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That was two years ago.

And ever since then, he’s been three steps behind you like a shadow. You were in his bed more nights than you were in your own, your things scattered around his house like they had always belonged there. He paid for your things even if you insisted otherwise, fixed your car without being asked, showed up at your door whenever something so much as creaked out of place. Your relationship was never labeled or announced, but it was understood.

And although Price never claimed you as his, it was a small town. Everyone knew he had some sort of claim on you.

You were made for each other — it’s a sentiment Price would constantly mutter into your ear when he was buried deep inside you. When he was so drunk off you that all he could do was babble your name between praises, swearing that no one else could ever feel like this.

That you were made for him.

He was certain you were completely his. In every way possible — heart and soul. He was a dog, completely loyal and enamored with his owner. And that was exactly why he never felt the need to label your relationship. He didn’t need a word for something that already felt permanent. You were both attached to the hip.

So why?

Why does he feel his blood boil and his thoughts run a thousand miles an hour just watching the new guy in town flirt up a storm with you?

He feels a sensation bubbling in his chest, a feeling he doesn’t recognize. It doesn’t sit like anger or irritation. It sits heavier. Like something pressing against his ribs from the inside.

There you were, all smiles and sparkling eyes, speaking to the man out of nothing more than politeness. It never bothered him before. Men look. They always have. He has never cared.

So why does it feel like something is being tested right now?

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You had only meant to stop by John’s shop to drop off his keys. It was supposed to be quick — in and out, maybe steal a kiss if he wasn’t busy. The bell above the shop door chimed softly when you stepped inside, carrying the faint scent of rain from outside with you. You rubbed the dirt of your boots on the matt, taking in the usual smell of oil and cedarwood, something that clung to your clothes long after you left.

“Hey, sweetie,” a voice worn with age calls from the counter. “How are ya today?”

You give him a warm smile. “I’m doing great, Mr. Fauly. How are you?”

“Eh, seen better days,” he jokes, jerking his thumb toward the garage. “Old man’s waiting on you.”

You let out a short laugh and nod, already turning toward the door. You don’t make it more than a few steps before you walk straight into something solid, the impact knocking a quiet uff out of you as you stumble back.

Hands catch you by the elbows before you can lose your balance.

“Careful there,” he says, steadying you with a grin that shows too many teeth.

“Wouldn’t want you falling for me that fast.”

You scoff while shaking your head, already stepping back, brushing invisible dust from your sleeve. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He didn’t seem deterred. If anything, it encouraged him. He launched into easy conversation— asking about the town, the people, about what there was to do around here.

And you, polite as always, answered.

That's one of the many things Price loved about you, truly. Though in that moment it made him ball his fist, nails digging crescent moons into his palm until his knuckles blanched white. His face remained carved from stone, but the air around him felt heavier, charged. Tools lay abandoned on the counter in front of him.

It takes everything in him not to walk over and pull you away.

Not to step between you and that easy grin. Not to rest a hand on your waist and remind everyone in the room exactly where you belonged.

But that’s not him.

He would never make that choice for you.

You weren’t something to be dragged or claimed in front of an audience. If you wanted to stand there and smile at another man, that was your right. He trusted you completely.

For a second, he just stands there, caught between instinct and restraint. The other man notices. His grin shifts slightly when he glances over at Price.

And then your eyes find him, and your expression softens the second you see him, you lift your hand, waving him over with that small smile that always gets him.

He unclenches his fists, shaking his head once — like your smile pulled him out of whatever he’d been thinking — before walking over, boots heavy against the shop floor.

You beam up at him like nothing in the room has shifted.

“Oh, look John, Harry here was just telling me how it’s only been like two weeks since he moved here and his car already gave out,” you laugh, placing a hand on his chest as you feel his warm, hand slide against your back. “Guess the town’s already testing him, huh.”

Harry.

The name lands harder than you realize.

Price’s eyes flick to the man. Irritation creeps in at the fact that you know his name now. That you’ve spoken it so casually.

“Yeah?” he flatly, completely disinterested in the man's life story.

Harry laughs, but it sounds thinner now. “Bad timing, I guess.”

Price nods once.

“Your car’ll be ready in about two days. Three max,” he says evenly. Already turning his face away like the conversation is finished before it started.

You blink between them, suprised at the sudden shift. Sensing something was wrong but you didn’t quite fully catch it.

You’re sure Harry sensed it by his quiet mutters of a thanks before stepping away, clearly understanding that whatever easy space he thought he had is gone.

“That was a bit rude, no?” you ask, giving him a face as you tap his cheeks lightly.

He looks down at you, feigning mild surprise. “You think?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, baby.”

He says it easily, that teasing smile you knew so well coming back, but you noticed his eyes flick toward where Harry stood just seconds ago.

“Right,” you roll your eyes playfully. “I’m gonna head back. I’ll see you at home, baby.”

He studies you for half a second longer than necessary.

“M’almost done,” he says. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” you say, giving him a look of uncertainty before heading to his office, perched in his chair, watching through the open doorway as he goes back to work.

The wrench moves sharper now, metal clinking louder than it needs to.

His movements have more force behind them than usual. Where he’s usually smooth and almost lazy with it. You’ve seen him irritated before. Seen him tired. Seen him annoyed over stupid customers or long shifts. This isn’t that. He’s quieter, more in his head.

You catch yourself watching him longer than you mean to.

He finishes quicker than usual. Locks up without much small talk to the rest of the guys, keys jangling in his hand as he heads for the door like he’s already decided he’s done for the day.

You follow a step behind him.

He slows just enough to let you walk in front, then his hand brushes your lower back as he reaches for the passenger door, opening it like he always does.

Even with his head somewhere else, the way he treats you never falters.

The ride home is quick, and quiet aside from your chatter and the music humming softly through the radio. The occasional thump and whine from a bump in the road fills the space between your words. His large hand resting on your thigh, rubbing slow circles.

You seriously begin to question what was going when the truck rolls into the driveway and the engine dies. He gets out, walks to your side to open you door and help you out before pressing a quick kiss to your cheek — shorter than usual — and Instead of following you inside, he turns. Straight to the garage.

You pause in the doorway.

“Everything okay babe?” You call out

“Yeah, just gonna work on a few things don't worry,”

It’s been months since he’s spent any time there. He used to live in that garage — buried under tools and grease and half-taken-apart engines. But over the past year, he’s cut back. He’s still a workaholic at heart — always has been — but lately, the garage has been reserved for when his mates come over.

You watch him disappear inside, the metal door groaning shut behind him.

“Okay…” you drag the words.

He just had a rough day, you tell yourself.

That’s all it is.

You step back into the house, the familiar smell of both yourselves hitting you warmly. You kick off your shoes by the door, moving through the living room on autopilot. Dinner gives you something to do. You move around the kitchen, chopping, stirring, setting things out.

Usually, he’s there before the food is even finished. Hovering over the pot, hands sliding around you just to distract you. Touching your waist, your hips, your neck — stealing bites straight from the spoon before you can swat him away. He’ll press his chest to your back, chin resting on your shoulder, grumbling about being hungry even though he’s the one slowing you down.

You can almost hear his low chuckle in your ear, feel the way his fingers would trace idle patterns along your sides just to make you squirm. The kitchen always feels smaller with him in it — stolen kisses between stirring and seasoning.

Tonight, the kitchen stays empty.

“John!” you call out. “Baby, the food’s ready!”

Your voice echoes faintly down the hallway.

No answer.

You pause, listening to the faint thrum of music from the garage.

“John?” you try again.

Silence.

You wipe your hands on a towel and step out of the kitchen, heart beating a little faster than it should. It’s stupid to worry. He’s fine. He’s probably just lost in whatever he’s working on.

“John? Is everything okay?” you ask softly, knocking once before pushing the garage's door open.

You find him slumped back on the couch, head thrown back toward the ceiling, a half-empty beer dangling from his fingers while his free hand drags slowly down his face, like he's trying to erase something from memory.

Even with your fingers gliding over his back — slow, familiar strokes meant to soothe — his frame doesn’t loosen. His shoulders stay tight beneath your touch. His neck rigid.

He doesn’t melt into you the way he usually does.

“Hmm?” he hums, lifting his head and turning toward you. “Yeah. Of course.”

You narrow your eyes, studying him.

John’s never this short with you. Never this careful with his words. Not anymore at least. It hasn’t felt like this since the beginning of your relationship— back when he didn’t quite know how to let you in.

“You’ve just been acting weird,” you say softly. “I’m worried.”

Your mind drifts back to earlier, trying to connect the dots.

The morning had passed in its usual easy rhythm — shower together, eat together. Loud laughter. Familiar touches. Then he left for work, and you ran a few errands of your own. Everything was normal, nothing out of the blue.

Until the shop. Then Harry. Then laughing. The way he leaned a little too close.

Your stomach flips in realization.

“Babe…” you start carefully, stepping around to stand in front of him. “Are you…jealous?”

The word feels strange coming out of your mouth. You’re not even sure it fits. Jealousy wasn't an emotion he wore. At all.

He looks at you, eyes dragging over your face. “Don’t worry about me, lovie,” he sighs, adjusting himself deeper into the couch and spreading his legs.

“I really hope you’re not,” you murmur, tilting your head.

You inch closer, lifting one knee onto the couch beside him, then the other, settling onto his lap with a small huff. Your arms slide around his neck automatically, your body back arching gently as you mold yourself against him, settling into the familiar shape of his large body.

He softens instantly — you can feel it in the slight drop of his shoulders. But his hands hover for a moment before touching you, like he’s holding himself back, but it only makes you snuggle into him more.

“M’dirty, love,” he mutters, voice low.

“I don’t care,” you whisper, bumping your nose against his, loving the way his mustache scratches you just lightly.

That’s when his hands move. They slide up without hesitation this time, settling firmly on your hips before squeezing. The contact pulls a soft giggle from your lips, your forehead brushing against his cheek.

You pull back just enough to trace a finger across his face — over his brow, down the bridge of his nose, across his lips.

“M’serious though,” your voice turns serious.

“And so am I,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your wandering finger. “M’just thinking.” He offers a faint smile.

“Well, I wanna know what you’re thinking,” you pout, finger tapping at his temple. “Let me iiinnn.”

A quiet smile tugs at his mouth. He shakes his head “It’s nothing, sweets.”

Your brows knit together, crossing your arms as you straighten up. “It’s about Harry, isn’t it?”

There it is again. Your pretty lips and sweet tone uttering that name.

The reaction is immediate. His calloused hands tighten at your hips. His jaw flexes once. And you think you’ve found your answer.

“Don’t say his name like you’re mates,” His tongue presses into his cheek as he rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” you amend, a playful smile on your lips. “That guy.”

He grumbles, mood already ruined before answering, “Just don’t like his vibe,”

“When have you ever cared about another man's vibe?” you snort.

“I care.”

“Yeah, you care about a lot of things,” you tease, “Like those reality shows you swear you hate. Or fixing the first thing that creaks. Or those five-for-ten happy hours you act like are a life hack.”

You giggle, catching the way he turns his head to mask the smile creeping through, a soft huff leaving him in half-hearted protest.

Soon the garage fills with your laughter and his low grumbles. After a few quiet moments you blurt out, “But I seriously hope you’re not actually jealous.”

“Because i can’t even imagine being with another man.” You add, lower this time.

You study his face before leaning in and giving him a peck.

“Take such good care of me,”

Another kiss.

Before he can say anything else, you place both hands flat against his chest. Warm and hard under your soft palms. You let them move slowly — dragging down over his pecs, feeling the firm muscle tense under your touch. Down the ridges of his stomach. Over the familiar dips and scars you’ve memorized.

You slide your fingers down to the hem of his pants, pulling at them teasingly before dragging them back up, making sure he feels every slow pass of your hands. He tenses when you brush certain spots, biting his lip as his eyes darken, breath turning heavier.

You were determined now. You were his — entirely. And if there was even the smallest crack of doubt in his mind, you were going to seal it yourself.

“Not when I’ve got the most perfect man right here,” you murmur.

Your hands move upward again, slower this time. Feeling every reminder of the years he’s worked himself into this shape. You reach his face and cup it gently, your thumbs brushing along his cheeks. Your skin prickles under him.

You start planting soft kisses.

His neck.

His jaw.

The corner of his mouth.

His nose.

His ear.

His weak spot.

You let your lips brush against the shell of his ear — barely there, a whisper of contact. His breath hitches immediately, a quiet sound slipping from him before he can stop it. His shoulders tense as his hands move in slow, firm circles over your back.

You begin grinding down on him, panties beginning to stick to your pussy. His grip gets tighter as he hisses, pulling you impossibly closer. His eyes flutter shut for a brief second— and that’s how you know you’ve found the crack in his armor.

“Let me show you, yeah?” you whisper, feeling the familiar tent in his pants rise against you.

You nibble on his ear before dragging your tongue from his lobe to the top, circling once before drawing it into your mouth. Your teeth graze softly.

He goes still, mouth falling open. Each burning touch from you pulls him deeper into the couch, tension easing inch by inch. A low, strained groan escapes him, and the sound alone sends heat rushing through you.

Then, slowly — painfully slow — you slide down from his lap, lips kissing at the fabric of his worn uniform, inhaling him as you go.

You sigh as your hands trail along his chest and stomach as you descend, fingertips dragging, nails scraping. He watches you, his foggy dark eyes tracking every inch of you as his breath picks up.

You kneel between his legs, guiding them apart with your hands while looking at him through your lashes.

“Love, the floor’s dirty,” he says, voice rougher now — yet he doesn’t even attempt to stop you.

You smile faintly, pressing a quick kiss to his clothed thigh before your hand drifts upward, palming him through the fabric until he’s fully hard beneath your touch. A soft sound slips from him.

“I like getting dirty,” you murmur, fingers moving to his belt. You take your time with it, letting the quiet metal click echo between you as you undo it. Another slow kiss, but on his bulge this time.

His breathing turns ragged with every touch.

When you finally free him, you pause. Heart now pounding against your ribcage.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve had him — the sight still steals something from you. You exhale softly, eyes flicking up to meet his before you move to look at his throbbing, aching cock.

Fat, curved, and flushed a deep, angry red at the tip, the color stark against the darker tone at his base. The skin shifts subtly in shade. Dark, neatly trimmed hair rests at the bottom, framing him without hiding anything. The curve isn’t dramatic — but noticeable enough that your eyes trace it instinctively, following the line from base to tip. It never fails to make your mouth water like a slut.

Your hand wraps around him at the base firmly you can feel the weight. The warmth. The slight twitch beneath your fingers when you squeeze. He inhales sharply through his nose as you squeeze once. Then drag your hand all the way up.

Your thumb brushes lightly over his tip before you lean forward and press a messy, open-mouthed kiss there, then another just underneath his tip. You let your lips linger, tongue lapping at the salty precum drooling from his slit. His meaty thighs flexing under you.

His chest vibrates with a low sound. It goes straight through you. He throws his head back for a moment before looking down at you, tongue pressing into his cheek as his breathing picks up.

“Don’t tease me, lovie.”

You giggle, leaving wet kisses all over his length, your hand still moving at the base while the other moves to his balls, massaging them as you drag your tongue in a slow stripe upward, maintaining eye contact when you reach the top.

His fingers curl into the couch beneath him.

You take the tip into your mouth first, slowly, letting your tongue swirl around him before pulling back. His breathing is heavier now. Strained.

Your hand works steadily while your mouth moves with slow, intentional bobs, letting drool fall down his dick as you savor him.

His hand rests on top of your head as you begin moving at a steady pace. He brushes whatever loose strands fall on your face, wanting to see you clearly, your mouth stretched open just for him, slick with your spit.

You hum softly around him, and the vibration pulls a low, gritty groan from his chest. “You’re killing me, sweets.”

A small giggle slips from you before your tongue lays flat along the curve as you bob up and down, twisting and sucking the way you know he loves. The stretch of your mouth burns in a painfully delicious way. You keep moving, going a little deeper each time until you're gagging all over him.

You pull yourself off him slowly, making a show of spitting out what you gagged up and letting it fall down his length. You watch it glide lower, trailing down to his balls and dripping onto the couch. The sight alone makes you moan softly.

You look up at him through your wet lashes, offering a slow, seductive smile before gliding your hand up and down on his dick, spreading the mess over his skin. He grunts and tugs his shirt up, exposing his happy trail to your hungry eyes.

You looked so fucking lewd it completely messed with Price’s head. His thoughts blurred, chest rising and falling heavier as he watched you practically make out with his twitching dick, watching you make a mess of yourself just for him. But your next words are what truly make him hold his breath.

“My man’s so handsome,” you murmur, leaning in to press slow kisses along his lower stomach, just above where your hand continues its steady motion.

His head falls back, a deep, gravelly sound leaving his throat.

“He has the prettiest dick too,” you moan before lowering yourself down, your lips kissing until you reach his heavy balls, slick with your spit. You take one into your mouth while your hand keeps its work. You suck hard, then pull away, letting it fall from your lips with a sharp ‘pop’. You repeat the motion, watching the effect it has on him.

His thighs tense, knuckles turning white as he grips the couch. Mouth growing sharper as he lets out praises in between grunts. He’s trying to hold himself back — jaw tight, chest rising harder with every second — letting you have your way with him. But you can feel it. He won’t last much longer.

“Can’t take it anymore,” he growls lowly.

His hands move suddenly, gripping the sides of your head while the other guides himself back to your mouth. This time he takes control — and you let him. He lifts his hips to meet you, rough and urgent, no more restraint.

Your gags and choked sounds grow louder the more he uses you. You’re no longer in control, and it makes your heart flip and your cunt gush even more. His face contorts, sweat falling from his temple as he watches your eyes roll back, tears spilling freely down your pretty cheeks.

His balls slap against your chin every time the tip hits the back of your throat, the rhythm relentless. Your panties cling uncomfortably to you, the ache between your thighs growing sharper with every movement.

“Fuuuck, mouth feels so fucking good,” he groans, throwing his head back as veins begin to pop out. “Treat this old man s’ fucking good,” he babbles.

But you take it like the good girl he knows you are — eyes glossy, lips parted, hips grinding helplessly while your grip on his thighs turns almost desperate.

He pulls you off, and you’re left gasping for air, lungs burning as you try to balance yourself. He leans down suddenly, gripping your jaw with rough firmness that makes you whimper. His thumb presses into your cheek, forcing your mouth open before he spits into it without breaking eye contact. Some of it splashes against your cheeks.

Before you can even process it, his lips crash into yours — messy and hungry. The kiss is deep and wet, his tongue sliding past your parted lips, claiming the space without hesitation. It’s overwhelming in the way he takes control so easily, like he’s reminding you exactly who sets the pace. Your mind goes fuzzy, your body reacting faster than your pride can catch up.

One of his hands leaves your jaw, sliding down your neck and over your collarbone before traveling lower. His large hand curls around your breast, squeezing tight.

He doesn’t pull away from the kiss. If anything, he deepens it, swallowing your breath along with the quiet sounds you can’t seem to hold back.

He breaks it only for a second, mouth brushing yours as he mutters, “Rub my fucking dick while you kiss me.”

“F-fuck,” you whimper, breathless, your hands lifting automatically to wrap around him, twisting your wrists as you give him a messy, sloppy kiss.

“Back in your mouth, baby,” he grunts, a string of saliva connecting him to the mess of your face before guiding you back down.

He doesn’t even give you a second before thrusting in. One hand grips the back of your neck while the other presses flat against your forehead, holding you tight from both ends to use you like a little toy, pushing deeper with each thrust.

Your throat burns. Mascara runs down your face. The floor and couch are sticky with your mess, but you don’t care. You stay still just for him.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby,” he grits out. “Gonna cum down your thro—ngh, fuck—”

The mind-numbing orgasm rips through him, so intense he swears he feels it in every part of his body. His toes curl, teeth clashing together as a near-animalistic sound tears from his chest.

You squeeze your eyes shut, lashes clumped with tears as you let him finish down your spasming throat, your name falling from his mouth like it’s the only word he knows. He keeps you there a second longer until your breath stutters and your fingers dig into him — but you don’t pull away. You stay put, taking it like a good girl for your man.

Only when his body finally loosens does he let you go. You pull back slowly, chest rising hard as you catch your breath, watching the tension drain from him as his softened dick lands on his thigh with a wet thud, his body finally giving in.

You wipe at your face, still catching your breath, before looking up at him with a small, dazed smile. Your body feels loose in a way that’s almost weightless — overstimulated and warm, limbs heavy but buzzing at the same time. There’s a faint tremble in your hands that you can’t quite control.

“Bloody hell,” he breaths humorously before pulling you onto his lap. His lips meet yours in slow, lazy pecks. You cant help but smile against him. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. Both of you are still breathing hard, your chests rising and falling against each other in uneven rhythm until it slowly begins to sync.

Your fingers trace patterns along his skin without thinking, following the lines of muscle and ink. You don’t even realize you’ve gone quiet until his voice cuts gently through the room.

“You’d tell me if you wanted something different, right?”

The question makes your hand still.

You pull back slightly, blinking at him as the words catch you off guard — well maybe not the words, but his tone. There’s no ego in it. No teasing smirk following.

For a man who just took control so completely, the vulnerability feels almost startling.

You cup his jaw with both hands, thumbs brushing slowly over the sharp line of it. You can see it there, the quiet doubt he won’t say out loud. The need to hear it from you.

“I’m exactly where I wanna be,” you say, voice steady.

He closes his eyes, focusing only on the softness of your touch — the warmth of your skin against his, the steady flow of your breathing. With every inhale, he nuzzles a little deeper into you, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling.

“Marry me then,”

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