jack caught your wrists.
You huffed against his mouth. “Jack.”
His grip stayed firm. “Slow down.”
“I waited all shift,” you replied.
Jack exhaled. “You teased me all shift.”
You lifted your chin. “You survived.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Your pulse jumped. “That mouth,” he said quietly.
You smiled. “You like my mouth.”
His gaze dropped to it. “I love your mouth.”
The words went straight through you. Before you could recover, Jack’s hand slid to the hem of your top. His eyes lifted to yours. You nodded. Only then did he pull it up. You raised your arms, and Jack drew the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without looking away from you. His gaze moved over your bare shoulders, your chest, the rise and fall of your breathing. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he was taking inventory of every inch he had been denied all night.
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
“I know,” he said.
His hand came back to your waist, his palm warm against your skin. His thumb brushed the line where your bra met your ribs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten. You reached for his shirt again. This time, he let you. Your fingers dragged the fabric up his stomach, over his chest, and Jack ducked his head enough for you to pull it off. You dropped it beside your scrub top and forgot about it immediately. Because Jack was there. Warm skin. Bare chest. The muscles in his stomach shifting as he breathed. The dark look in his eyes when he realized you were staring. Your mouth went dry.
Jack’s hand slid up your side. “Still thinking about Mason?”
You almost laughed. It came out breathless instead. “No.”
His brow lifted. “No?”
You set both hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I told you. He could never.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. You felt it under your fingers, that tiny fracture in his control.
“He could never what?” he asked.
You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted to hear it. You also knew you had spent the entire shift making him wait.
So you gave it to him. “He could never make me feel like this.”
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “Good girl,” he said.
Your knees nearly gave out. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss turned messy for the first time. Not uncontrolled. Jack was never uncontrolled. But rougher. Hungrier. His hand slid to your back, unclipping your bra with a practiced motion that made your entire body go hot.
You broke the kiss to look at him. “That was fast.”
His mouth brushed the corner of yours. “I’m a doctor.”
You laughed once, breathless and ruined. “That is not a medical skill.”
Jack slid the strap down your shoulder. “It is today.”
Your laugh caught when the bra slipped down your arms. Jack’s gaze followed. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Not in some obvious, theatrical way. But enough that your teasing vanished.
His thumb brushed beneath your breast, barely touching. “Fuck.” Your breath shook. Jack looked back up at you. “Beautiful.”
Your chest tightened at the softness in his voice. You reached for him again, but Jack caught your wrist and pressed your hand back to the door beside your head.
“Not yet,” he said.
You stared at him. “Not yet?”
His mouth curved faintly. “You heard me.”
You swallowed. Jack leaned in, his lips brushing your jaw, then the sensitive place beneath your ear. His hand moved slowly down your body, over your ribs, your waist, your hip, stopping at the waistband of your scrub pants.
“You were very brave at work,” he said against your skin.
Your eyes fluttered. “Was I?”
“Sending that picture,” Jack said. “Brushing past me. Reaching around me for tape you didn’t need.”
You gripped the doorframe with your free hand. “I liked that tape.”
Jack’s teeth grazed gently beneath your ear. Your breath caught.
“You liked making me watch you pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose,” he said.
You turned your face toward his. “Maybe.”
His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. Your hips shifted toward him before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s mouth curved against your jaw. “There she is.”
You hated how much you loved when he said that. You hated more that he knew.
Jack drew back enough to look at you. “Say my name.”
Your lips parted. “Jack.”
His eyes darkened. “Again.”
You swallowed. “Jack.”
He kissed you once, deep and slow, then hooked his fingers in your waistband and started to pull. You lifted your hips from the door just enough to help him. Jack lowered your pants inch by inch, taking your underwear with them, his eyes on yours until the fabric slipped down your thighs. You stepped out of them. He stayed standing. Still half dressed. Still in control. Still watching you like he had all the time in the world. You were bare in front of him, goosebumps erupting across your skin. Jack followed your gaze. His mouth twitched.
You narrowed your eyes. “It’s cold.”
Jack’s hand slid to your bare hip. “Baby, you are shaking for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature.”
Your face warmed. “You’re very smug right now.”
“I’m very patient right now,” Jack corrected.
You gave him a look. “Are you?”
Jack’s eyes moved over you once, slow and devastating. “No,” he said. “But I’m trying to make a point.”
Your stomach dipped. “What point?”
He stepped closer, his jeans brushing your bare thigh. “That you are going to remember exactly who you came home with.”
Your breath left you. Jack’s hand came to the back of your neck, tipping your face up.
“Who did you come home with?” he asked.
You stared at him. “You.”
His thumb brushed the side of your throat. “Say my name.”
“Jack.”
His mouth ghosted over yours. “Good girl.”
You surged up to kiss him, but Jack pulled back before you could catch his mouth. You made a frustrated sound. He smiled then. Just barely. Mean enough to make your pulse trip.
“Upstairs,” Jack said.
Your body went still. “What?”
His hand slipped from your neck to your jaw, holding you there gently. “Upstairs,” he repeated.
You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Like this?”
Jack’s gaze dropped over you. Then came back to your face. “Yes.”
Your breath caught. You glanced toward the stairs, then at his jeans, still very much on, still entirely unfair. “You’re dressed.”
“I am,” Jack replied.
You glared. “That seems uneven.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “You had your fun at work.”
You blinked at him. “So this is revenge?”
His expression softened for half a second, just enough to remind you that underneath all of this, he loved you. Then his thumb brushed your lower lip. “No,” Jack said. “This is me taking my time.”
Your stomach flipped. You turned toward the stairs, trying very hard to pretend your legs felt steady. They did not. Jack stayed close behind you as you started up, close enough that you could feel the heat of him without him touching you.
You looked back over your shoulder halfway up. “You coming?”
His eyes dragged over you, slow enough to make you regret the question. “Keep walking,” Jack said.
You faced forward immediately. Behind you, Jack made a low sound that might have been amusement. You gripped the railing and kept going. By the time you reached his bedroom, your skin felt too tight, every nerve lit with the awareness of him behind you. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the hallway and the weak morning light edging around the curtains. You had been in this room before. You knew the dresser. The bed. The chair in the corner where Jack folded his clothes too neatly. The mirror where you had taken the picture that had started all of this. But with Jack behind you and your clothes scattered downstairs, it felt different. It felt like a consequence. Jack stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. You turned toward him. He looked at you for one long second. Then his gaze flicked to the bed. “Sit,” Jack said.
You sat. Jack did not move right away. He stood near the closed bedroom door, shirtless, jeans low on his hips, hair slightly mussed from your hands, and looked at you like you were something he had been waiting all night to get alone. Your knees pressed together on instinct.
His gaze dropped briefly, then came back to your face. “Don’t hide from me now,” he said.
Your breath caught. You eased your knees apart. Not much. Enough.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Good girl,” he said.
The praise went straight through you. You gripped the edge of the mattress. “Jack.”
He stepped closer. “What?”
You looked up at him, bare and aching and already tired of him being so controlled. “Come here.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That sounded like an order.”
You lifted your chin. “Maybe it was.”
His eyes darkened. For a second, you thought he might make you take it back. Instead, Jack crossed the room slowly, each step measured, until he was standing between your knees. Close. Still too dressed. Still too smug. You reached for his waistband. Jack caught your wrist. Your pulse jumped.
His grip was gentle, but it stopped you completely. “No,” he said.
You blinked up at him. “No?”
Jack’s thumb moved over the inside of your wrist, the same place you had touched him in the truck. “You’ve had your hands where you wanted them all night.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You sent me a picture at work,” Jack said. “You brushed against me every chance you got. You reached around me for tape you didn’t need.”
“I liked that tape,” you murmured.
“And now,” he said, ignoring you completely, “you think you get to decide when you touch me.”
Your mouth went dry. Jack looked down at your hand, still caught in his. Then his other hand moved to his belt. The buckle clicked open. Your fingers went still.
His gaze lifted to yours. “There she is.”
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
He slid the belt free slowly, leather dragging through denim, the sound quiet and devastating in the dark room. Your thighs tensed around his legs. Jack folded the belt once in his hand. Then he stopped. His expression changed, just enough that the heat in the room made space for something steadier.
“Tell me no, and it goes on the floor,” he said.
Your chest rose and fell once. Then again. You looked from the belt to his face. He was not smiling now. He was waiting. Making sure. Letting you choose.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack did not move. “Yes, what?”
Your pulse beat hard beneath his fingers. “Yes,” you said, quieter now. “Use it.”
Only then did Jack move. He brought your hand to your other one, gathering your wrists together with a care that made your throat tighten. He looped the belt around them once, then again, not tight enough to hurt, not tight enough to frighten you, just enough that when he held the end in his fist, your hands belonged exactly where he put them. Jack slid one finger beneath the leather, checking the space. Your stomach fluttered.
“Too tight?” he asked.
You shook your head. His eyes held yours. “Words.”
“No,” you said. “It’s not too tight.”
“Good.” He lifted your bound wrists and kissed the inside of one. The gentleness almost ruined you. Then he guided your hands above your head and pressed them to the mattress as he leaned over you. Your back met the bed. Your breath left you. Jack hovered above you, one hand holding the end of the belt, the other planted beside your head. His body did not cover yours yet. Not fully. He was making you feel every inch of space. Every second of waiting. Every consequence of what you had done to him all night.
“You still feel brave?” he asked.
You swallowed. “A little.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “A little?”
You tugged experimentally at the belt. His hand tightened. Not rough. Certain. Your body reacted before you could pretend it hadn’t.
Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Oh,” he said softly. “More than a little.”
Your face warmed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Yes,” Jack said. The honesty made your stomach drop. He leaned down, mouth brushing your jaw, then your throat. “I loved the photo.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
“I loved knowing you took it for me,” he said against your skin. “Loved knowing no one else gets that.”
His mouth moved lower, over your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Your wrists shifted above your head. Jack held them there.
“But you knew exactly what it would do to me,” he said.
You arched when his mouth brushed your breast. “Jack.”
He paused. His eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again,” he said.
Your mind felt slow. “What?”
“My name.”
Your breath shook. “Jack.”
His mouth closed over you. Your back arched off the mattress. Jack’s grip on the belt held firm, keeping your hands above your head while his tongue moved over you with the same patience that had been ruining you all night. You pulled against the restraint. He did not let you move. You made a frustrated sound.
Jack lifted his head. “What do you want?”
You stared at him. “You.”
“You have me,” Jack answered.
You exhaled, “Jack.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Use your words.”
Your thighs shifted restlessly. “Touch me.”
He kissed the center of your chest. “I am touching you.”
You wanted to hit him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to never stop hearing him sound like that. “More,” you said.
Jack’s eyes darkened. “There you go.”
He kissed lower. Slowly. Too slowly. Down your stomach, over your hip, along the inside of your thigh until you were trembling before he had even put his mouth where you needed it. You tried to reach for him. The belt stopped you.
Jack looked up from between your thighs. “Hands stay there.”
Your breath caught. “You’re holding them there.”
“I know,” he answered.
You huffed. “Then why are you telling me?”
His mouth brushed your inner thigh. “Because I like hearing you try to listen.”
Your eyes closed. “You’re impossible.”
Jack kissed higher. “You love me.”
Your chest went soft and hot at the same time. “I do,” you whispered.
Jack went still. Not completely. Just enough. Then his eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again.”
Your breath caught. His hand loosened on the belt slightly, not enough to free you, just enough for his thumb to brush over your knuckles.
You looked at him, your chest tight, your body aching. “I love you,” you said.
Jack’s expression shifted. For one second, all the teasing left him. All the controlled heat. All the jealousy. There was only Jack, looking at you like he had heard something sacred. Then he turned his head and kissed the inside of your thigh.
“I love you too,” he said against your skin.
Your eyes burned. Then his mouth found you. Your thoughts scattered. “Oh—” Your back arched. “Jack.”
He hummed low, one arm hooking beneath your thigh to hold you open, the other still keeping the belt steady. His mouth moved like he had been waiting all night for this too, like every second of restraint had sharpened into focus. You tried to close your thighs around him. He did not let you. “Jack, please.”
He lifted his head just enough to answer. “Please what?”
You made a sound that was almost a sob. “Please don’t stop.”
His eyes darkened. “That’s better,” he said.
Then he went back to you. You lost track of the room after that. There was only Jack’s mouth, his hand, the belt around your wrists, the rough warmth of his voice when he told you to keep saying his name.
“Jack,” you gasped.
His fingers joined his mouth, careful at first, then certain when your body opened for him. Your hips moved. Jack held you down with one forearm across your lower stomach.
“Stay,” he said.
You shook your head against the mattress. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Jack replied.
You started to say, “Jack—”
“You wanted to make your point,” he said, voice rough. “Make it.”
You blinked down at him, dazed. “What?”
His fingers curled. Your whole body jerked. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on yours. “Who makes you feel like this?” he asked.
Your breath came in short, broken pulls. “You.”
He did it again. You cried out. “Say my name,” he said.
“Jack,” you said immediately.
His fingers curled inside you. “Again.”
“Jack, please,” you moaned.
His mouth returned to you, and the sound you made was not quiet. You pulled hard against the belt, your body tightening, thighs trembling around his shoulders. Jack did not stop. He did not rush. He kept you there, right on the edge, until you were almost crying with it.
“Tell me,” he said.
You could barely think. “Only you.”
Jack’s fingers slowed. Not stopping. Threatening to.
Your eyes flew open. “No, no, please.”
“Only me what?” he asked.
Your breath broke. “Only you can make me feel like this.”
His eyes flashed. “Keep going.”
You shook beneath him. “Only you can touch me like this.”
“Good girl.”
Your body tightened at the praise. Jack felt it. His mouth curved against you, and then he gave you exactly what you had been begging for.
You came hard.
Hard enough that your vision went white at the edges. Hard enough that your voice broke around his name. Hard enough that your wrists strained against the belt and your back bowed off the mattress while Jack held you through it, mouth and fingers working you through every second until you were shaking too much to do anything but take it.
“Jack,” you gasped. “Jack, Jack—”
“That’s it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “There you go.”
You were still pulsing around his fingers when he lifted his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. He looked absolutely ruined. And somehow, somehow, he was still wearing his jeans.
You stared at him through the haze. “That is so unfair.”
Jack’s mouth curved. He withdrew his fingers slowly, and your whole body twitched. “Careful,” he said.
You laughed once, breathless and weak. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack kissed your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach, moving back up your body with devastating patience. When he reached your mouth, he kissed you deeply. You tasted yourself on him and whimpered. Your wrists shifted above your head. The belt held.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. “You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His eyes searched your face. “Tell me.”
Your chest rose and fell beneath his. “I’m okay.”
The last bit of tension in his jaw eased. His thumb brushed over the inside of your bound wrist. “Still good?” Jack asked.
Your throat went tight at the care in it. “Yes,” you said. “Still good.”
“Any pain?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No.”
His gaze stayed on yours for one more second. Then the heat came back into his face. Slow. Certain. Dangerous. “Good,” Jack said.
You reached for him on instinct. The belt stopped you. Your breath caught. Jack looked at your wrists, then back at your face.
His mouth curved faintly. “I didn’t say you were done listening.”
Your stomach flipped. “Jack.”
He stood at the edge of the bed, shirtless and still in his jeans, the loose end of the belt wrapped securely in his hand. You were naked beneath him. Still shaking. Still trying to catch your breath. Still so sensitive that the way he looked at you felt like another touch. Jack’s gaze moved over you slowly. Then he said, “Watch me.”
Your mouth went dry. He kept one hand on the belt as his other moved to his jeans. The button was already open. The zipper followed. The sound moved through the room like a warning. Your wrists shifted again.
Jack’s eyes flicked to them. “Hands stay there.”
You exhaled, “They are there.”
His mouth curved. “Good girl.”
Your breath caught. Jack pushed his jeans lower on his hips, just enough, and your whole body went hot. He was hard. Thick. Flushed. Affected. For all his control, for all his patience, for all the ways he had made you fall apart first, there was no hiding what you had done to him.
Your voice came out thin. “Jack.”
His hand wrapped around himself. You pulled against the belt before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s gaze snapped to yours. “No,” he said softly.
You swallowed. “I want to touch you.”
“I know,” he replied.
“Please,” you said, barely a whisper.
His hand moved once, slow and firm. Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Jack watched your face as he touched himself, his jaw tight, his eyes dark, the muscles in his stomach shifting with the effort of his restraint.
“This is what that picture did,” he said. Your body clenched around nothing. His mouth parted slightly as his hand moved again. “This is what you did every time you brushed past me,” Jack said. “Every time you looked at me like no one else in that hospital knew what you were thinking.”
“Jack,” you whispered.
His grip tightened around the belt. “Say my name again.”
You obeyed. “Jack.”
His eyes closed for half a second. Only half. Then they opened, and the look on his face nearly ruined you all over again.
“Only me?” he asked.
Your chest rose and fell too fast. “Only you.”
His hand moved over himself again. You whimpered. Jack’s gaze dragged down your body, then back to your face. “Only I get you like this?”
You nodded quickly.
His eyes narrowed. “Words.”
“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Only you get me like this.”
Jack’s breathing changed. You could see it now. The crack in him. The place where his control had thinned to almost nothing. He touched himself once more, slower this time, deliberately enough that your thighs shifted apart without you meaning to.
His mouth curved, rough and pleased. “Look at you.”
Your face went hot. “Jack.”
“You came two minutes ago,” he said, his hand moving over himself again. “And you’re still looking at me like that.”
Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.
Your breath shook.
His mouth curved. “Tell me.” Jack’s thumb moved over the head of himself, and your wrists strained against the belt. You glared at him weakly. His hand slowed. You made a small, desperate sound. Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me what you want,” he said.
You answered immediately. “You.”
Jack grinned. “You have me.”
Your breath shook. “I want you inside me.”
Jack went still. There it was. The shift. The end of patience. He let out a rough breath, then leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding the belt.
His mouth hovered over yours. “Say it again,” he said.
You lifted your hips toward him. “I want you inside me.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Good girl,” Jack said.
Then he kissed you. It was not gentle. It was not patient. Not anymore. Jack kissed you like the last piece of his restraint had finally snapped, one hand still gripping the belt above your head while the other braced beside your shoulder. His body came down over yours, hot and solid and finally close enough that you could feel how much he wanted you. You arched into him. Jack groaned into your mouth. The sound went straight through you.
Your wrists pulled against the belt on instinct. “Jack.”
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “I know.”
You gasped. “You don’t.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Don’t I?”
You shook your head, already gone enough to be honest. “I need you.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Something hot. Something pleased. Something almost undone. His hand tightened around the belt. “Say my name.”
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
His mouth brushed yours. “Good girl.”
You whimpered, hips lifting toward him. Jack’s gaze dropped between your bodies. Then he cursed softly under his breath.
“Turn over,” he said.
Your pulse jumped. You stared at him. “What?”
His eyes came back to yours, dark and focused. “Hands stay where they are. Turn over.”
Your stomach flipped hard. “Jack—”
He leaned down, mouth at your ear. “You said he could never.”
Your breath caught.
His lips brushed the side of your jaw. “You were right.”
You swallowed. Then you nodded. Jack loosened his hold on the belt enough to guide you carefully, never letting the restraint pull too hard, never letting your wrists twist uncomfortably. Even now, with his control hanging by a thread, he moved you like you were something precious. Something his. You rolled onto your stomach, then shifted onto your knees when his hand settled at your hip. The belt stayed around your wrists. Your hands pressed into the mattress above your head, and Jack gathered the loose end in his fist again, holding it with just enough tension to remind you that he could move you exactly where he wanted you. Your cheek brushed the sheets. Your whole body trembled. Behind you, Jack went quiet. Too quiet. You turned your face enough to look back over your shoulder.
He was staring at you. His jeans were pushed low, his hand wrapped around himself, his chest rising and falling like the sight of you had cost him something.
Your voice came out soft. “Jack?”
His jaw flexed. “You have no idea what you look like right now,” he said.
Your thighs pressed together. Jack’s hand came to your ass, broad and warm, smoothing over the curve of you once before gripping. Your breath caught. “Open,” he said.
You shifted your knees apart. His hand tightened. “More.”
Your face went hot, but you listened. Jack exhaled roughly. “That’s it,” he said. “Good girl.”
The praise made you clench around nothing.
Jack’s thumb dragged along your hip. “Look at you.”
You swallowed. “What?”
His hand tightened, just enough to make your body answer before your mouth could. “So good when you want something.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. “Jack.”
He bent over you, his chest brushing your back. His mouth found your shoulder. “You were very mouthy downstairs,” he said.
You shivered. “You liked it.”
His teeth grazed your skin. “I did.”
His hand slid along your side, then down between your legs from behind. You jerked when his fingers found you. Jack made a low sound against your shoulder. Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.
Your breath shook. His mouth curved against your shoulder. “Tell me.”
You closed your eyes. “I want more.”
“More what?” Jack asked.
You made a frustrated sound. “Jack.”
His fingers slowed. You almost sobbed. “More what?” he repeated.
You turned your face into the sheets. “More of you.”
His breathing changed behind you. “There you go,” Jack said.
He withdrew his hand, and you heard him shift behind you. Your body went tight with anticipation. Then Jack paused. One hand slid up your spine, warm and grounding. “Hey,” he said.
You turned your face enough to see him. “What?”
His eyes searched yours. “Still good?”
Your chest softened. “Yes,” you said.
Jack’s thumb brushed along your back. “No pain?”
You replied instantly. “No.”
“You need me to stop, you tell me,” Jack said.
“I know,” you whispered.
His gaze held yours.
You swallowed. “I promise.”
The last bit of tension in his face eased. Then the heat returned. Slow. Dark. Certain. Jack reached toward the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. You heard the quiet tear of foil, the rustle of movement, the sound of his breath catching once as he rolled the condom on. The waiting nearly killed you. You shifted back toward him. Jack’s hand landed on your hip.
“Still,” he said.
You bit your lip. He noticed. His thumb pressed into your skin. “Don’t.”
You released your lip slowly. Jack’s hand moved from your hip to your jaw, turning your face just enough for him to see you.
“That’s mine too,” he said.
Your breath left you.
He leaned over you, mouth brushing yours from the awkward angle. “Say it.”
Your eyes stung with how badly you wanted him. “Only you.”
His eyes darkened. “Only me what?”
“Only you get me like this,” you answered.
Jack kissed you hard. Then he pulled back and lined himself up behind you. The first press of him made you gasp. Jack froze. One hand stayed on your hip. The other still held the belt.
His voice was rough. “Talk to me.”
You shook beneath him. “Don’t stop.”
His jaw tightened. “Baby.”
“Please,” you said. “Please, Jack.”
He pushed in slowly. Inch by inch. Careful enough to make you ache. Deep enough to make your hands curl uselessly against the mattress. Your mouth fell open. No sound came out. Jack stopped when he was only halfway inside you, his fingers digging into your hip like he was fighting himself.
“Breathe,” he said. You tried. It came out broken. He bent over you, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice low against your skin. “That’s it,” Jack said. “Take your time.”
You turned your face toward him. “I don’t want to take my time.”
A rough laugh left him. It barely sounded like a laugh at all. “You never do when you’re being a brat.”
You pushed back against him. Only a little. Enough.
Jack’s hand tightened on the belt. “Careful.”
Your breath hitched. “Make me.”
Jack went completely still. For one second, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing. Then his hand slid from your hip to the back of your neck, not pressing, just holding you there. His mouth brushed your ear. “There she is,” he said.
Your whole body went hot. Then Jack pushed the rest of the way inside you. You cried out. He groaned at the same time, low and broken, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his body finally met yours completely. For a second, neither of you moved. You could feel him everywhere. The weight of him behind you. The belt at your wrists. His breath against your skin. The stretch. The fullness. The way your body had no idea what to do with finally having him after waiting all shift.
“Jack,” you gasped.
His hand tightened at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Jack.”
He pulled back slowly. Then pushed in again. Your eyes rolled shut.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s my girl.”
The words broke something open in you. You clenched around him, and Jack’s rhythm faltered. His curse was rough against your shoulder. “Do that again,” he said.
You barely managed a breath. “What?”
His hips rolled into yours, deeper this time, and your voice broke. “That,” Jack said. “When I call you mine.”
Your wrists pulled against the belt. “I am yours,” you gasped.
His pace changed. Not fast yet. Not careless. Just harder. More certain. Each thrust pushed you higher on the bed, and Jack held you where he wanted you, one hand gripping the belt, the other locked at your hip.
“You spent all night trying to make me jealous,” he said.
You shook your head against the sheets. “No.”
Jack thrust into you again. Your answer turned into a moan. “No?” he asked.
“I was trying to remind you,” you breathed.
His hand stilled on your hip for half a second. Then his body covered yours again, chest against your back, mouth near your ear. “Remind me of what?”
You turned your face enough to find his eyes. “That I’m yours.”
Jack’s expression broke. Just for a moment. Then his mouth found yours, messy and desperate from the angle, and he kissed you while he started moving again. This time, he did not hold back as much. The bed shifted beneath you. Your breath came in short, helpless sounds. Jack kept his mouth close to your ear, voice rough and low and entirely yours. “Who makes you feel like this?”
“You,” you gasped.
His hips drove into yours again. “Say my name.”
You gasped. “Jack.”
“Again,” he said.
“Jack, please,” you cried out.
His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back into him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Please what?”
You were shaking now. “Please don’t stop.”
Jack exhaled. “I’m not stopping.”
You began, “Jack—”
“I’ve got you,” he replied.
Your eyes burned. He did. He had you. Every part of you. The secret part. The soft part. The bratty, aching, desperate part that had sent him that photo and brushed past him all shift because you wanted him to know no one else even came close.
“Only you,” you said, voice breaking.
Jack’s rhythm faltered. “What?”
You swallowed a moan. “Only you can make me feel like this.”
His grip tightened. “Keep going.”
Your body tightened around him. “Only you can touch me like this.”
Jack made a rough sound behind you. “Good girl.”
You were close again. Too close. Already. It rolled through you fast, heat building low in your spine, your thighs starting to shake. Jack felt it. Of course he felt it. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you exactly where you needed him. You sobbed his name.
“There,” he said. “That’s it.”
“Jack, please,” you begged.
“You going to come for me again?” Jack asked.
You nodded desperately. His fingers slowed. Your eyes flew open.
“Words,” he said.
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, please.”
“Only me?” he asked.
Your breath broke. “Only you,” you said. “Only you can make me come like this.”
Jack’s control snapped. He drove into you hard enough to make you cry out, his fingers working you in tight, perfect circles, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice wrecked in your ear.
“Come for me,” he said. “Say my name and come for me.”
You did.
You came with his name in your mouth, your whole body locking down around him as the pleasure ripped through you. It was harder than the first one, deeper, dragging every sound out of you until you were shaking beneath him, helpless against the belt and his hands and the way he kept talking you through it.
“That’s it,” Jack said. “Good girl. I’ve got you.”
You barely heard him over the rush of your own pulse. But you felt him. The way he held you. The way his rhythm turned uneven. The way his breath broke when your body kept tightening around him. He lasted three more thrusts before his control finally broke. You felt it happen. In the sudden uneven snap of his hips. In the way his hand tightened around the belt. In the rough sound that tore out of him when your body kept clenching around him.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt his whole body go tense behind you, every muscle locking as he drove in deep and stayed there. Your name left his mouth. Low. Broken. Almost helpless. Then he came hard, hips jerking once, twice, his breath hot against your skin as he buried himself as deep as he could get and held you there through it.
For a few seconds, Jack did not move. He just breathed against you, heavy and uneven, his chest pressed to your back, his hand still wrapped around the belt like letting go too soon might undo him completely. For a moment, everything went still. Jack’s body was heavy over yours. His breath was hot against your skin. His hand loosened on the belt, but he did not let go completely. Not yet. You both stayed there, tangled and shaking, while the morning light edged slowly around the curtains. Then Jack kissed your shoulder. Once. Twice. Softer each time.
“You with me?” he asked.
Your throat felt raw. You nodded.
His mouth brushed your skin. “Tell me.”
You closed your eyes. “I’m with you.”
Jack exhaled against you. Then, carefully, he shifted his weight and eased out of you. Your body twitched at the loss. Jack noticed.
He kissed the back of your neck. “I know.”
You laughed weakly into the sheets. “You do not get to be smug right now.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you replied.
“A little,” Jack admitted. You huffed, but it came out soft. His hand moved to your wrists. The belt loosened immediately. Jack unwound it with careful fingers, taking his time now for a different reason. When your hands were free, he caught both wrists and brought them down slowly, rubbing warmth back into your skin with his thumbs. You rolled carefully onto your back. Jack sat beside you, still breathing hard, still bare, still looking at you like he was trying to memorize whether he had hurt you anywhere. He checked one wrist, then the other. His thumb brushed over the place the leather had been.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Okay.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Really?”
Your chest went soft. You reached for his face. “Really.”
Jack turned his head and kissed your palm. The room went quiet again. Not charged this time. Warm. Full. He leaned down and kissed your wrist. Then the other. You watched him, throat tight.
“You know,” you said softly, “Mason really could never.”
Jack froze for half a second. Then his shoulders shook once with a quiet laugh. He looked up at you, exhausted and amused and so painfully yours that your chest ached.
“Baby,” Jack said. “I’m begging you.”
You smiled. His mouth curved. Then he climbed back onto the bed and gathered you carefully against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other hand still holding yours like he was not quite ready to stop touching you. You tucked your face against his neck. Jack kissed your hair. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then you felt his thumb move over your knuckles. Slow. Absent. Tender.
“Still jealous?” you asked.
Jack sighed against your hair. You felt his mouth curve. “A little.”
You pinched his side weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your fingers. “Completely in love with you,” he said. “The jealous part is secondary.”
Your heart folded. You lifted your head enough to look at him. “Secondary?”
Jack’s eyes softened. “Very secondary.”
You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and sweet and nothing like the door. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “No more pretending,” he said.
Your chest tightened. You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “No more pretending.”
Jack kissed you again. And this time, there was nothing careful about the way he held you.
summary: In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo.
tags/warnings: MDNI 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), piv sex, pussy eating, fingering, pussy slapping, jack abbot certified bush lover, overstimulation, implied age gap (reader is a resident), medical inaccuracies (peritoneal lavages are rarely used nowadays, but who cares), no use of y/n, trauma scene based on an episode of ER teehee.
wc: 9.5k
a/n: okay this is fully like two weeks late to the trend but it was inspired by that “you shaved your bush” tiktok trend lol. I genuinely do not know how this got so long, It was supposed to be a cute little fic but i got carried away, oopsies! I hope you enjoy <3
credits: gif credits to @ho-ii !!
It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny.
You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster.
Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem.
Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment.
And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now.
That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you.
So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was.
It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule.
But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven.
You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably.
You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed.
The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it.
It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message.
Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.
You settled on:
you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;)
You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out.
What a mistake.
Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen.
Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them.
Why?
Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you.
Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing.
You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either.
And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him.
It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency.
“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably).
He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway.
Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.
You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress.
It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun.
What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot.
Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo.
Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually.
Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened.
There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up.
Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare.
Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo.
Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with.
You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off.
You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you.
You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it.
You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that.
You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios.
In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation.
But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…
Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you?
A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification.
Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍
It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance.
You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days.
You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.
You woke up two days later and ran through your options.
Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)
Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble)
Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?)
Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible.
That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay.
You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started.
“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask,
“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.
“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing.
Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis.
Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done.
“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.
“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second.
He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own.
And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze.
When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile.
Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work.
This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.
Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either.
His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more.
But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore.
And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former.
As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling.
Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.
The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse.
To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom.
Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night.
You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through.
“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient.
The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15.
“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.
You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room.
“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now.
You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life.
“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his.
“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”
Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.”
“BP is down to 60!”
“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.
Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty.
“Must be the belly,” Santos said.
“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?”
You shook your head.
“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.
Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin.
“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.
Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked.
“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway.
Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked.
“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.
Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student.
Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there.
“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.
You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot.
“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact.
You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder.
“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them.
You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to.
He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat.
“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin.
“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face.
Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.
Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips.
“Dr. Abbot–”
“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought.
“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.”
“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes.
He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust.
“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked.
A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.
“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there.
You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence.
“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin.
You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.”
He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending.
You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.
He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.
You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips.
“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top.
His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly.
You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks.
“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face.
You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top.
He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you.
You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.
The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency.
It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you?
He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy.
“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.
His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.
You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art.
But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools.
“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself.
You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine.
The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation.
“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it.
You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”
You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale.
“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face.
“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile.
He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs.
Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you.
The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours.
He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.
“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?”
You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said.
“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop.
“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?”
You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign.
“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it.
“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone.
A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits.
Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him.
“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now.
He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.
His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face.
He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway.
Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing.
“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?”
No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there.
He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden.
He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.
“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”
“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.
And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much.
He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve.
“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument.
“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb.
“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger. Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes.
Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably.
And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.
Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.
You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve.
“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.”
You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome.
“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit.
You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out.
“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout.
“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore.
He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him.
Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.
A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time.
Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you.
“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy.
The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.
You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy.
“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.
Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm.
It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him.
Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could.
Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought.
Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath.
Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up.
He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated.
“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together.
“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you.
“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice.
“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.”
You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s.
“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.
a/n: whew that was a lot!! thank you if you made it all the way through!!
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hiiii, is there anyway you could do a birthday one shot with pope cody? today is my birthdayyyy :3
Love, Andrew
pairing: andrew cody x fem!reader
summary: andrew makes sure you get everything you want for your birthday (and a little extra, too).
warnings: +18 MDNI, established relationship, feminine reader, pope cody who's bad at emotions, written by an acts of service connoisseur, birthday celebrations, semi-public sex, thigh grinding, fingering, praise, finger sucking, unprotected piv, creampie (but tbh the smut is pretty limited here like less than 250 words), not edited!
note: omfg the way i speed ran this trying to get it done today cause i didn't wanna be late felt so crazy but at the end of the day i am just a girl who aims to please!! happy birthday nonnie i hope this is everything you wanted and more!! (my second attempt at trying to write something 1k words or less lord have mercy.)
wc: 1.5k
andrew cody doesn't care much about his own birthday.
but yours…
he knows it's an important day to you, so he makes it important to everyone.
you always pick out a specific birthday outfit. sometimes you'll even buy a new top or a new skirt to wear.
and a few days prior to the event, andrew will sit on the edge of the bed, watching you try on this dress with those shoes or that skirt with that top.
when you finally settle on a combination, pope will find himself at one of those party supply stores and he'll choose streamers and decorations that match the colors of your outfit. glittering stars to hang from the ceiling and a coordinated roll of gift wrap to seal the one-too-many trinkets he'd picked up for you already.
he orders cupcakes from that bakery you love on the corner of fifth street and the lady behind the counter will give him a discount because she loves you nearly as much as he does.
she'll make your favorite flavors and use that fancy frosting and pope will taste test one when he picks them up, just to make sure they'd gotten it right.
the night before your birthday, he waits until you fall asleep beside him and leaves the house soundlessly. craig and deran will be waiting for him at the bar, decorations already ripped open and separated.
they don't start putting anything up until pope arrives, though. because it has to be just right, and they know from past experience that if it's not andrew will make them stay out all night fixing it.
craig is on a ladder, a roll of tape in his hands and a pile of cellophane stars tucked in his hoodie pocket. "here?"
"no, space them out more," pope directs. "not like that. further to the left. even spaces."
it takes a few tries to get it right, but he eventually does.
deran helps andrew twist streamers together and drape them over the doorways and the bar top. they hang a big banner by the entrance and set out confetti poppers on the booth tables.
they don't leave until it's perfect.
and the next morning, andrew makes you breakfast and brings it to you in bed. sticks a candle in a stack of syrupy pancakes and says, "make a wish, birthday girl."
and you'll giggle sweetly, close your eyes, and blow out the candle.
pope wants so desperately to know that you wished for, but he's too afraid to ask for fear of breaking the luck of your birthday secret.
he waits patiently while you get ready for the day, listening to your favorite songs on the speaker in the bathroom, brushing pretty eyeshadow across your lids and swiping a shiny gloss across your lips.
he takes you out to your favorite shops and makes sure you never reach for your card. and, you know—andrew isn't much of a shopper. he gets overwhelmed in those big apartment stores with their bright lights and the shitty music that plays too loud on the speakers.
but he lets you drag him into the dressing rooms and he gives his best opinions anyway (though, he's not very helpful, because pope thinks you look so good in everything you try on that by the time you're finished, his cock is half hard in his jeans).
and when it's time to check out he'll stand rigidly behind his buzzing little birthday girl, and stare over your shoulder at the clerk and ask about birthday freebies because you're too shy to do it yourself.
he takes you to lunch at your favorite spot afterwards and listens intently as you tell him how excited you are to try this new skincare product or to wear your new necklace.
and when it's late enough, he'll take you to deran's bar under the guise of a birthday drink. he'll text his brother when you're on your way, so by the time you walk through the door everyone is gathered around with confetti in hand to celebrate you.
the bar is filled with your favorite people and the cupcakes are set out beautifully and most importantly, there's a big smile stretched wide across your face.
and even though he has half a mind to knock craig upside the head for the star decoration that has fallen from the ceiling and onto the floor, he lets it go. lets himself exist in your sunshiny happiness instead.
you throw your arms around his neck and his cheeks turn a flaming shade of red when you kiss him in front of everyone.
the night is perfect. smooth. you unwrap the small stack of gifts and catch up with everyone who'd come to celebrate you. later in the night, deran raises a glass and gives out a free round of shots in your honor, and you sit in pope's lap on a bar stool while his brother talks about how good you are for him.
and pope agrees. you are good for him. the sweetest little thing that loves him with unfathomable devotion, even on the days he's not so sure he deserves it, giving freely the warmth he's chased all his life.
he in turn gives you his protection, his adoration, his own twisted up version of love. but it never feels like quite enough, because andrew cody would give you the world if he could.
he tries, though.
it's why he goes to department stores and sits in the dressing rooms with you. it's why he gives you every little thing you ask for, whether it be skincare or a new necklace or a perfectly decorated bar in celebration of you.
it's why, after you finish your second drink and lean in close, whispering to him about the last, final thing your want on your birthday, he follows you into the bar's bathroom and locks the door behind him.
it's why he kisses you hard and lets his hands wander down your back and over your ass, squeezing the supple flesh and thinking to himself just how lucky he is to be loved by a girl like you. he tastes the fruity mixed drink on your tongue and groans in delight at the taste.
it's why, when you rock your hips over his thigh, chasing that blessed friction, pope decides he'll give you what you want long before those pretty sounding pleas start to fall from your lips.
"touch me," you'll say. "please, andy i need it. need you."
and he'll answer, "m'yours. don't gotta beg me for it."
pope will hike your skirt up over your hips and pull your panties to the side and fuck you on his fingers first. one hand between your legs, the other around your jaw, his thumb pressing down hard under your tongue.
he'll make you cum just like that, just with his fingers and that intense eye contact he keeps because he thinks you look the prettiest like this; eyes all teary, pupils blown wide, drool at the corners of your mouth. all fucked out, all 'cause of him.
and when you ask him real sweet to bend you over the sink and fuck you, pope does. makes you look at yourself in the mirror and mutters praises in your ear. he reaches around your hip to circle your clit with his fingers and doesn't finish until he makes you cry out for him twice.
even though you'd tried to keep quiet, it's no secret what the two of you'd gotten up to behind the locked door. deran shakes his head and rolls his eyes, cursing under his breath about respecting the bar.
pope doesn't pay him any mind. just promises to help clean up everything tomorrow morning before the bar opens and takes a cupcake to go so you can have it at home.
and when you're cozied up in bed, smiling and laughing and recounting all the fun things you'd done all day and how much you'd enjoyed yourself, andrew pulls one final gift from the drawer in his nightstand.
it's a folded up piece of paper with a red silk ribbon wrapped around it. and even though inside there are only words, this gift means more. because it's everything andrew wishes he could say but struggles to.
he tells you, silently, between the pages, just how much you mean to him. how you've changed him on a fundamental level, how you'd given what was once a soulless, empty shell of a man a purpose. he talks about how grateful he is for your birth, how he thinks he might've been born seeking you. he promises to love you until the day he dies, after that, even.
it's beautiful and heartfelt and by the end of it there's a tremble in your hands and tears in your eyes.
at the very bottom of the letter, there are two words that hit you a little deeper. not said often enough, because he's never known quite how to say them. two words that settle someplace inside your chest that only he has ever held claim to.
i want to be sexy to someone
is it too much to ask?
sexy to somebody, it would help me out
– sexy to someone, Clairo
summary: you finally put yourself back out there and set up a date for your night off. to your utter humiliation, you get stood up. the night takes a turn when you see your attending, Jack Abbot, who suggests you have dinner together since you're already all dressed up.
tags/warnings: age gap (reader is a resident), oral (f + m receiving), dacryphilia, protected piv sex, dry humping, crybaby!reader, idiots in love, ER references because I can't help myself :), the tiniest hint of puppy play, discussions of jack's amputation,
wc: 10k
a/n: I'm realizing that I have a tendency to write about jack abbot saving reader from mediocre and shitty men... and you know what he would!!!! genuinely thought this would be a cute lil 5k fic and then... oh well!! being short-winded is not my thing lol
credits: gif credits to @wesandresons
8:21.
You checked your phone for the millionth time.
You were supposed to meet him at the restaurant at 7pm, and he was almost an hour and a half late.
Well, you hoped he was late. You hadn’t yet accepted the probable fact that you’d been stood up. I mean, you were no stranger to chaotic schedules, unplanned overtime, and last minute catastrophes that had to be dealt with. Residency often rendered your social life moot; you could barely keep up with your commitments at the hospital, let alone a vibrant dating life. Maybe he had an equally demanding job; maybe there was a plausible excuse for why he left you stranded in this Italian restaurant without the decency of a “sorry, not interested anymore” text.
You looked at your phone again–8:26. Okay, you’d give him 4 more minutes before you decide to pack it up. You try to subtly survey the restaurant for any sign of him, but are met only with the pitying looks of the waitstaff, who would, in all likelihood, be the only ones benefitting from this humiliation ritual. The hostess checked in with you at the bar regularly, the bartender had given you a glass of merlot on the house, and a very kind server brought you a charcuterie board to nibble on–had even brought you extra olives when you commented on how they were your favorite. They were all getting fat tips–or at least as fat as you could afford.
8:31. Despite your best efforts you felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and your throat got that tight, achy feeling that precedes a sob. You felt so foolish.
You looked up at the ceiling, blinking the tears away and tried to even out your breathing.
You didn’t even want to go on this date. You’d all but sworn off of dating, the ROI not worth the emotional whiplash you were subjected to more often than not. It was becoming harder and harder as you got older to open up to people, expose your vulnerabilities and greatest fears, only to have them spit back in your face when things didn’t go their way.
So you stopped with the apps, stopped the meaningless dates that were nothing more than a hookup vehicle for most. But your friends had convinced you that you needed to get back out there, that things would be better in Pittsburgh–the proverbial ocean filled with different, better fish than your hometown. And perhaps they were tired of hearing you wax poetic about the hazel-eyed night shift attending that you had no chance with.
But you did want to find that person. As much as you were an independent, capable woman–doctor, even–the truth was you were lonely. Your days consisted of going to work, where you spent 12+ hours caring for Pittsburgh’s sickest, and coming home to microwave whatever sad frozen meal you had in your freezer. Sometimes you had the energy to join some of the night shift for post-shift breakfast, but that was about it.
You wanted someone to share your life with, to ask about your day or if you’ve eaten. Someone who knew that your favorite flower was lily of the valley, but since they were too expensive you would settle for a bouquet of peonies; that you loved horror movies even though they scared the daylights out of you; that knew you loved olives but hated pickles. Someone who knew you, inside and out.
There was a chasm in your chest that ached, that yearned for someone to take care of you–not financially, though you wouldn’t be opposed to that–but emotionally. To tell you that you were good, worthy, that you weren’t too much or too clingy. That wanted you as much as you wanted them. That felt the tension leave their shoulders when they looked at you, because you just being there made things better.
Was that too much to ask for?
It’d been so long since someone had even flirted with you, and even longer since you’d hooked up with anybody. Your dry spell was bordering on sahara levels of arid. Hell, at this point, you think you’d cum for the next guy who called you pretty.
You shake yourself out of your pity party, dabbing your eyes with a napkin and gathering up the courage to ask for the bill, when you hear someone calling your name. Great. You’re halfway to a breakdown over some stupid guy who stood you up, and now you would have to sit through pleasantries with someone when you desperately wanted to go home and cry into a bottle of wine.
You turned, fake smile plastered on your face.
The person you least expect to see is the aforementioned hazel-eyed attending. He’s standing by the hostess stand, off to the side, dressed in dark blue jeans and a tight black shirt. It was unfair, really, how good the man could look in the most basic outfit. His shirt was pulled taut across his chest, muscles straining against the fabric and outlining the planes of his pecs. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his strong, freckled arms on display, and sinful thoughts ran through your head at how those arms would feel around you.
You smiled and waved at him, reluctantly making your way over. It’s not like you can avoid him at this point, though these are less than ideal circumstances to meet him outside of work.
“Small world,” he joked as you approached, a soft smile gracing his features.
“I guess so,” you said sullenly, not up to your usual banter.
“Big plans for the night?” he asked, eyes skating over your form, taking in the pretty red dress you’d donned for the evening, the light coat of makeup you applied, the hairstyle you wrangled your locks into. In any other scenario, you’d be preening under his watchful eye, giddy that he was eyeing you up and down.
Now, though, you wilted under the attention. The humiliation from the night and the tingly feeling pooling in your gut at his gaze swirled together in some rancid amalgamation of emotions. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or cry or both, but ideally not in front of him.
Your silence, apparently, concerned him. He looked at you seriously now, his eyes getting that clinical, assessing look in them as he took you in, “You okay?” he asked, genuine concern lacing his features.
It was the one question you did not want to be asked. Because, for some reason, you could keep it all inside, bury the feelings as deep as they’d go, as long as someone didn’t ask if you were okay. The barest expression of concern had your lip trembling, throat tight as you managed to squeak out a meek, “I’m fine!”
You could feel a tear tracing down your cheek, and you wiped it away furiously. Your eyes focused on a spot over his shoulder, unable to bear the pitying look that was undoubtedly on his face.
“You don’t look fine,” he said softly, hand coming up to rest lightly on your upper arm.
You shook your head, powerless to staunch the flow of tears now running down your face. “Sorry, I just, uh, I had a date tonight and he didn’t show, so,” you made a helpless gesture, your shoulders shrugging in feigned nonchalance. You felt ridiculous, crying over being stood up in front of your attending who was just trying to make small talk with you.
You let out a garbled laugh, “Shit, sorry,” you hiccup, “this isn’t your problem, I don’t wanna interrupt your night any more than I already have. Have a good night,” you said, moving to push past him and scurry out the door.
He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but gentle, his body blocking your exit.
“You’re not interrupting. I was just about to place a to-go order,” he said, a hesitant look crossing his face before he continued, “But, uh… would you like to have dinner with me instead?”
You're taken aback. It’s the last thing you expected him to ask you. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t thought about him in this context. On the contrary, Jack Abbot had been the subject of many a ‘boyfriend’ dream over the past year you’d worked with him. He was kind and generous and funny, his humor as dark as yours. He was steady in the face of chaos, a lighthouse in the foggiest of days–a man you could depend on when shit hit the fan. It’s part of the reason you switched to nights. You always felt calmer in his presence, more assured of your capabilities because he believed in you.
And he was undeniably gorgeous–his fine wrinkles and graying curls set your body ablaze each time you looked at him, your panties soaking through in record time. You loved especially when he went a day or two longer without shaving, his scruffy cheeks looking like a delectable place to sit.
Your mind was plagued by obscene fantasies of him, the sinful images assaulting you at the most inopportune times. You knew he’d treat you right, wouldn’t prioritize his pleasure over yours. He was older, experienced, not a kid fumbling around in the dark, searching for your most sensitive spots and coming up empty. You imagined the way his stubble would feel on your skin, his jaw scraping down your neck as he pressed kisses there, moving lower and lower until he was nestled between your thighs, mouth hot against your aching pussy. The way he would stretch you out and fill you up, have you desperate and begging for more.
You’re snapped out of your lustful daydream when he says your name, an inquiring tone meant to prompt a response. Oh right, he asked you a question.
You shook your head, not because you didn’t want to have dinner with him, but because you didn’t want to do so under these conditions; you didn’t want to be a charity case.
“That’s very kind, but you don’t have to have a pity dinner with me. I’m a big girl, I can handle a little rejection.”
“It wouldn’t be a pity dinner,” he shook his head immediately, “come on, you got all dressed up, let me at least buy you dinner for your trouble.”
He cleared his throat, “Unless you really don’t want to, obviously, and I’ll let it go,” he said, “but I’d hate to see you go home cryin’.” And he looked so sincere, his pretty eyes so soft and squishy, all but pleading for you to accept his offer.
You chewed on your lip, considering it. It wouldn’t be the worst way to spend your night. As of now your plans for the rest of the night were getting sadder by the moment. Things could only go up from here, you supposed. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure,” you nodded.
“I’m positive,” he said, hand coming up to rest on the small of your back, guiding you back up to the hostess stand. “Table for two, please.”
The two of you were sat at a corner booth near the back of the restaurant, the section secluded and not too loud. It was a classic Italian restaurant–warm, dim lighting illuminated the space from antique sconces on the wall, the walls were a beautiful exposed red brick, and the tables were candlelit and laid with red and white checkered cloths. The leather of the booth was soft but worn, the cracks spidering out and indenting into the back of your thighs a sign of how well loved this place was.
The booth forced you close together, your thighs not quite touching each other, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. His scent is intoxicating, all warm amber and oud, mixed with a hint of citrus and his natural musk. It took all your power not to burrow your nose into his neck and inhale deeply.
You were lucky to have the same waitress that checked on you at the bar, though you did have to assure her that this was not the man who stood you up. You were honestly a little concerned at the death glare she gave him at first–a true girls girl.
“So, Dr. Abbot, how was your day off?” you asked, fiddling nervously with the hem of your dress. Despite your easy rapport at work, it felt awkward to be sitting here with your attending, especially when you were desperately trying to keep your feelings for him at bay.
“Oh it was fine, picked up a shift with the SWAT unit and didn’t get shot at, so, you know, all things considered,” he said, then waved his hand dismissively, “and please, call me Jack. We're not at work,” a slight blush spreading across his cheeks.
“Okay, Jack,” you laughed, the tension easing a bit as you threw formalities out the window.
“I would ask you how your day off was, but I think I have a pretty good idea,” he said with a teasing lilt.
“Yeah, not my best moment. This is partially why I stopped dating, I hate getting my hopes up,” you said, a little more vulnerable than you intended but you supposed you were past that now.
“If it makes you feel any better, I think whatever man decided to let you slip through their fingers is a fuckin’ idiot.”
You sputtered a bit at that, your cheeks heating up. It was a kind platitude, and you wished that it made you feel better, but it did little to alleviate the pit in your stomach that made you feel small; that screamed that you weren’t good enough.
“But enough about that asshole. Do you want to order an appetizer?” he asked, scanning the menu.
“Oh no, I’m okay, thank you.”
“You sure? My treat, remember, don’t worry about prices.” he looked up, concerned.
“I’m fine, really,” you bit your cheek, reluctant to spit it out, “our waitress may or may not have given me a pity charcuterie board at the bar.”
His face was still for a moment before you saw the edge of his mouth betray him, quirking up in a suppressed smile.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” you warned, your own resolve already breaking as you took in how pathetic the situation actually was. “It’s not funny!” you laughed, smacking him lightly on the shoulder with the menu.
“No, no, definitely not,” he intoned, a look of mock-seriousness on his face before he broke out into a laugh, “I’m sorry! But it is objectively a little funny,” he hedged, hands held out defensively to block another menu attack.
“It is not! It means that the poor waitress had to go talk to her boss and ask if they could comp an appetizer for the miserable sad sack at the bar!”
“She probably didn’t call you a miserable sad sack. Maybe sad puppy dog girl, but not miserable sad sack,” he teased.
You gasped exaggeratedly, “I am not a sad puppy dog girl!”
“Oh yes you are. It’s the eyes. And the general obedient demeanor," he smirked.
Oh. Your tummy twisted at that, but you quickly filed it under things that I simply do not have enough time to unpack right now.
“You’re mean,” you pouted, lip jutting out and arms crossed. You weren’t really upset, but it felt fun to play it up a little bit.
“Aww,” he pouted back at you, his tone just a tad condescending, “let me make it up to you. What do you say to some good wine and garlic knots?”
You gnawed on your lip, considering his offer, “what the hell, let's do it. It’s not like I’m going to be kissing anybody tonight anyway,” you said, a little bitter, before realizing that was probably not an appropriate joke to make in front of your boss.
“You never know, we could always pull a Lady and the Tramp,” he joked, not looking up from the wine menu.
You were a little stunned at that. Was he… flirting? No. Definitely not. This was a strictly platonic date. Right? I mean, the puppy comment you could explain away, but this… this was different, wasn’t it? Who just jokes like that about the most romantic canine kiss in history? A joke, you settled on. Because you’d already gotten your hopes up enough for one night.
Dinner was nice. Really nice.
Conversation flowed freely, starting out in neutral territory with updates about patients, work gossip, whatever the fuck was going on with Robby. But you soon moved out of the work realm and into personal matters. You told him about your childhood–where you grew up, your favorite childhood pets, how much trouble you got into as a teen.
And you learned a lot about Jack. That he came from a military family that moved around a lot, but spent a large chunk of time in North Carolina. He had two sisters, both older than him. One stayed in North Carolina and the other lived in West Virginia. Both married to military men, and both notorious for giving Jack shit about everything. But they were his rocks when he lost his leg, and then again when he lost his wife, and he was endlessly grateful for them.
You both loved 90s alternative rock, which surprised you because you took Jack to be more of a classic rock fan, to which he merely glared at you and said that he wasn’t that old. You both had childhood crushes on Winona Ryder; his borne from her role in Heathers, and yours from Girl, Interrupted. He surprised you with the fact that he was a good cook, a fact that seemed unfathomable to you based on his general vibe.
Now, though, you’d moved to med school stories, and Jack was regaling you with stories about him and Robby back in the day.
“We must have been… god, I must have been a third year med student, and Robby was… an R2? and he had really pissed me off that night. I don’t even remember what he did, I just remember being so annoyed at him,” he laughed, shaking his head at the memory, “It was a quiet night, so he snuck off to the on-call room to catch a few hours of sleep, leaving me to do all the scut. So, I recruited the help of the charge nurse, Carol, and our attending, Mark, and we applied a cast to his right leg while he was knocked out.”
He’s cackling now, almost unable to finish his story between wheezing gasps of air, “we paged him, like, 10 times until he answered, and next thing we know he’s bursting out of the on-call room and onto his ass before he even realized what happened!”
You’re laughing hard now, too, trying to picture a younger version of Robby gracelessly tripping over an unnecessary leg cast in his hurry to answer his page. It sounded so unlike the self-assured, stoic version you knew him to be.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “how mad was he?”
“Oh he was pissed. Not because of the cast, but because 5 minutes after we paged him, a 15-car pile up came in and he got benched until he could get the cast off. He had to wait for it to dry before he could saw it off, and the whole time he just sat there glaring at me.”
“Did he get you back?” you asked, hungry for more crumbs of their life before you, before the Pitt as it was now.
“Yeah,” he rolled his eyes, “the fucker taped nails to his shirt, took an x-ray, and switched out the real film for the fake before I noticed. I was freaking out to Mark, yelling about how this patient needed surgery before they perfed. Meanwhile Mark was in on it, and made me feel crazy when he pulled out the perfectly normal x-ray for my patient. He said, ‘I don’t know what they’re teaching you in school these days, but this looks like a perfectly normal x-ray,’” he said, in an impersonation you could only assume was Mark.
“That’s fucking crazy,” you giggled, “can you imagine someone doing something like that in the Pitt? I think Robby’d actually have an aneurysm.”
“Yeah, the old man’s lost a bit of his whimsy over the years,” he shook his head.
“Old man, huh? Those are fighting words from a man merely 3 years younger than him,” you teased, “and much grayer,” you added with a wink.
“Watch it, missy,” he warned, then, quieter, “not too old to teach you some manners.”
Feeling emboldened by the wine, you leaned a little closer, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Tracing the rim of your wine glass, you looked up at him. You swear his eyes drifted to your lips, but before you could do anything about it, he cleared his throat, steering the conversation back into safer waters.
“So, why did you get into emergency medicine?”
You thought about it for a moment, considering how honest you wanted to be. “I wanted to meet people where they were at, help them in a real, immediate way. The traumas are great and exciting, and there’s nothing like making a pickup that saves someone’s life. But I like the less exciting stuff, too. The mundane care that doesn’t save a life, but makes someone feel better. Helps them get over a cold, or helps soothe a burn; suturing up a lac, or removing foreign objects from patients and not making them feel worse about their predicament. That stuff is just as important as the traumas.
Especially with how fucked healthcare is in this country, people come to us when they’re at their most vulnerable, and usually don’t want to be there. I just hope that I can make things less scary for patients when they come in, make sure they feel like they’re cared about and not being judged for coming to us.”
It’d been a long time since you’d answered that question honestly. Usually, you had your stock answer that you pulled out, which was a more eloquent version of “I want to save lives!” And that was still true, but there was so much more to working in the emergency department than just saving lives. It was paperwork and insurance and bed shortages and nursing shortages and all the other fucked up shit in the world that inevitably contributed to the cases you saw come through the doors at the Pitt.
“What about you? Was emergency medicine always it for you, or did you ever consider going into something else?” you asked.
He shook his head, “Not seriously, no. Considered switching to critical care after my leg. I wasn’t sure if I was cut out for the hustle and bustle of the emergency room after that. But it was the only place I wanted to be, so I figured it out, did what I needed to do to get back to where I was before the accident.”
“Well, for what it's worth, I’m glad you stuck with EM. I couldn’t imagine working at the Pitt without you. I don’t think I’d be half the doctor I am without you,” you said, looking up at him.
You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten, his arm slung over the back of the booth and your thighs pressed against each other.
“Don’t sell yourself short, you’d be amazing with or without me,” he said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “You know, I’ve taught a lot of residents in my years, and you… you’re really cut out for this. Not everyone is.”
The praise made you preen, the proximity of his hand to your face doing nothing to calm your rapidly beating heart. For a brief moment, you think he might lean in, might press those pillowy pink lips to yours, kiss you until you can’t think stra–
“Hi, sorry to interrupt but we’ll be closing in 15 minutes. Here’s your check when you’re ready,” the waitress said, setting the check down and scurrying away.
You checked the time on your phone: 11:15. Did you really spend almost 3 hours talking to Jack? It certainly didn’t feel like it.
“I guess we should get out of here before they kick us out,” Jack said, sliding out of the booth and offering you his hand.
You’re giggling at another one of Jack’s jokes as you leave the restaurant, the bill graciously paid by him despite your best efforts to split it. Your limbs were loose from the wine, goosebumps springing up on your arms from the early summer air turned chilly.
“Thank you for dinner. You salvaged an otherwise shitty night,” you laughed.
“It was no problem, really. I had a nice time,” he said, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed.
You mirrored him, shoulder scraping against the gritty brick, and looked up at him.
“Hold on, I think you have a little sauce on your face,” he said, and before you could grab a tissue from your purse, he reached out. His thumb gathered the sauce at the corner of your lips, going further to brush the pad of it across your bottom lip. The movement dragged your lower lip down slightly, your mouth parting involuntarily with it. You’re not sure why, but your tongue darted out, licked the pad of his thumb and the residual sauce.
Jack’s breath hitched, the sharp intake of air the only thing you could hear despite the sounds of car alarms and drunk party girls on a Friday night in downtown Pittsburgh.
You looked up at him, tongue still pressed flat against his thumb, and searched his eyes for a sign that the heat building between you is mutual.
Fuck it, you decided.
Without thinking about it too much, you leaned up and pressed your lips against his. And god, did they feel nice. They were soft, but firm, and he tasted faintly of the wine you’d shared earlier mixed with the slight acidity of the tomato sauce from his dinner. Your hand tangled in the curls at the base of his neck, and they’re so soft, but also a little stiff. You wondered, briefly, if he uses mousse, or hairspray, or if he’s got a whole curly girl routine down before realizing that oh my god he wasn’t kissing you back. Oh no, oh fuck.
How did you misread this situation so horrifically? You thought you were getting all the right signals, thought that he liked being with you, that he was flirting with you. But maybe it really was just a courtesy, a pity dinner.
Your cheeks are hot when you pull away from him, shame sitting thick and heavy in your stomach, numbness prickling up your arms in staticky goosebumps. And Jack is just standing there, the dumbfounded look on his face doing nothing to assuage your embarrassment.
You backed up, trying to create some distance, to lower the temperature between you that apparently only you felt.
Looking down at your shoes, unable to make eye contact, you babbled out, “I-I’m so sorry, that was completely inappropriate and I don’t know why I-” your voice cracked and it felt like your lungs weren’t properly inflating with oxygen, “I don’t know how I misread things, but I guess I did so again, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna go home and pretend this never happened,” you said, turning around and starting down the street, despite the fact that you most certainly needed to Uber home, not walk.
You’re trying not to cry for the umpteenth time that night when you hear him calling your name, “Wait!”
He caught up with you, only a few strides away from where you were standing, and grasped your arm gently. “Wait, I’m sorry,” he said, a little breathless, “I just… you surprised me.”
“Surprised you?” you laughed, “I damn near sucked your thumb, Jack,” you said, genuinely confused how a man like Jack Abbot could be surprised that a woman would try to kiss him; that the next logical step from erotic thumbsucking would be a kiss. “And you flirted with me all night! You made a Lady and the Tramp joke! How else am I supposed to take that?”
He rubbed at his jaw anxiously, a slight blush coating his cheeks, “I mean, yeah, I was surprised. I’ve liked you for a while now but then I heard you talking to Santos about how you didn’t want to go out with that cardiology attending and just assumed I didn’t have a shot,” he admitted sheepishly. “And maybe I got a little brazen with my flirting because I thought you didn’t see me like that anyway, figured it couldn’t hurt.”
It’s your turn to be surprised now. You hadn’t realized he heard that conversation, or that he’d taken the wrong idea from it; the opposite idea, actually.
You took a step closer to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers finding his curls again, “Well, if you recall, snoopy, I said that part of the problem was that I just didn’t want to fuck that cardiology attending,” you said, looking up at him and batting your eyelashes, “that isn’t the case with you.”
He looked shocked, but recovered quickly, his confident air returning to him. “Oh, is that so?” he asked, lips quirking up into a smile as he backed you up against the rough brick wall. His hand rested on the wall next to your head, the other on your hip, stroking you through your dress.
“In that case, please allow me to make up for my rude behavior,” he said, dipping down to kiss you properly this time.
You’d pictured this moment countless times before, but nothing compared to the real thing. Jack Abbot is a no nonsense man–a wartorn vet who understands more than most the importance of not wasting time. You expected your first kiss with him to be hungry, maybe a little sloppy, but when his lips meet yours, he’s achingly tender. It wasn’t uncertain–there was no question underlying his kiss–it was deep and languorous, like he was content to take his time up against this brick wall and savor the slide of your lips against his because he knew he had you right where he wanted you, finally.
He commanded you, his hand cupping your jaw to angle your head back, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you instinctively opened up for him. The slide of his tongue against yours was delicious, the slick muscle curling around yours before moving back to your lips, sucking at your bottom lip and biting down gently. Your mind felt fuzzy at the way he handled you, guiding and taking you how he saw fit.
Some of his restraint dissipated, your mouths moving feverishly against each other. You couldn’t get enough of him; you pulled him into you and hooked your leg around his waist to draw him as close to you as possible. Pathetic, embarrassing whines and whimpers escaped you involuntarily, your body unable to mask how this man was making a mess of you.
His hand fell to the thigh wrapped around him, calloused fingers sliding up under your dress and gripping the bare flesh. He pulled you close, his pelvis rolling against yours sinfully. You could feel the hard outline of his cock against your cunt, your hips thrusting forward to meet the friction. A frustrated moan fell from your lips at the clothes separating you, at the inability to feel his skin against yours.
You pulled away only when air was necessary–and because you were very close to being cited for public indecency if things went any further.
“Sorry, I probably taste like garlic,” you said dumbly, fingers tracing over your spit slick lips, numb and swollen from Jack’s attention.
He laughed, forehead resting against yours, “you taste incredible,” he said, pressing a kiss to your nose, then your cheek, and then under your ear. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but my place is a couple blocks from here, if you’d like to come home with me.”
You nodded, a giddy smile breaking out across your face, “I would very much like to go home with you,” you said, already grabbing his hand and dragging him down the street.
The entryway is dark as you stumbled into Jack’s townhouse, the walk talking longer than it should have due to your need to drag him into searing kiss after searing kiss every dozen or so steps.
Jack navigated the two of you through the dark, your bodies unceremoniously plopping down on his couch. You fell onto his lap, knees sinking into the leather cushions and thighs stretching over the wide berth of his hips. Your kisses had devolved from slow and deep to fast and hungry, teeth nipping and clashing against one another, your breathing ragged from the exertion.
He was rock-hard and throbbing under you, the outline of his cock pressing deliciously against your pussy. The only articles of clothing separating you were the thin, lacy excuse for panties you were wearing and his jeans. Your eyes fluttered closed as you ground your hips down on him, the combination of rough denim and the drag of his cock on your aching cunt forcing loud moans and whimpers from your lips.
Jack was just as loud, his hips canting up to meet your rolling hips. His hand travelled to the back of your dress, fingers playing with the zipper, “this okay, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. You nodded, too caught up in his lips to give a verbal answer.
He chuckled as he pulled the zipper down, easing the sleeves down next and pulling away to get a look at you. He let out a sharp breath, the air stolen from his lungs as he took you in, hands gripping your waist tight and rolling his hips hard against you.
Your pretty tits were held up in an unlined white bra, your hardened nipples peaking through the barely there lace. He threw his head back against the couch, pupils blown wide as they fixated on your chest. ““My pretty, pretty girl. Was this all for him?” he asked, thumbs running in circles around your areolas. You nodded shyly, a bit embarrassed that you’d put on your good lingerie for some random guy. But it wasn’t all for nought, if Jack’s reaction was any indication.
“What a fuckin’ idiot,” he mumbled before enveloping your nipple between his lips, sucking the bud through the lace. He captured the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging and pinching it, then soothing it over in soft circles. The sensation was dizzying. His mouth was hot and wet against your skin, and he knew exactly the right pressure to ride the line between pleasure and pain.
But the lace was getting in the way; you couldn’t feel the scratch of his stubble like you’d dreamed of for so long. You unclasped your bra, tugging on his curls and pulling his face back just enough to let the garment fall down between you.
A guttural sound left him as he dove back in, lips suctioning onto your nipple and sucking hard, cheeks hollowed out and tongue swirling around the bud. Your hand tightened in his curls, arching your back and pushing your chest against his mouth. He alternated between the two, sucking, licking, and biting at one and kneading, flicking, and pinching the other. You could finally feel the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin, your eyes rolling back in your head as your hips doubled their effort, grinding hard against his cock.
He released your nipple with a wet pop, “you know how hard it’s been keepin’ my hands to myself, pretty girl? and all this time you’ve been hidin’ this pretty set of tits under your scrubs,” he shook his head in disbelief, “don’t think I’ll be able to think about anything other than stuffin’ my face between these tits when I see you at work.”
His lips returned to your chest while his unoccupied hand moved under your dress, his rough palm gripping the fat of your ass and guiding you over his length faster. Every grind of your hips had your clit bumping up against the head of his cock, the pressure exquisite. Your slick was dripping down your thighs and seeping into his jeans, the schlick schlick schlick steady background noise among your moans and groans.
You didn’t realize how fast your orgasm was building until you were nearly on the precipice of it, letting out a strangled moan and, “I’m gonna–” before the wave crested. Your thighs trembled, a dull ache forming from keeping them stretched around Jack’s bulk, but it only added to the pleasure that zipped through you. That staticky feeling radiated through you, your pussy contracting and fluttering around nothing.
You’re panting into the crook of his neck as you ride out the aftershocks, your hips still grinding against his clothed cock, your lips letting out tiny gasps and whines.
“Did you… did you just cum, sweetheart?” Jack asked, a stunned look on his face.
You could feel how hot your cheeks were, shame curling through you because yes, you did cum from a little nipple play and grinding on his cock.
“I-i’m sorry, it’s just been a long time and no one’s touched me in so long and you feel so good, I didn’t think that would happen so quickly,” you said, panicked, “I’m sorry if I ruined things.”
“Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he said, thumbs brushing away the embarrassed tears you weren’t even aware had fallen, “you didn’t ruin anything, okay? I was just surprised, is all. I’m sorry if anyone’s made you feel that way, but you don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me. Never,” The sincerity of his words triggered a new bout of tears. You buried your head in the crook of his neck again, his scent a calming balm to your nerves.
“Plus, do you know how much of an ego boost it is to know I had such a pretty girl cummin’ on lap in under five minutes? That’s the stuff of dreams, baby,” he teased, pulling you out from your hiding spot and pressing kisses to your cheeks.
You laughed, still sniffling a bit, “gosh, I’m sorry I’ve been such a crybaby tonight.”
“It’s okay, honey,” he said, then, teasing, “but I can think of much better reasons for you to be cryin’, and none of them have anything to do with you being sad or embarrassed,” he said, kissing you properly now, tongue licking deep into your mouth.
You moaned into his mouth, then squealed as he hoisted you up, carrying you to his bedroom. He set you down at the edge of the bed, then properly removed your dress from where it was awkwardly gathered at your waist.
He didn’t waste any time, dropping to his knees and parting your legs, pushing them up toward your chest. “Hold 'em there for me, baby, wanna take a good look at you,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the damp fabric between your legs. You did as he told you, hooking your hands under your knees and spreading yourself open for him. You felt exposed, but the awestruck look in his eye as he examined your pussy sent shockwaves through your body.
“This all because of me?” he asked, thumbing at your center over the fabric, pressing lightly against your clit with each stroke. Your panties were soaked through, the tiny scrap of fabric doing nothing to obscure your puffy folds that were sticky with a mix of your slick and cum. “What a mess you made, honey. Guess I’m gonna have to clean you up,” he said, pulling your panties to the side and licking a broad stripe from your hole to your clit.
You moaned, hips lifting off the bed and chasing his mouth. The contrast of his hot tongue on your cool flesh was blistering. His hands grabbed the back of your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin there and stopping any movement of your hips. You whined at the restriction, your hands fisting in the soft sheets instead.
“Waited so long for this honey, shit, fuckin’ dreamed about how you’d taste,” he moaned into your pussy, mouth lapping and sucking at your folds, gathering all the spend and slick and swallowing it down like nectar. His face was nestled deep into your cunt, tongue exploring every crease and crevice your cunt had to offer, licking, sucking, biting–and taking note of what made you scream.
And once he discovered it, he didn’t just eat you, he devoured you. He was a man possessed, with no regard for his own need for air. His tongue assaulted your clit, alternating between rubbing tight circles around it, short kitten licks, and long, languorous licks that had him shaking his head between your thighs. Every now and again he wrapped his lips around your clit and suckled it, the light leaving your body every time. Your hips rocked against his mouth despite his hold on you, wrecked moans falling from your lips.
“Fuck, jack, please–r-right there!”
“That’s it, baby, let me hear you, tell me how good I’m makin’ you feel,” he said, pulling back just far enough to spit onto your cunt before running two fingers up your slit, pushing them in without preamble. The stretch was delicious, his thick fingers curling deep into your wet heat and finding that sweet spot in no time. He exploited it mercilessly, massaging it with the pads of his fingers. His lips returned to your clit, sucking harshly now, giving you no reprieve from his ministrations.
“Feels so good Jack! Never felt this good before!” you cried.
The slurping and squelching was lewd, your moans and breathless cries of his name intermingled to create an obscene symphony that you’re sure the entire population of Pittsburgh could hear.
“You gonna cum on my face, honey? Gonna give me another one?” he asked, fingers massaging your g-spot. “Wanna–fuck–wanna feel this tight cunt squeeze my fingers when she cums.”
“Y-yes, please Jack, ‘m gonna cum, feels sosososo good” you cried out, your second orgasm crashing over you. Stars burst behind your eyes, back arching uncomfortably off the bed and walls clenching so hard around his fingers you’re not sure how he hasn’t lost circulation. Your legs clamped around his head, trapping him there as you rode out your orgasm, hips rutting against his mouth and fingers. He didn’t mind, licking and sucking you through it, his fingers keeping pressure on your g-spot until you were pushing him away.
He peppered your body with kisses as you came down, starting at your thighs and making his way up over your tummy, ribs, and breasts. He came to rest above you, a dopey smile on your face as you pulled him in for a lazy kiss. His face was soaked with your spend and you could taste the tang on his tongue when he kissed you.
“You’re stupidly good at that,” you whispered, body still boneless and floaty.
“Yeah? Want me to show you want else I’m stupidly good at?” he asked while finally shucking his shirt off.
“Yeah?” you said absentmindedly, eyes glazed over at the majesty that was Jack Abbot’s chest. You immediately began pressing kisses across the newly exposed skin–to his neck, collarbone, pecs, and tummy. You’re even able to scrape your teeth across a nipple before he holds you back at arms length, laughing.
“Yeah, honey,” he laughed between your frantic kisses, “but you gotta let me breathe for a sec, gotta take care of my leg.”
“Let me,” you said, slipping down to the floor and sitting back on your heels. You ran your palms up his thighs, hands coming to rest on his belt before going any further.
“You don’t have to do that, honey.”
“I know,” you said softly, “but I want to. If you’re okay with that.”
He cradled your face in his hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You turned into it, kissing the palm of his hand to assure him that you wanted to do this.
“I care about you Jack, and this is part of you. I just wanna help you, wanna make you feel good,” you said earnestly, giving him your puppy dog eyes.
“Yeah. Okay, honey, go ahead,” he nodded, sitting back on his elbows to watch you. You grasped his belt again, unfastening the buckle and pulling the belt through the loops, discarding it somewhere behind you. You moved to the button of his jeans, deftly popping it open and hooking your fingers into the waistband, tugging them down with Jack’s help.
Your breath hitched at the sight of his dark gray boxers, a wet spot front and center that made your mouth water. You learned forward and kissed the damp fabric, moaning at the slight taste of precum that danced across your lips.
“Careful, sweetheart…” he warned, but there wasn’t much heat behind his words.
You just grinned up at him before getting back to the task at hand. Your fingers travelled down to the sleek metal attached to him, getting a feel for the mechanism before unlocking and twisting it off. The liner came next, tossed to the side before you pressed your fingertips into his skin, massaging the skin to get some blood flow back into the residual limb. You pressed sweet kisses to his flesh, from the front of his knee to the scarred flesh of his leg, tongue dipping out to trace the prominent scar just above his amputation site.
Jack breathed heavily above you, tiny groans escaping him unbidden. A look flickered across his face, and you think, briefly, that this may be the first time you’ve seen him truly vulnerable. It wasn’t a secret that he’d lost the lower portion of his leg in the war, but he didn’t flaunt it either. You wondered if there was an insecurity that lay deep within him, despite his overt confidence; if other women had reacted differently, cruelly even to the sight of his prosthesis. It made your heart ache to think about it, to think of someone doing anything but worshipping his beautiful body the way he deserved.
“So pretty, Jack,” you whispered, kisses inching higher up his thigh now, “wanna taste you now.”
When you’re met with the sight of Jack’s cock, you’re well and truly speechless. You knew he was big from your time on the couch, but seeing it was different. He was thick and veiny, the tip flushed a deep red and leaking precum furiously. It rested against his belly, curving slightly to the left. And did you mention that he was thick? Mouth agape, you wondered how you were going to fit him in your mouth. Or pussy.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there, hands perched against his thighs, just staring at his cock, until Jack tilts your head back, fingers tightening in the strands of hair at the nape of your neck.
“Thought you wanted a taste, honey. You just gonna sit there and stare at it all night?” he asked, a smug smile on his lips.
“Maybe,” you mumbled, tongue darting out to wet your lips.
Before you can do anything of your own accord, his hand is guiding your head forward, the head of his cock pushing gently against the seam of your lips. You take over from there, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his tip, the precum gathered there salty and sticky against your lips. Your tongue dipped out to caress the spot just below his head, running the flat of your tongue along it before moving back to his head, spitting a glob of spit onto him and wrapping a hand around his base. You started with long, slow strokes, squeezing and twisting on the upstroke, your hand meeting your lips where they suckled at his tip.
You moaned at the steady stream of precum invading your mouth, “taste so good Jack,” you said before taking more of him into your mouth. You're only about halfway down and your lips are already stretched tight around him, spit leaking from the corners of your mouth in filthy waterfalls. You hollowed your cheeks out, bobbing your head up and down his shaft, your tongue massaging the underside of his cock.
“Fuck, baby, who knew you had such a filthy fuckin’ mouth on you,” he groaned, hips rutting up slightly.
His tip occasionally hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag and tears to prick behind your eyes, but you don’t care; the feeling of him weighing heavy on your tongue is reward enough.
You feel a light pressure applied to the back of your head, “deeper, baby, know you can take it,” he groaned. You obliged, breathing deep through your nose and sinking down further onto his cock until you felt him hit the back of your throat and your nose was nestled in the trimmed grey curls at his base. Your hand grappled for his where it was perched on your head, using it to push harder against your head, trying to convey to him that you wanted him to take over; to fuck your face.
He groaned, hips jerking involuntarily as he realized what you wanted. He gathered your hair in his hands, hips shallowly trusting into the wet heat of your mouth. His mouth was slack, grunts and groans loud as he fucked your face. His pace builds, his cock roughly pistoning in and out of your mouth. Tears are falling freely now, your mouth stretched to capacity and throat being used and abused by his fat cock.
“See? These tears are much prettier, baby,” he huffed out, thumbs brushing the trails where they fell. “So fuckin’ pretty, crying with my cock in your mouth.”
You moaned around him at that, the praise and shame swirling in your tummy. Your hand came up to cup his balls, massaging and squeezing them gently between your fingers.
You’re suddenly pulled up off his cock and into his lap, spit stringing from your shiny, swollen lips. You whined at the loss of him, your mouth feeling uncomfortably empty now.
“Fuck–you feel too good, honey,” he grunted, setting you back against his pillows, “can’t cum in that pretty little mouth tonight, need to be inside you.”
He grabbed a condom out of his drawer before moving back to you, sitting back on his knees and rolling the condom on. You let out an annoyed whine. You’ve never hated the more rational side of your brain more than you do right now. You craved to feel him bare inside you–to feel him cum deep inside you, the hot white ropes painting your walls. And while you trusted him implicitly, you knew safety was of the utmost importance, so condom it was.
“Don’t worry, baby, soon as we get tested, you won’t be able to stop me from fuckin’ this pussy raw,” he groaned, settling between your spread thighs. His body was a soothing weight above you, the warmth he emanated relieving any anxiety you had.
He gripped the base of his cock and ran it through your sopping folds a few times, the tip catching slightly on your entrance on each pass. “Please, Jack, need to feel you,” you moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him close.
He cursed before giving in, notching the head of his cock against your entrance and entering you slowly, letting you feel and adjust to every inch on its own. Your head fell back into his plush pillows as he sank fully into you, your mouth open in a silent scream. Your walls were tight around him, clenching viciously at the intrusion–you’d never been stretched so wide, or filled so thoroughly. It felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs and replaced by his cock. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your short nails biting at his skin.
You were still for a moment, both your chests heaving as you adjusted to the feeling of one another. Then, once Jack composed himself, he started to move–slow, shallow thrusts at first, your pussy still clenching tight around him, sucking him in greedily with each thrust.
“Relax for me, honey, that’s it, doin’ so good for me,” he grunted, eyes closed, “pussy feels so good.”
You willed your body to relax, for your muscles to go lax around him. You shifted your legs up higher, the heels of your feet digging into the soft flesh of his ass.
“There you go, so good for me,” he moaned, “knew you’d be so good for me.”
He pulled out again, easier this time, until only the tip remained inside you, then snapped his hips forward. His thrusts were slow but hard, his hips slamming against you each time he bottomed out. The drag of his cock against your walls felt so good, his thick, throbbing length rubbing up against every sensitive spot. You felt every thick vein and ridge, as if they were imprinting into your walls, making a home there. You moaned at the thought of eternity, of Jack making your pussy his again and again and again.
He was watching you with a wondrous look on his face, his eyes flitting between your blissed out face and bouncing tits. “So fuckin’ sexy, baby, you don’t even understand how fuckin’ gorgeous you are,” he groaned, hips picking up speed, fucking you faster and harder.
The adrenaline and emotions from the night came crashing down around you. The feeling of his cock dragging through your walls mixed with the sweet words he was whispering into your ear had you feeling exposed and vulnerable, made you feel seen. Your hands were frantic, running over every bit of skin you could get your hands on, needing to feel his skin against yours. You pulled him impossibly closer, his chest now flush against yours, the friction it provided to your nipples dizzying.
You didn’t notice the tears until Jack was kissing away the salty tracks, his tongue sneaking out to lick up the length of your cheek. “You’re my little crybaby, aren’t you?” he asked, a sweet hint of condescension in his tone, “just can’t help babbling over my cock, huh, baby?”
You could only whimper at that. The words should feel shameful, degrading, even, but the fondness on his face, the constant reassurance he’d been giving you all night only made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Because you weren’t a crybaby, you were his crybaby.
The coil in your stomach tightened, your orgasm fast approaching. He was fucking you hard and fast now, his balls slapping against your ass with a wet smack. “Jaack, I’m gonna–fffuck–I need–” you gasped at a particularly hard thrust, your eyes rolling into the back of your head.
But Jack knew what you needed before you did, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles against it, and you were done for. Your toes curled, heels pressing harder into his ass as you came, white-hot sparks shooting through your body. Your walls spasmed wildly, your orgasm crashing through you in waves. You were absolutely drenched, your pussy gushing around his cock, leaking down your ass and onto the bed.
Jack wasn’t far behind, his hips stuttering as your walls seized his cock in a vise grip. “F-fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, so fuckin’ good,” he grunted, his hips going into overdrive now, chasing his climax and fucking you hard and deep.
"Cum for me, Jack, wanna make you feel good," you cried.
He ground his hips into one last time, cumming with a loud moan, cock buried deep inside you and hips pressed flush against yours.
He collapsed on top of you, head resting on your chest. He pressed lazy kisses to your sternum, collarbone, the soft flesh of your breasts–whatever he could get his lips on from this angle. Your fingers carded through his curls, the motion soothing as you tried to catch your breath.
Eventually, though, you had to part.
You whined as he pulled out, your cunt empty and cold now that he’d taken his warmth away. He grabbed his arm crutches, disposing of the condom and retreating to the bathroom. He returned with a warm washcloth and began cleaning you up, gently wiping at your swollen pussy and sticky thighs, making sure you were comfortable before tossing the rag in the hamper.
He slid back into bed when he was finished, laying on his side and pulling you close against his chest. Your head was cushioned by this arm as you curled into him, your sweat slick bodies cool to the touch now that the heat had dissipated.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he said, fingers brushing up and down your ribs, the touch featherlight.
“Mmm probably as long as I have,” you said, snuggling closer to him.
“Really? When did you realize you wanted to kiss me?”
You didn’t have to think about it at all. “My birthday, on the roof. I gave you a cupcake and you got frosting all over you,” you giggled at the memory, “and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to kiss it all off of your stupidly handsome face.”
He laughed with you, the creases around his eyes deepening as he did. He was so pretty, you thought for the thousandth time that night.
“I remember that,” he smiled, “I remember being so proud that I made you laugh that night.”
“What about you?” you asked.
He thought about it for a minute. “I think the need to kiss you has been simmering in me since I met you, but the first time I had the conscious thought was when you patched me up after that patient clocked me in the head,” he said, his hand now on your cheek, stroking the bone there, “you were standin’ between my legs, stitchin’ up my forehead, and all I could think about was pulling you close and kissing you until I couldn’t breathe.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He sighed, “I’m your superior and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable if you didn't feel the same way.” You knew he didn’t want to delve into the ‘superior’ thing right now, didn’t want to have the long, complicated conversation that was sure to come in the following days.
“And I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself once I started,” he said, lightening the mood a bit.
You giggled at that, rolling your eyes affectionately. But something nagged in your head about what he said.
“Wait…” you said, piecing together a timeline, “that was nearly a year ago! You’re telling me we could have been doing this for a year!?” you exclaimed, slapping him on the chest lightly.
He shook his head at you, a sheepish look on his face. You were both idiots.
“Well, I guess we have a lot of lost time to make up for, then, don’t we?” he said cheekily, capturing your lips again and pushing you onto your back, determined to make you a very happy woman.
a/n: thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it <33
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Contains: p in v, m orgasm, f orgasm, romance, f oral, m oral
Author's Note: I absolutely loveeee writing this series! It is so much fun and Pope is so husband 🩷 Thank you for showing it so much love - it means the world
Part 1 | Part 2
gif: bullet-prooflove
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You'd made it to the bedroom. You had led Pope after you down the hallway. The desperation of before hadn't left; it had intensified.
Your soft fairy lights glowed like amber fireflies in the quiet darkness of your room.
Pope stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. 'I've wanted you,' his voice came out deep and low, 'for so long.'
His rough voice was thick, his mouth barely moving around the words. His beautiful eyes gazed slowly between yours.
'Andrew,' you breathed. 'C'mere.'
Your fingers threaded through his. They were warm, like Pope always was. They were thick around yours, and two of them slightly damp.
It made your stomach flip.
Pope followed like he would follow you anywhere. You sat down on the bed and pulled him towards you. Pope lowered himself down next to you and slowly turned to face you. Each of you had a leg tucked beneath you, and one hanging to the floor. A nervous half-commitment.
Pope's auburn curls were still wet along his forehead and mussed from your fingers. 'Andrew, I've wanted you since the day I met you,' you confessed in a whisper.
Pope's eyes turned darker as the words landed. His breathing was heavy, his chest working hard. 'Fuck,' he whispered.
The way you said his name broke him. It wasn't his name said in passing or in public. It wasn't calling out to a friend. You were the only one to call him Andrew. The way you said it this evening, when he told you he wouldn't last, did something to him.
You saw Pope was in his head so you leaned in. Pope raised his left hand, so his fingers curled into your soft hair. He felt you stiffen then relax against the sensation, and it did something to his lower stomach.
Rather than kissing you straightaway, he looked into your eyes, breathing hard, then dipped his head. Pope brought his face down almost, almost, to your bare collar bone before pausing. You held your breath as his lips stilled, inches from your warm skin.
You felt tingles of anticipation in the slowness, the heavy exhales of Pope against you. Then Pope moved his head.
He slowly traced the outline of your shoulder and up the side of your neck, never touching you. You moved your head to the left in anticipation; granting Pope more space to kiss if he wanted... but he didn't want. He wanted to make you beg.
There had been so much patience, longing, unknowing... he wanted to break you.
Pope paused by your mouth, inches from you, gazing at your mouth.
'Andrew,' you whispered.
Pope felt his cock twitch in response. He nearly had you. Nearly.
As you leant in to close the gap, he pulled back slightly. Pope gave you enough to change your breathing but not enough. He wanted to make you crave him. He watched your mouth chase his for a few inches. Then you made a sound.
There it was.
A small, wounded cry. An impatient wanting. A desperation.
He knew what he'd done to you.
'Please.' Your voice was tiny in the darkness.
Pope breathed out, gave a small half-smile, and then pushed his lips against yours.
Your sigh of relief was swallowed by Pope within your open-mouth kisses. They were slow and deep. Pope moaned a 'yeahhh' quietly into your mouth.
It completely wrecked you.
Pope pushed you gently onto the bed, until you were pressed against the mattress. He lowered himself down on you, his forearms bracketing his weight.
You felt the warm solidity of his body above you. Even with the suspension, his swollen cock pressed insistently between your legs.
As his boxers made contact with your wetness, Pope made a strangled noise and opened his eyes. He looked up at the ceiling, his head tipped back, and bit down hard on his lip.
You could feel the bulging outline of his length and the firm press of its head against your clit.
A soft moan left the back of Pope's throat. You slowly raised your hips, pressing yourself into him. You were very aware that you were naked beneath him.
He moved the kiss to your cheek and down along your jaw. The warmth of his lips pressing against your skin made you shiver. He sucked the sensitive spot beneath your ear, gently rolling his teeth against it.
You moaned, feeling wetness rushing to your cunt. Pope made a soft sound in response and began to kiss down your neck and down your chest, pausing to roll his tongue over your nipples.
He settled between your thighs. He looked up at you with devastating eyes. 'Why don't you turn over?' His voice was as rough as sandpaper.
'Yeah?' You asked, uncertain.
'Yeah... if you want to,' Pope whispered gently but his eyes were black.
You rolled over onto your tummy and settled yourself against your pillow.
Pope moved you gently, but with incredible ease, up against him, so your back was arched along his thick, hairy thighs, and your hips were pointing into the air at bare chest level.
A rumble escaped Pope's chest. It sounded like a broken whine. Then his mouth was on you.
Pope pressed his tongue against you in a flat kiss; warm and devastatingly wet against your sensitive skin.
He waited to hear the sharp inhale, the slight shudder of anticipation that ran through you, before his mouth began to move.
It was slow... achingly and intentionally slow.
A long lick from your sensitive clit up to your entrance, where you were still shimmering and smeared with yourself.
Pope circled his tongue against you, gathering up your wetness and swallowing it with reverence. The whimper Pope made against your skin as he tasted you sent vibrations through the centre of you.
You felt yourself clench, your muscles tighten, and Pope was losing it. He began to kiss you, licking and gently sucking along your entrance, slowly increasing pace as he he moved his mouth like he was kissing your face.
His tongue gently lapped at you and teased itself around, but not quite into, you.
You groaned and had to stop yourself from pushing your hips back into his face.
'Is this good?' Pope murmured from the side of his mouth. His lips didn't leave your skin for a second.
'Mmmm, yeah,' you moaned. You were still trying to control yourself.
Pope hummed in response and opened his jaw a little wider, his tongue reaching down to your clit. You needed him there and the relief when he touched you was overwhelming.
You sighed into your pillow and couldn't help but back into his face a little.
'Ohh, there it is,' Pope moaned. His warm, wet tongue made devastating circles against you. His hands held firmly onto your hips to support you.
'Use my face.' Pope's voice was almost shy.
You rolled your hips a little, testing, and the sensation was incredible. You couldn't stop a soft sound from escaping.
'Oh fuck,' Pope's voice melted to liquid steel again. 'That's it. Good fucking girl.'
You couldn't help but let out another sound. You clapped your hand to your mouth.
'No no no, baby.' One of Pope's hands reached down to gently push your hand away from your face. 'Nuh-huh. Wanna hear you. Let me know when I'm right where you need it.'
You could have come right there. You breathed his name.
Pope was extremely hard from seeing you fall apart like this for him, and his cock twitched in his boxers from hearing you say his name like that.
As you gently rubbed yourself against Pope's face, his stubble grazed the inside of your thighs. It prickled in a delicious pain. As he moved his face to run his tongue over your clit, sucking gently, his nose slid between your soaking wet pussy.
The tip of his tongue teased with inconsistent movements, spelling 'mine', and sucking gently. Pope was giving just enough to keep you desperate without letting you come. He wanted to hear you beg him for it.
You couldn't take it anymore. It felt animalistic and vile the way you were grinding against Pope's face.
'Please,' you gasped.
'Please what?' Pope turned his face in slow circles so his tongue wrapped around your clit and his stubble and nose brushed against all of your bare skin. You felt so exposed and it thrilled you.
'Please, Andrew. Don't stop,' you panted. 'Can I cum? Please.'
'Say my name.' Pope hummed against your skin, which was soaking the bottom half of his face. He couldn't believe this was actually happening.
'Andrew,' you moaned.
'Again.'
'Oh, Andrew,' you cried.
A rough, guttural sound climbed out of Pope's chest and he applied more pressure, eating your pussy like he was making out with you... faster, harder.
You couldn't help but buck your hips against the sensation.
This was all Pope ever wanted; hearing his name fall from your lips in a broken sigh, moaning it like that, as he took you apart.
Pope pulled you closer to him, his hands dragging from your hips to the outsides of your thighs and spreading them further apart.
You felt it building in your stomach. You could hear the noises of Pope's lips sucking on your wetness in the quiet of your bedroom.
Your hips bucked involuntarily again and Pope pushed his face further into you, breathless, dragging his head from side to side.
'Fuck, I'm gonna cu-...' You came with a loud cry and shuddered, wildly rubbing your pussy against Pope's face.
You heard a low, muffled growl from behind you as the world faded out for a second. There was only the warmth of Pope's face, the wetness of his tongue, and the motion of him lapping up your cum.
As your hearing came back, Pope's licks slowed to small kisses. He peppered them gently across the insides of your thighs until he slowly leant back.
He helped you slide back down his body and over so you were facing him.
Pope was panting hard as he looked at you. His eyes were pools of black and they moved reverently across your face. Pope looked into each of your eyes in turn, ablaze.
You could see the outline of his impossibly hard cock, straining painfully against his boxers. You felt faint with anticipation.
Pope's face glittered with your wetness.
'Fuck.' Pope's voice was thick with want and disbelief. 'You did so good. You taste so good.'
He lay down besides you and wrapped his arms around you to kiss you. It was deep, slow, and heart breakingly intimate.
You could taste yourself on his tongue, on his lips, on the roof of his mouth.
You pushed your fingers into his hair; now wild from making a mess of you - from ruining you.
Pope's eyes closed in pleasure as your fingertips scratched his scalp, and he leant his head into them.
Your breathing became more steady, and the kiss slowly ended. Pope's fingers traced your jaw, twirling into your hair.
'I wanna make you feel good,' you whispered into his mouth.
Pope whimpered and his cock twitched against your thigh.
'Yeah?' He murmured, his voice low and rough.
'Yeah.' You kissed down his neck, pausing to gently lick and suck the sensitive spot behind his ear.
Pope groaned, back arching involuntarily, and his cock throbbed up against his stomach.
Your kisses continued down his collarbone and onto his chest. You lightly rubbed your closed lips against his nipple and all of his muscles tightened in response.
You continued down his abs as you slipped down the bed until you were at the soft trail of auburn hair below his belly button.
Pope sighed in anticipation, fists clenching and unclenching by his side as you teased along the waistband of his boxers.
You licked the inside the sculpted V of his hips. You were soaking yourself again. You couldn't believe that Pope looked like this the whole time you've been friends. You've wanted him so badly for so long, and he was always hot; stretching out his tees and filling out his slim jeans. But you never could have imagined he looked quite this good... this view was all for you.
His soft skin was warm and he smelled like cologne, laundry softener, and fresh sweat. The pheremones nearly made your eyes roll back.
You glanced up at him. Pope was looking at you, biting down hard on his bottom lip.
'Can I?' You asked, toying with his boxers; scrunching the soft fabric between your fingers.
You could see the smear of pre-cum across the centre of them. A widening, damp brush stroke with white pearls seeping through.
'Uh-huh,' Pope whispered.
You gently tugged on his boxers. Pope lifted his hips to help you pull them down and away. His cock sprang free and you looked at it for the first time.
All of these years being friends with Pope, and all the tension of grinding on him, could not have prepared you for this.
He was big. He seemed to know it, as his face flushed an adorable shade of red.
'Don't worry,' Pope murmured. 'We can go really slow.'
He was always so sweet, even when talking about something so sexy, so filthy. You didn't want him to feel self-conscious; especially when the size of him turned you on. He was perfect. 'I'm gonna take it all for you.' You made big doe eyes at him and licked slowly across your bottom lip.
'Oh my God,' Pope moaned, eyes rolling back. 'You're such a good girl. Take it. Take it all.' His eyes flashed black. 'Take it like I owe you some money.'
Heat exploded within your stomach.
You sank between his thighs, which Pope spread for you. You kissed all down the inside of one, then the other, knee to hips.
Pope moaned and tensed his thighs. His fists made gentle clenches, the sheets between his fingers.
As you gazed up at him and batted your lashes, you gave little kitten licks around the head. Pope groaned as fire shot through him. He didn't realise quite how close he was after licking you.
His cock was drooling pre-cum from his sensitive hole, and you lapped it up. It tasted like nothing like you've had previously. You wanted to drink it.
Watching Pope's eyes widened and his jaw drop slightly did something to you. You wanted to watch him unravel. You wanted to finally see what your reserved, serious, dangerous friend Pope looked like when he was trembling from your touch... coming apart beneath your tongue.
You took the angry, purple head in your mouth and swirled your tongue around it. The sound that left Pope's mouth was indescribable. You wrapped a few of your fingers around the base of his cock and slowly sank your mouth down on him. Pope's eyes became glassy. His hands sank to your head and he wrapped his fingers tightly in your hair.
Using the flat your tongue on the underside of his length, you curled and swirled it, concentrating on the sensitive skin beneath the spongy head.
Pope groaned and his fingers tightened slightly in your hair. You indicated for him to guide your head to set the pace.
He was very gentle at first. Respectful. The amount of times he had fantasised about moving your head along him, your mouth warm and wet, until he spilled on his stomach, was countless. Now he finally had you, he was trembling.
Your fingers remained around his thick base, brushing the trimmed thatch of auburn hair, to cover the inches you could not fit inside your mouth. Your slow movements on Pope's cock became faster underneath Pope's guiding fingers.
'Uuuurgghh,' Pope grunted, finally thrusting up into you a little, and driving himself to the back of your throat. If he carried on, he wasn't going to last more than a minute.
All Pope had ever known was rough, transactional sex. But looking at you now, eyes wide and looking up at him, mascara running a little, something in his heart gave a pang.
You attempting a swallow of him down your throat felt fucking amazing. But looking into your eyes and kissing you felt better.
Pope gently caressed your cheek, and lifted you from him.
You looked confused for a second and gently kissed his cock, suckling on the tip. 'You taste so good,' you moaned. 'Please let me, Andrew.'
'C'mere.' Pope pulled you up and wrapped his arms around you. He gave you a kiss, pressed against his bare chest. Skin to skin.
Pope gently pushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
'You're so beautiful,' he whispered, and kissed you again. It was deep and slow and intimate.
He swallowed the words he really wanted to say as he kissed you.
Pope rolled you over so you were on your back. 'Please can I fuck you now?' His rough voice was gravelly and hushed. 'I can't wait any longer.'
You wrapped your hands around his neck, nestling your fingers within his soft curls. You took a second to take in his soft hazel eyes, his dusting of freckles, his gentle wrinkles where the sun doesn't quite reach. This was it. Andrew. Your Andrew.
'Please, Andrew,' you pleaded.
Pope moaned at his name. The way you said it tonight was ruining him.
He gently brushed himself along your folds, slick with your wetness and his saliva, and moaned as his bare cock rubbed against your clit. You bit your lip and lifted your hips slightly.
Pope bracketed himself above you on his corded forearms, either side of your head, so that he did not press all of his weight down onto you.
He gently nudged his head against your hole and inside. The first pop felt incredible. You couldn't stop a soft moan from leaving you. Pope whimpered and pressed his forehead against yours.
He gently rolled his hips until he was halfway inside. You felt impossibly full and stretching out to make room.
'Are you okay?' Pope whispered as he flexed his hips to pull out again.
The teasing was infuriating. You were desperate for him to start fucking you, and his inching just wasn't enough.
'Please,' your begging landed heavy in the quiet of your bedroom.
'Please what?' Pope smirked. This is exactly where he hoped he'd have you.
'Please stop being gentle and fuck me,' you cried.
Pope slammed his hips into you in one rough movement, burying himself to the hilt. He made a wounded sound like he'd been punched in the stomach.
It stole your breath away and you reflexively clenched around him.
'Ohhhh, don't do that.' Pope bit down hard on his lip.
You clenched yourself around him again on purpose.
'Fuck, no, please,' Pope panted. 'Stop.. I'll cum.'
Something about that, the desperation, set your insides alight.
Pope began to move, flexing his hips and rolling against you. His pelvis brushed against your sensitive clit as he thrust inside you. His mouth found yours.
The kisses began deep and heavy, but quickly became faster and filthier as Pope's thrusts became rougher and less precise.
Pope groaned, trying to think of anything else but your warm, wet insides milking his cock. Bare, sensitive, raw skin against skin. You could feel every vein and the mountain range of his thick, round head as he dragged it against you.
'Please,' Pope's voice was broken. 'Oh fuck.'
He whimpered against your cheek. You could feel his cock twitching and pulsing inside of you.
'I'm gonna-' Pope made a series of high-pitched whining sounds.
It made the band of fire in your stomach tighten.
'Are you close?' You whispered, kissing his cheek.
Pope nodded, almost embarrassed, burying his head in your neck.
Your fingertips scratched in his hair. You felt Pope stiffen. You pulled on his curls slightly and he groaned.
'Please use your nails on my back,' he begged.
You slid your hands down to his ribs and ran your nails sideways across his damp skin.
'Harder.' Pope's rough voice fought hard to leave his mouth and wobbled.
You raked your fingers up to his shoulders, leaving red marks behind them. Pope growled and moved his hips faster.
His cock was hitting just the right angle and you arched your back in a silent orgasm; too overwhelming to cry out.
'I've got you.' Pope whispered, pressing himself down against you, seeking more of you. His weight pushed you firmly into the mattress. 'Oh fuuuck.'
Your pussy gripped him tight as you came. Pope started to tremble.
'Don't hold it back,' you whispered. Pope moaned in response, holding you closer.
'I'm so close,' he whispered. 'You feel so fuckin' good for me.'
You began scratching his back again and Pope snapped his hips, his pace now relentless as he pushed you further down into the mattress.
'Please, Andrew,' you whispered in his ear, sucking his neck. Pope moaned and his hips were messy, hitting side to side with sloppy thrusts. 'More... I need you to give it to me.'
Pope groaned, his chest working harder. He had needed this since the party - you were finally going to see his orgasm face in the right, perfect, setting. This is what he wanted - just you and him, in bed, and your wanting him to fill you up.
You lifted your hips up to meet him, matching his pace. The extra friction along his cock was overwhelming as you moved in inconsistent circles. You watched Pope's face as you slowly took him apart.
'I need your cum,' you moaned. 'Give it to me. Please fill me up - this womb is all yours.'
Pope was losing it at your begging.
'All mine?' He grunted. 'You're all mine?'
You noticed the shift from talking about sex to talking about belonging.
'Yes, Andrew,' you moaned, kissing his temple.
'Ohhh fuck, I'm gonna cum.'
'I'm all yours.'
'Ohh... ahh... I'm gonna fuckin' cum-' A series of low groans left Pope's mouth as he gave a few more thrusts and then snapped his hips hard against yours. He stayed there, pressed to the hilt, as his cock twitched and pumped white sprays of his cum inside you.
Pope made a guttural sound before a few high-pitched whimpers, and then sank down onto you.
You kept milking his cock, clench after clench, as Pope groaned and kissed you.
It wasn't gentle but they were no longer filthy and deep either. His kiss had transformed into something else. Something new. Relief, satisfaction, intimacy; a new closeness you had never shared before.
It was unspoken that Pope would stay inside you, even as he softened. He lay his head in the crook of your neck.
Contains: slow burn romance, both think love is unrequited, near m orgasm, mentions of p in v and f oral but doesn't feature, f and m grinding, family present but don't know...
(Part 2 here! 🩷)
gif: bullet-prooflove
--🩷--
Pope couldn't believe he had your fingers linked through his, waiting on your parents' doorstep. It was their 30th wedding anniversary and you had asked him to accompany you as your "boyfriend".
You couldn't handle being asked why you were single and your family (and you had a big family) each trying to set you up with their friend / co-worker / dog walker / ex... you couldn't figure that last one out.
When you'd asked Pope, he wanted to say no. He hated people, wouldn't know what to say, and someone might recognise him as a Cody. He couldn't do that to you. But you'd said, 'pleaaaase, Andy,' and looked at him with those big eyes, so here he was. Pope was deeply in love with you, and he would do anything for those eyes.
You shuffled nervously next to him, and Pope gave your fingers a reassuring squeeze. You knew what that meant. You're safe. I've got you. I'm here. You tried not to feel the butterflies that bloomed in your stomach. It was just pretend.
The door opened with a squeal from your mom, and a reserved but warm welcome from your dad. He shook Pope's hand with both of his. Pope approximated a smile and tried not to crush his fingers. Immediately your mom fell in love. You could see her making the eyes at him - skinny jeans with thick thighs and an amazing ass. Black button shirt straining across his chest and biceps. Sunglasses tucked in his shirt pocket.
'Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Andrew.'
Pope tried not to react to the word but, despite knowing it wasn't real, it crackled down his spine like lightning and struck his cock. It twitched slightly in his jeans. What he'd do to be your boyfriend. Your husband. Your baby's father... nothing turned him on more than the idea of that.
Pope had difficulty with erections before he met you. He could barely get it up and had no reason to. The occasional sex workers Smurf arranged for him was already a fucked up situation in itself. Pope usually instructed them not to talk, roughly used them just long enough to empty his balls into them, then kicked them out with an intimidating snarl of, 'you better leave now.'
But you. Not with you. Pope couldn't remember a day in months that he hadn't fucked up into his fist and spilled on his stomach, imagining you moaning his name - sighing softly as you gave him a fucked-out smile from underneath him, kissing his neck. Everything would be different with you. Pope knew that. He knew that he could make you so happy... so safe... so full of his cum.
All Pope wanted was for you to call him your boyfriend. He wanted to murmur to you, 'say it again'.
Instead he managed an uncomfortable half-smile. It seemed to have been sufficient as they were ushered into the garden.
Your mom raised her eyebrow at you and winked. 'Very tall and brooding.'
'Mom,' you hissed. You were still linking fingers, and Pope could very much hear. His jaw flexed slightly, not enough that anyone looking at his blank, controlled face would see. But you saw.
Pope found it overwhelming to be passed round your family, and and spoke very little, but they all seemed to like him anyway. Either that or they were terrified of him.
You had practised questions together, like how long have you been together? 11 months. Where did you meet? Deran's bar. What are your intentions with my daughter? Pope's eyes had flicked to your dad's face at the joke, and couldn't answer with the things that came to mind.
Open every door for you. Slam you up against them. Take long walks down the Boardwalk. Lay you down in the sand and eat you out for hours whilst you watched the moonlight on the waves above his head. Pay for the most expensive dinners. Press you up against his truck in the restaraunt parking lot, hands in your hair, guiding your hips against his, and kiss you until your lips were swollen and everyone was staring. Movie nights where you fell asleep on the couch, head against his chest. Keeping his fingers down your panties through each and every film, just gently playing with your clit as you watched. Rubbing against it slowly, feeling you get wetter and wetter. Not bringing you to the edge, no, he wouldn't give you enough friction for that. (Not unless you begged him). He'd just play to reassure himself that you were there. Tuck you into bed at night. Slide in at 4am after a job and pull you close to him. Wrap his arms around you and smell your hair. Kiss your neck and gently sneak his hand under your sleep tank to squeeze your tits as you slept, his hard cock brushing against your back. Whisper how much he loved you as he pounded you into your shared mattress, your fingernails scratching down his chest until he bled. Make you tell him how you were his and only his, that you couldn't survive without him, that you loved him, you loved him, you loved him...
'Marry her then give her my babies.' Pope said.
There was silence for a second. Then everyone laughed.
'Atta boy,' one of your uncles said, slapping him on the back. 'I like this one,' one of your cousins winked at you, then looking at Pope under her eyelashes.
Pope's face barely changed, but he squeezed your fingers again, and couldn't fully understand why everyone was laughing. You weren't, though. You weren't laughing at all.
You looked up at him and, of course, he was already staring at you. Pope's eyes changed then. They softened, ever so slightly. Your lips parted as you considered his answer. Pope's eyes dropped to your mouth for just a second too long. When he looked back up to meet your eyes, you felt them again. Those ridiculous butterflies. It was just pretend, you reminded yourself.
Another of your uncles made a noise like he was throwing up. 'You two make me sick! Young love.' He rolled his eyes performatively. 'Best get on with the celebrations so these two can get back to bed.'
'Oh, for Christ's sake, John.' Your dad looked horrified at the mention of his daughter's sex life, shaking his head.
But you noticed Pope had stiffened, ever so slightly, at the presumption. No, at the suggestion. You were concerned he was uncomfortable.
'He's only joking, Andy, I'm so sorry.'
Pope looked down at you with what could only be described as bedroom eyes. 'I'm not,' he murmured.
--🩷--
It had turned dusk. The afternoon had been nice for you, seeing all of your family, and having a few glasses of fizzy champagne. Pope had nursed a whisky all afternoon, so he could drive you home safely.
You were gathered around the fire pit at the end of your parents' lawn. The flickers of amber light danced across Pope's face. His dusting of freckles, sun-kissed skin and hazel eyes looked so beautiful in this light. When he turned to smile at you, the expression only reserved for you, the butterflies hit again. Hard.
''you cold?' Pope murmured, rubbing your arm. You had shuffled closer and closer to him as the heat dropped. Pope's body was always very warm, and it was an excuse to move closer.
'A little,' you admitted.
'I should have brought my jacket,' Pope growled, really disappointed in himself. He usually thought of everything, to the point he drove Craig and Deran nuts.
'What? No! I should have brought mine,' you laughed softly. God, he loved that sound.
Your family were all spread out now. Small lantern lights had been strung across the trees and music spilled out into the garden from somewhere inside.
'C'mere.' Pope pulled you onto his lap, so your back was against his chest, and wrapped his arms around you. Your breath caught, and Pope heard it. He wasn't sure what had made him so brave. Pope had felt your shoulders bump every now and again throughout the afternoon, and had carefully committed each to memory so he could replay them over and over when he couldn't sleep.
But this... this was different. Intentional. Deliberate.
You looked down at his arms, tightly wrapped around your middle. His corded forearms and large hands crossed over. You leant on a diagonal so you could look at him. Big mistake.
Pope was even more beautiful up close. Your faces had never been inches apart before. His soft, auburn curls brushed against your cheek. You could smell his cologne, gently heated on his neck's pulse point. Pope's guarded and serious expression softened when he met your eyes and you melted.
'Thank you for this,' you whispered.
Pope didn't say anything in return. He couldn't. He just squeezed you a little tighter and closed his eyes for half a second.
You made sure you were still looking when he opened his eyes. You could see the flecks of gold within them and watched his pupils dilate. Heat bloomed in your chest.
You hesitated. 'Andy, I-'
'Who wants to play cards?' John shouted, coming over with a pack of cards.
Groans of protest echoed from around the garden, but a lot of your family drifted over. You turned back around and shot a smile at your uncle. Pope felt like his insides had been carved out. He was desperate to know what you were going to say.
--🩷--
Poker turned out to be a problem in two ways. The first was Pope easily taking everyone's money. He anticipated every move from every player after counting cards in his head. It wasn't intentional, but it came easily for him. He just knew how many players with the hands they had and by the tells they gave away how to manipulate the game.
If your family weren't so intrigued by this talent, they'd be pissed at losing so much money. (They were later once they got home).
The trouble was with playing on the big garden table. No one had even batted an eye at you sitting on Pope's lap. However you both had to keep leaning forwards to place your hands down or move chips.
Every time one of you had a move, you had ended up bent forwards on Pope's lap. Pope would lean his chin on your shoulder, his arms still wrapped tightly around you, with his cards off to the side - not that he cared whether you saw them or not.
Your back settled against his chest whilst other people took their turns but whenever you or Pope did, your hips moved across Pope's pelvis. Pope hoped you weren't noticing how often you were brushing against his cock, but he did hold you a little tighter around your waist.
Of course you noticed. You felt Pope become turned on, a slight rise in his jeans. You had tried not to think about it too much. To get off him and sit somewhere else would have been suspicious. So you stayed, slowly and repeatedly having to grind against him.
Pope felt embarrassed, so unbelievably embarrassed, that he was hard but there was nothing he could do. After a while, there was nothing he wanted to do.
You felt so good against him. He tried not to tighten his grip around your waist too much, not to grab your hips in his big hands and guide you against him.
It became a loud secret between you that you both tried desperately not to acknowledge. Pope bit his lip, straining uncomfortably against his jeans.
You felt yourself get wet.
Your dress was scrunching as you moved back and forth. Not so much that anyone could see, but enough to make your panties rub across the rough denim.
It didn't help that you felt him grow harder because that just made it feel even better.
There was no escape.
Every time one of you shifted forwards, Pope's hard cock rubbed against you. It felt so good.
You knew it was just a human reaction for Pope, that it probably had nothing to do with you and would happen regardless of whoever was sat on him, but you couldn't help but hope.
You had dreamed of this for months... sitting on top of Pope. But you would be looking down into his big puppy dog eyes. Kissing down his warm, sensitive neck and along his jaw line. Drawing a low, rumbling groan out of his throat. Pressing yourself up against him and lining yourself up against him. There would be no denim and no panties. He'd whisper that he couldn't take any more, and beg you to let him inside...
This wasn't helping. You were terrified of leaving a wet patch on Pope's jeans. Even if he didn't notice or feel it soak through onto his skin (which he totally would), your family would see it once he stood. Fuck.
You leant forward a little too far and felt your clit touch the top of his hard cock. Your clit against his swollen, now weeping, head.
You tried not to visibly stiffen, act like everything was normal in front of your audience, but fuck it felt good.
You thought you heard a whimper from behind you. It was quiet; so quiet that no-one else will have heard it but you. But you heard it.
Pope bit his lip so hard he drew blood and looked up at the sky.
He knew that you were aware by now, which was humiliating in and of itself, but he could feel, actually feel, you getting wet.
Pope's heart raced. You were getting so wet and worked up over him. This was his to keep.
The denim, stretching across his angry, desperate cock, was slowly dampening against his bare upper thigh and boxers.
Pope thought about his pre-cum and your wetness meeting in the fabric of his boxers and melting into each other.
He audibly swallowed and tried not to move an inch. Pope never wanted this to end.
But were you... grinding on him?
It felt like each time you moved, you pressed down a little harder, moved your hips further forward then drag them slowly backwards.
Did you not know what you were doing to him?
Of course you did. But in that moment, it didn't matter. There wasn't a garden filled with lanterns and soft talking. There wasn't your whole family playing an easy game of poker and laughing. There wasn't an anniversary or presents or cake.
There was only Pope's body. Your fake boyfriend. The heat of him, the way he smelled, his arms wrapped tightly around you. The thick thighs caging yours inside, his kindness in going along with this for you, even though you knew it made him feel uncomfortable. There was only where your bodies joined.
Maybe this is all you'd ever have with Pope. All you'd ever get.
He seemed oblivious when you flirted with him, and you'd never seen him with a girlfriend. You figured he just wasn't interested in a relationship, or at least a relationship with you.
But right now, in this moment, he was yours... and it was quite clear he wanted you.
You couldn't help yourself. You chased the feeling, pressing yourself down a little lower, and exaggerated your movements to and from the table. Pope was definitely trying to stifle whimpers now. You teased them out of him as you pushed your pussy down onto his cock.
You felt it twitch. Just once.
You turned a small moan into a cough.
The fewer the players left, the more often cards were put down. You had folded but Pope was still in the game. Of course he was.
It felt like he was purposefully angling his pelvis up into you as he moved. Pope felt guilty about this. You were his friend and you trusted and felt safe with him. He tried to stop, he really did.
But then you made a little movement, a small circle with your hips, and it was game over.
He was going to cum.
In front of all of these people, in front of the girl he loved, and all of her family.
You heard his breathing change, and felt his chest work a little harder, a little faster.
You didn't know whether to help him or swirl your hips harder into him.
You felt another twitch, and then a larger pulse.
You could hear the blood rushing in your ears.
To anyone else, it looked like Pope was murmuring to you. Pope was actually murmuring to himself. 'Ahh... no... uhh fuck... p-please let me... just a mmmmf a few more... uh nooo.'
You felt all of his muscles go rigid around you, his thighs tightening and lifting. Pope pushed himself up against you, unmistakable now, and made small rocking movements. His cock was starting to feel sore, it hurt how much he wanted you, and twitched again. You couldn't breathe. 'Oh God... fuck... I'm-'
'Who wants another drink?' John clapped Pope on the back.
All of Pope's muscles gave way and he scrunched his face so hard he turned red.
Teetering on the edge, the edge he so desperately wanted, but was trying with everything he had not to fall off.
One slight movement from you and it would have all been over.
Pope managed it to pull it back, sweating, then answered your uncle. You felt strangely disappointed. You were aware that this was a strange thing to feel disappointed over. Your fake boyfriend not cumming in his boxers underneath you in front of your family was probably a good thing.
But you would have liked it.
You could have convinced yourself that Pope wasn't just a kind friend, that he did want you, enough to orgasm in secret at your parents' 30th anniversary party.
Pope tried to regulate his breathing as his orgasm faded. His cock was slowly softening from the sudden interruption and the reality of the situation came crashing down.
You were his friend, who he had genuinely wanted to warm up, and who trusted him implicitly. Pope valued that trust like an heirloom.
Maybe it was for the best, then, that he hadn't blown his load into his jeans and made your thighs sticky.
It was easier for him to be disappointed than to hide the wet patch as he said goodbye to your family.
Besides, Pope thought, if he wanted to cum between your legs, he wanted it the right way. He wanted you looking into his eyes, fingers in his hair, moaning his name and begging him for it.
Fuck... he was getting hard again.
--🩷--
Does anyone want a Part 2 or is this a good one-shot?
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