Pearl

With a frustrated groan, you push your keyboard away. The scene you’re writing was supposed to be easy, but the mechanics of the characters’ actions and movements aren’t translating to the page like you’d planned.

“How do…” You trail off, clicking your tongue as you raise your hands and try to mimic the main character’s motion. Failing to figure it out, you drop your hands onto the desk. Your left hand lands on yesterday’s newspaper, the front page telling of a murder just down the street from the police station.

Shawn is probably on the case. Which means he might be at the Psych office right now. Just a few minutes away…

You’re out of your writing room and heading toward the office before you even decide to go.

“Mouse,” Gus insists, borderline insistent as you enter the Psych office.

“I’ve heard it both ways,” Shawn counters.

“No, you have not!”

You stop in the center doorway and knock on the wall, waiting for one of them to notice you.

“Mouse,” Gus mumbles before he waves to you.

“Am I interrupting?” you check.

“Who’s the villain in The Nutcracker?” Shawn asks.

“The Mouse King,” you answer.

“Thank you!” Gus exclaims, throwing his arms up.

“You’re telling me Mickey Mouse is out to kill a bunch of ballerinas?” Shawn questions. “It’s not even Christmas, Gus. What will Minnie think?”

“He’s the Mouse King not a- Shawn, have you even seen the play?” Gus demands.

Shawn tilts his head, wide-eyed as he asks, “There’s a play?”

“What are you getting your information from?” you wonder. “The Barbie movie?”

“Hey, don’t knock it, the music is good,” Shawn grumbles.

“I can’t do this with you,” Gus decides, shaking his head as he settles at his desk.

“Working a case, I presume?” you ask Shawn.

He leans back in his chair, nodding up at you.

“How’s it going?”

“Solved it. It was cold.”

“You solved a cold case?” you clarify.

“No, the crime scene was an ice rink. It was literally cold.”

“Oh.”

“What about you?” Shawn inquires. “What brings you by?”

“Peanut cart is back,” you joke.

“Really?” Gus nearly yells, his head snapping up to see you.

“No. Sorry.”

Gus tsks, drawing another apology from you. Then, you step back from Shawn’s desk.

“I actually came to ask for some help. I see you’re busy, so-”

“Help with what?” Shawn interrupts.

You shake your head and send him a small smile. “It can wait. You have cases to work.”

“It’s Uncle Dumbledore,” Shawn states. “There, done.”

“Drosselmeyer,” Gus interjects.

“Yeah, sure, what Lavender said.”

“Great work, Shawn,” you compliment. “I have no idea what that means but well done.”

Shawn waves his hand and offers a rambled explanation about character archetypes.

“You have not heard it both ways,” Gus points out at the end of the hurried monologue

“So,” Shawn draws out, looking at you rather than Gus. “What do you need help with?”

“I’m writing a book,” you begin.

“Book three in an epic series,” Shawn says, nodding.

You stop talking, surprised that he remembered.

“If you need help with that, I require payment. Preferably in the form of telling me what happens after the cliffhanger at the end of book two.”

“I can’t do that,” you argue with a smile.

Shawn frowns, then shakes his head.

“Shawn, I don’t even know what happens next yet.”

“And I sense that you’re lying.”

You roll your eyes, moving backward toward the door.

“Stop,” Shawn calls. You comply without question, so he asks, “How can I help?”

“Really?”

Shawn smiles and nods, so you offer your hand. He takes it willingly, standing and walking behind you as you move into the back of the office. You don’t see him wave excitedly at Gus or how his eyes stray to your hand in his before you stop and take a shaky breath.

“Two of the characters are having a… a passionate moment,” you explain. “And I can’t figure out how they’d move, so I can’t write it.”

Shawn doesn’t reply, keeping his eyes on you as he takes you in. Maybe he should be focused on getting another case, but it’s far more interesting to observe you. Since you entered the office, you’ve been fiddling with your fingers and pressing your lips together. You’re nervous and self-conscious about something. Not your writing, he’s sure of.

“You want a human puppet to show you the position,” Shawn accuses lightly.

“More like I need an explanation,” you murmur, failing to meet his eyes.

You haven’t looked at him yet, Shawn realizes. The closest you’ve come to seeing his face today was a quick glance at his lips. Oh.

“You’ve never been kissed.”

Your shocked look isn’t completely unexpected. The shy nod you give him is the only thing that distracts Shawn from how uncomfortable you are – your hands curled into tight fists as you shift your weight from right to left.

“You’re writing a kissing scene without knowing what it feels like,” Shawn amends.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Could you, uh, tell me what it’s like? How you move?”

“I could,” Shawn answers carefully.

“You’re right, this is weird. I’ll just watch some romcoms. Sorry.”

“I don’t think it’s weird. Can I ask a couple questions first?”

“Sure.”

Shawn gets that faraway look in his eyes that always precedes a random but accurate divination. He’s hyper-observant, yet you’ve never minded being observed by him, even if you’re all but telling him your secrets.

“You’ve really never been kissed?” he asks.

Shaking your head, you wait for the inevitable joke. You definitely don’t expect him to nod and ask about what your characters are doing before the kiss.

“I can tell you what it’s like,” Shawn reiterates. “But I think it would be better for you to experience it.”

“Probably. But I don’t want to go find some random person to kiss just for a few sentences that I could figure out a dozen different ways.”

“Do you want your first kiss to mean something?”

You shift on your feet and ask, “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Most people, yeah.”

Shawn moves into your space, his gaze soft as he drops his eyes to your lips. Your breath catches in the proximity, your body rigid.

“Would it mean something?” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along the side of your neck.

“Yeah,” you admit. “But we don’t- you don’t-”

“What if I want to?” He pushes his bottom lip out and asks, “Would you deprive me?”

“You’re so dramatic,” you murmur.

Shawn smiles the most dangerous smile he has, the one that shows you he has a plan. “Then tell me to shut up.”

“Why?” you question.

“So, I can do this.”

This turns out to be your first kiss. Shawn moves carefully, slowly, respectfully. He cradles your face in his hands and presses his lips to yours. You imitate his movements clumsily until he brushes an arc across your throat with his thumb. Relaxing into his touch, you find your own rhythm and move with Shawn.

Before now, you’d never allowed yourself to realize how desperately you wanted this. The back room in the Psych office might not be the most romantic first kiss location in the world, but it’s still perfect.

“How was that?” Shawn asks after he pulls back.

“Good,” you whisper. “Really good.”

Shawn smiles like he just won something. “Okay, so the ice rink is out but if you want to try that on a date tonight there’s a new taco place on State Street.”

“Wait,” you request. “Are you asking me out?”

“I thought it was fairly clear. The next kiss won't be that nice and neat.”

You roll your eyes, then make another dream come true by agreeing. When you walk back into the heart of the office, Gus sends you a thumbs up. Of course he knows what just happened.

Shawn falls into his chair and pulls a copy of your last book out of his desk drawer. “Now that we’re together, I have some questions that should be answerable under date privileges.”

“You did this to yourself,” Gus reminds you.

Working at a bookstore wasn’t usually thrilling.

Until Johnny Knoxville walked in.

You knew he was coming, obviously—the staff had spent a week prepping for the Q&A and signing event tied to the release of his memoir, Broken, Bruised, and Loving It. But no amount of emails or floor plans or advance copies could prepare you for the real thing: 6 feet of chaos, swagger, and bruised-up charisma in a denim jacket and chipped sunglasses.

He entered like he owned the joint, and maybe in a way he did—half the crowd here tonight was buzzing for him. You watched from the staff counter, silently reciting all the ways you were not going to lose your cool. You weren’t going to fangirl. You weren’t going to blush. You definitely weren’t going to tell him that you used to rewind the “rocket sled” scene like it was your favorite film.

Then he looked right at you.

“Hey,” he called out, pointing from across the room like he recognized you from a dream or a mugshot. “You look like you’ve seen someone fly into a tree before.”

You froze, halfway between setting out bookmarks and forgetting how to breathe. “I, uh… maybe once or twice.”

He smirked and kept walking, but your hands shook for five minutes after.

⸻

The Q&A was chaos in a can. Knoxville told stories like a drunk uncle on a roll—animated, inappropriate, wildly entertaining. He balanced on the edge of a display table, flirted with elderly fans, and mimed multiple stunts with what looked like real trauma in his eyes. The crowd was in love.

So were you, kind of.

Not in the poster-on-your-wall way you’d been in high school. This was worse. This was adult-level infatuation—the kind that came with deeper tension, heavier curiosity, and the unbearable awareness of his mouth when he licked his lips after laughing.

And worse? He kept glancing at you.

Not just once. Repeatedly. Like you were the only calm thing in the whole damn room and he couldn’t stop circling back to it.

⸻

After the signing ended and most people had filtered out, Knoxville lingered behind, sipping from a bottle of water and flipping through a poetry book someone had gifted him.

“Hey,” he said again, sidling up to the register where you were half-cleaning, half-hiding. “You a fan or just immune to weirdness by now?”

You looked up, pulse spiking. “I grew up on your stuff. The old DVDs. The MTV reruns. I watched Jackass 3D in the theater like three times.”

He grinned. “So you’re telling me I was part of your sexual awakening?”

You nearly dropped the pen in your hand. “I—no—what? That’s not—”

“I’m just messin’ with you.” He leaned on the counter, smile wicked but eyes sincere. “Mostly.”

You swallowed. “You want me to get someone to box up the extra copies for you?”

“Nah. I came over to talk to you.”

That pulled your gaze up.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” he said easily, no accusation, just fact. “But not like the others. You weren’t waiting for a selfie. You weren’t screaming. You were just… there. Calm. Cool. Smart.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. “You got all that from how I arranged a stack of books?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had enough concussions to develop weird instincts.”

A beat passed. You watched each other.

Then he asked, gently, “You seeing anyone?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m asking if it’d be wildly inappropriate to ask you out while I’m technically on a book tour.”

Your heart thudded. “Not inappropriate. Just… unexpected.”

He leaned in, voice a little lower. “You’ve got this whole… sweet and dangerous vibe. Like you’d blush if I said something filthy but you’d remember it word for word.”

You were absolutely blushing.

He grinned. “See?”

You hesitated, then blurted, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Worked in a bookstore?” he teased.

“No.” Your voice was soft now. “Like… this. The flirting. The being noticed. The maybe saying yes.”

His teasing eased off instantly. “Shit. You serious?”

You nodded.

He straightened, less wolfish now, more curious. “Okay. Alright. So you’ve been flying under the radar and I’m your first close call?”

Something in his voice made the hair on your arms rise. You felt exposed but not unsafe. Nervous, but not panicked.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he added. “Not tonight. Not unless you want it. I just… don’t meet people like you often.”

You exhaled slowly. “Maybe you should ask.”

His eyes lit up.

“Would you,” he said carefully, “like to grab a drink with me? Somewhere quiet. Somewhere you can still say no to anything you want, but maybe… maybe yes, too?”

Your lips parted, a smile creeping in despite the racing in your chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I would.”

⸻

Johnny picked the dive bar like he’d been born in it.

It was tucked three blocks down from the bookstore, half-lit and humming with the low murmur of locals nursing drinks. No cameras. No screaming fans. Just a jukebox, a dartboard, and a worn booth in the back that looked like it had survived a few bad decisions.

You slid into the seat across from him, pulse still high.

“Alright,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “Now that we’re off the clock, you can tell me what it’s like working at a bookstore full of dusty hardbacks and horny college kids.”

You laughed. “Mostly quiet. A little chaotic during finals. Occasionally I have to stop someone from reading smut aloud in the corner.”

His eyes lit up. “Wait—people do that?”

“More than you’d think.”

“I knew bookstores were kinky,” he said, grinning wide. “Something about all those dog-eared pages and unspoken tension.”

You sipped your drink, raising a brow. “Is that your professional analysis?”

“Babe, I’ve been launched into the air in a porta-potty. I majored in unspoken tension.”

You smiled, but your fingers were still trembling slightly around your glass. It wasn’t nerves exactly—it was that awful, wonderful feeling of anticipation. Like your body already knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

Johnny noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, all the playfulness gone soft around the edges.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… processing.”

“Tell me what’s in your head. I got time.”

You paused. “I guess I’m trying to figure out why you’re even interested in me. You’re—you know—you. And I’m just… the girl who alphabetizes Bukowski collections and secretly watches your movies on sick days.”

He leaned in, folding his arms on the table, eyes steady on yours.

“I’ve had a lot of girls scream for me,” he said. “A lot of parties. A lot of noise. It’s easy to get lost in that. But you—” he tilted his head—“you looked at me like I was real. Not just a dude in a shopping cart with fireworks taped to his ass.”

You bit your lip, heartbeat thudding.

“And if I’m being honest,” he added, “it’s been a long time since someone made me want to slow down.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with meaning.

You barely noticed the way your hand drifted across the table—until his fingers brushed yours, warm and rough and strangely reassuring.

“I’m not good at this,” you said softly.

“I don’t care if you’re bad at it,” he replied. “I just care that it’s real.”

⸻

By the time you stepped out into the night air again, you weren’t ready to say goodbye. He wasn’t either.

So when he asked if you wanted to walk back with him to his hotel, you said yes.

Not because you were sure. Not because you felt like you should. But because something about him—about tonight—made you feel safe in the mess. Seen.

The walk was quiet. Comfortable. The occasional car passed. The city hummed around you. And Johnny, somehow, didn’t fill the silence with jokes. He just matched your pace and held the door for you like he hadn’t once jumped off a roof for a laugh.

⸻

His hotel room was too nice for someone like him. Sleek. Minimal. Very un-Jackass.

He dropped his keycard on the counter, turned to you, and scratched the back of his neck.

“This part’s always awkward,” he admitted. “The, uh, figuring-out-what-happens-now part.”

You swallowed. “I know I said I haven’t… done anything like this before, but I’m not scared. Just…”

“New,” he finished.

You nodded.

He walked over slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, but you didn’t. You stood your ground as he reached out and gently took your face in both hands.

“I’m not gonna rush this,” he said, eyes flicking between yours. “You say stop, it’s stop. You change your mind, it’s cool. But if you want me to kiss you—”

“I do,” you whispered.

And he did.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss you expected from someone like him—wild, erratic, full of adrenaline. It was slow. Focused. His lips were softer than they had any right to be, his hands steady as they cradled your jaw. He kissed you like you were the only thing holding him to the earth.

You sighed into it, letting your arms slide around his waist.

He deepened it just a little—just enough to make you feel it in your knees—before he pulled back and rested his forehead against yours.

“I could get used to that,” he said, voice rough.

You smiled, heart pounding. “So could I.”

His lips were still brushing yours when you whispered, “I want this.”

Johnny paused.

Not because he didn’t believe you. But because you were trembling just enough for him to feel it through your clothes.

He pulled back slowly, resting his hands at your hips, like he was anchoring himself there. “You sure?”

You nodded, heart pounding in your throat. “I’ve thought about it before. Not just… sex. But with someone who makes me feel something.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile. “And I make you feel something?”

You laughed softly. “Johnny, you make me feel everything.”

That grin faltered for a second, replaced with something deeper—something almost reverent.

He kissed you again, slower this time. No urgency. Just the weight of possibility passing between you.

Then he whispered, “Let me take care of you.”

You found yourself being guided gently toward the bed. Johnny’s touch never rushed, never forceful—just steady, warm, patient.

“You good?” he asked, hands pausing at the hem of your shirt.

You swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. I trust you.”

That did something to him. You could see it in his eyes—how careful he became. Like the weight of that trust mattered more than anything.

He tugged your shirt over your head, pausing only to kiss the bare skin just above your heart. Then he let his hands drift down your arms, eyes tracing every inch like he was memorizing you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

Your breath hitched. “You’ve probably said that to a lot of girls.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, kissing the top of your shoulder. “But never like this.”

His fingers worked at your jeans, slow and precise, giving you time to breathe, time to change your mind—but you didn’t want to. You wanted to see where this went.

He kissed every inch of exposed skin as he helped you out of them, his palms firm but gentle at your hips, down your thighs.

When you stood in front of him in nothing but your underwear, he stepped back just slightly, looking you over with genuine admiration.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “How the hell am I supposed to behave now?”

You bit your lip. “Maybe don’t.”

That made him laugh, low and warm, as he reached for the hem of his own shirt. You watched, spellbound, as he peeled it off—revealing that lean, wiry frame you’d seen a hundred times onscreen, now real and right in front of you.

Faded bruises. Scars. Tattooed chaos.

And still, something soft in the way he looked at you.

“C’mere,” he said, pulling you close again, skin to skin.

The first time his chest pressed against yours, you gasped at the heat of it, the feel of him—all bone and muscle and heartbeat.

He kissed your temple. “Still okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

The bed dipped beneath you both as he climbed in, settling beside you instead of over you. His touch stayed exploratory—not demanding.

“You nervous?” he asked quietly, fingers tracing your ribs beneath the curve of your bra.

You nodded. “A little.”

“I’ll talk you through it,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, then your neck. “No pressure. No rush. Just me, and you, and this.”

Your fingers dug lightly into his back as he moved lower, lips trailing warmth down your collarbone.

He whispered everything he was doing—where he was touching, why—like a guided meditation with a dirty mouth. And God, it worked. It grounded you. Made you feel like this wasn’t just happening to you—it was something you were doing together.

When his hands slid beneath your bra and cupped your breasts, he groaned softly into your skin. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

You tilted your head, flushed. “You imagined this?”

“Babe,” he said, grinning into your cleavage, “I’ve been imagining it all day.”

You laughed, breathless, as he undid the clasp and tossed your bra aside.

Then he paused, just for a second—eyes meeting yours—before he leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth.

You cried out softly, hips twitching at the sudden spike of pleasure. He groaned at the sound, sucked a little harder, then switched to the other side, hand trailing down your stomach.

“Still good?” he murmured.

“Yes,” you gasped.

He smiled against your skin. “Then hold on, baby. ‘Cause I haven’t even gotten started yet.”

“Relax,” Johnny whispered as his hand slid down between your legs. “Let me feel you.”

You were already soaked, the cotton of your underwear clinging to you in a way that made him groan against your neck.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw. “You’re so wet. You been holding onto this for a while, haven’t you?”

You couldn’t speak—could barely think. You just nodded, hips rocking into his palm.

He touched you through the fabric first, slow. The pad of his finger traced the shape of you, finding your clit with practiced ease. He didn’t rush—just circled, barely-there pressure, teasing you until your thighs started to shake.

“You’re doing so good,” he said softly. “Let me take these off, baby.”

You lifted your hips and let him slide your underwear down your legs. When you were finally bare beneath him, he took a second—just looked—and exhaled like the sight physically did something to him.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmured, fingers dragging gently through your folds. “All of you.”

Then his mouth replaced his hand.

You gasped—loud—as he licked a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, then did it again, like he needed the taste.

“Oh my God—” you panted, hips lifting.

He grinned against you. “You taste even better than I imagined. Think I could stay here all night.”

And he almost did.

His tongue moved in slow, teasing patterns, sucking and flicking until your moans filled the room. He didn’t rush your build-up—just watched you unravel, voice full of praise every time you whimpered his name.

When you started to tighten, he slowed down.

“Not yet,” he said, voice gravel over honey. “I wanna be inside you when you come.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and trembling. “Are you sure? I—what if I’m not good?”

He smiled, the kind of soft, warm grin that made your chest ache. “There’s no such thing as bad when it’s real.”

Then he kissed you—deeply, like you hadn’t just had his mouth on you seconds ago—and when he pulled back, you felt stripped down to your soul.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He reached into the nightstand, rolled on a condom, then came back to you—slower this time, gentler. He hovered above you, arms caging your head, eyes locked on yours.

“I’m gonna go slow,” he said, kissing your forehead. “Tell me if it hurts. I’ll stop.”

You nodded.

Then he pushed in.

Your breath caught—stretch, pressure, a little ache—and your hands fisted in the sheets.

Johnny didn’t move.

He just kissed your jaw, whispered praise, waited until your muscles stopped clenching around him. He was warm, solid, grounding.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just… full.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah, baby. You’re perfect like this.”

When he started to move, it was so slow—shallow thrusts, hips rocking just enough to make you feel everything. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, grounding you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured. “you’re taking me so well.”

You moaned at the words, and he grinned. “Oh, you like that, huh?”

“Yeah,” you gasped.

“Good. ‘Cause I’ve got a lot more where that came from.”

He began thrusting a little deeper, the stretch easing now, your body melting beneath him. The ache had turned into something else entirely—hot and thick and needy.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and strained. “Can’t believe this is your first time. You feel like a fucking dream.”

You whimpered, pulling him closer. “Johnny—please—”

“I got you,” he promised. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock.”

It hit like a wave—your orgasm crashing through you, sharp and sweet, clenching around him until he groaned deep in his chest and buried himself to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You feel so good—I can’t—”

He followed with a loud, broken moan, hips jerking once, twice, then stilling.

He stayed inside you for a while, kissing your cheek, your temple, brushing your hair back from your sweaty face.

“You okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, still dazed. “I feel amazing.”

He pulled out carefully, kissed your knee, then got up to grab a towel and clean you gently.

You watched him move—naked, sweet, ridiculously tender—and felt something deeper than lust settle in your chest.

When he came back, he crawled under the sheets and pulled you into his arms without a word.

You curled into his chest, fingers tracing the ink on his ribs.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He looked down at you, brow furrowed like you’d said something wild. “For what?”

“For being so…” You trailed off, searching for the right word. “Kind.”

His grin was soft this time. “Hey. You made it easy.”

You fell asleep on his chest, his arm around you, his fingers idly stroking your spine. For a man who once got punched by a bull on camera, he held you like you were made of glass.