baby girl

note: I mean no hate towards anyone, this is just a work of fiction. Don’t like it, don’t read it. Be aware that English is not my first language, you can tell me if something doesn’t make sense. Also, please, comment! It means a lot to me to know if you like my work.

The house always smelled like old vinyl, and whatever whiskey my Dad was nursing that week. Our place in the hills wasn’t a mansion, it was a compound: half recording temple, half lived-in rock ’n’ roll museum. Guitars on every wall, gold and platinum records catching the light like mirrors, and the constant low hum of music bleeding from the basement studio my father, Marcus, had built before I was even born. I was twenty-something and had never known a world without music. I had taken my first steps between microphone stands, guitars and musicians. My earliest memories were falling asleep on the leather couch while Dad and his band laid down tracks at 3:00 a.m. Music wasn’t a career in this house, it was oxygen.

I padded upstairs barefoot in cut-off denim shorts and an oversized Black Sabbath tee that hung off one shoulder, my hair all messy. I was supposed to be answering emails for Dad’s label, supposed to be, but the new riff he’d been obsessing over had been stuck in my head all day, and I wanted to hear what they’d done with it. The studio door was cracked open, low laughter rolled out, warm and masculine, followed by the unmistakable sound of Dad’s gravelly voice saying:

– Jesus, Ackles, you’ve got tone for days. That growl… Do it again.

I pushed the door wider and froze. Jensen was standing in the middle of the live room like it was his. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a simple black shirt that stretched across his chest and arms in a way that made my stomach flip, his hair was a little longer than I remembered from TV, and the stubble along his jaw looked like it would feel rough in all the best ways. He looked like a man who’d lived, who knew exactly who he was, and carried it without apology. He held one of Dad’s vintage guitars like it was an old friend, fingers relaxed. When he glanced up and saw me, those green eyes crinkled at the corners with polite surprise. Dad turned, grinning:

– There’s my girl. Come meet Jensen. We wrapped his latest project last month and the man finally let me drag him into the real studio.

He introduced both of us. I am the only daughter of rock legend Marcus, professional studio brat and part-time hopeless romantic. I stepped inside, suddenly hyper-aware of my bare legs and the fact that I hadn’t bothered with a bra. Jensen’s gaze stayed on my face, like a perfect gentleman. Of course he was.

– Nice to meet you – he said, and the way he said my name, voice low and smooth with that faint Texas drawl still clinging to the edges, made me shiver. 

He offered his hand, big, warm, calloused from guitar strings and who knows what else. When I shook it, I felt the strength he was clearly holding back. My pulse did something stupid.

– Likewise – I managed, hoping I didn’t sound as breathless as I felt.  – Didn’t know we were having company today or I would’ve…

Worn real pants? Put on lipstick? Stopped drooling internally?

– She’s been swimming in this world since she could crawl. Knows more about microphones than most engineers twice her age. – Said my dad. 

Jensen’s smile was easy, respectful: 

– Explains the good taste in shirts.

I glanced down at the faded Sabbath logo and felt heat crawl up my neck. He noticed. 

For the next hour I tried to pretend I was answering emails on my dad's notebook, but mostly I watched Jensen work. Dad would throw out a chord progression and Jensen would find the perfect harmony making my dad actually whistle. They fell into an easy rhythm, trading stories about late nights on set versus late nights on the road. Every time Jensen laughed, a deep, genuine, the kind that made the skin around his eyes crinkle, I felt it somewhere low in my belly. He was so much older than me. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that made him feel like another species entirely: steady, grounded, ridiculously competent. The kind of man who opened doors and remembered how you took your coffee after hearing it once. And God, he was beautiful. Not pretty boy beautiful anymore, but man beautiful, strong jaw, broad chest, those forearms corded from years of whatever men like him did to stay looking like that. 

He caught me staring once. Our eyes met across the control room glass. For half a second something flickered there, something warm, maybe amused, but then it was gone, replaced by that same polite, gentlemanly smile.

– Need anything? – he asked when I brought him a fresh coffee later.

You. Preferably shirtless and telling me what you would do with that mouth. I smiled sweetly instead:

– Just making sure the old man isn’t working you too hard.

Jensen chuckled, low: 

– Your dad’s a bad influence. In the best way.

Dad was already lost in a new idea, headphones half-on, muttering into a mic. Jensen’s attention drifted back to the board, but not before he added, almost absently:

– Nice to have another set of ears around here. You should stick around if you’ve got time.

My heart did a traitorous little somersault. I’d grown up with rock stars drifting through my living room and never once had I felt this off balance, but Jensen Ackles, so much older, polite, educated, stupidly handsome, and built like he could throw me over his shoulder without breaking a sweat, had walked into my dad’s studio and turned the air electric. And he hadn’t even tried.

The house was alive in that perfect, chaotic way it only got when Dad decided to throw one of his “small” gatherings. Which, in Marcus' world, meant half a dozen legendary musicians, a few engineers, a couple of old roadies, and enough whiskey and wine to float a battleship. Vinyl playing somewhere, and the warm Texas night carried the scent of grilled steaks and cigar smoke. I’d spent the afternoon “helping”: swapping out records, sneaking sips of Dad’s good bourbon, and changing into something that made me feel dangerous: a short black sundress that skimmed my thighs, thin straps, and just enough red lipstick to match the neon “RECORDS” sign glowing above the basement stairs. My hair fell loose and wild down my back. All because Jensen was coming. Dad had practically adopted the man after their first few studio sessions.

I was in the kitchen refilling a tray of glasses when I felt it, the shift in the air. Deep laughter rolled in from the living room, low and familiar. I stepped out just in time to see Jensen ducking through the doorway, a red cap pulled low, wearing a worn denim shirt over a black tee that did nothing to hide how broad and solid he was. He carried a bottle of top-shelf bourbon like a peace offering and shook hands with Dad like they were old war buddies.

– Jensen, you son of a bitch – Dad grinned, pulling him into a back-slapping hug. – Glad you made it. Come on, the boys are already arguing about the setlist. 

Jensen’s green eyes swept the room until they landed on me, for a beat longer than necessary. His gaze flicked down once, just briefly, before snapping back to my face with that same gentlemanly control.

– Hey – he said, voice warm with that honey-rough drawl.  – Good to see you again.

– Jensen –  I smiled, stepping closer under the excuse of taking the bourbon from him. Our fingers brushed. His were warm, steady. Mine felt electric.  – You clean up nice after a long day in the studio.

He chuckled softly: 

– Can’t show up empty-handed to a party of your Dad's. He’s been bragging about your record collection. Said you’ve got opinions.

– Strong ones – I replied, tilting my head.  – You should come see it later. I’ll judge your taste.

Dad was already pulling him toward the porch where guitars were being tuned and old friends were shouting greetings. I watched Jensen move through the crowd, always relaxed, effortlessly commanding the space without trying. He laughed at something one of the session players said, accepted a beer, and within minutes had a guitar in his lap like it belonged there. The night unfolded the way these things always did at our house: loud, warm, electric. Someone started playing an old Willie Nelson song on the porch. Jensen’s voice joined in smoky, and surprisingly smooth on the harmonies. I leaned against the doorframe with a glass of red wine, watching the way his fingers moved, the way his shoulders shifted as he played. The porch lights caught the stubble on his jaw and the faint sheen of sweat at the base of his throat. He was so much. Big arms, strong hands, that quiet confidence that made every rock star around him seem a little louder than necessary, and still, every time our eyes met across the crowd, he gave me that same polite, slightly amused smile. No heat. No obvious want. Just him. It was driving me crazy. 

Later, when the party thinned a little and most people had migrated back inside toward the records and the good whiskey, I slipped upstairs to the studio. I was flipping through albums when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Jensen appeared in the doorway, cap gone now, hair a little messy from running his hand through it. He looked even better in the low red glow.

– Escaping? – I asked, holding up a rare pressing of a Stevie Ray Vaughan record. 

– Needed a breather – he admitted. His eyes moved over the walls lined with guitars, framed photos, and shelves packed with vinyl.  – This place is incredible. Your dad said you practically grew up here.

– I did. – I stepped closer, holding the record out like an offering. – Born between music and shows and rock, like I told you. This room raised me more than any school did.

He took the album carefully, his big hands respectful on the sleeve. When he looked back at me, standing just a little too close in the intimate light of the studio, something tightened in my chest. I could smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean, and the faint trace of bourbon on his breath.

– You’ve got good taste – he murmured, voice lower than before.

My pulse kicked hard. I bit my lip, then let the words slip out before I could stop them: 

– So do you, apparently. You keep coming back.

Jensen’s gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second, the first real crack I got in that gentleman armor, before he met my eyes again. A slow, almost reluctant smile curved his lips:

– Your dad’s a hard man to say no to.

I took another small step forward, close enough that I had to tilt my head up to look at him properly: 

– And me?

He exhaled a quiet laugh, the sound warm and rough: 

– You’re trouble, sweetheart.

The word sweetheart landed like a match on dry kindling, but before I could push, before I could rise up on my toes and do something reckless, Dad’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs: 

– Ackles! Get down here! We’re doing that new riff you wrote!

Jensen’s eyes lingered on mine a moment longer, polite mask sliding back into place, though I swore I saw the faintest heat behind it.

– Duty calls – he said softly. His hand brushed my arm as he passed.

Then he was gone, leaving me alone in the red glow of the studio with my heart hammering and my lips still tasting the ghost of possibilities. I pressed my fingers to my mouth, smiling like an idiot. He might be a perfect gentleman, but I wasn’t.

The party had reached that perfect hazy tipping point. Voices grew louder, then softer, laughter louder, music dialed down to a warm, bluesy hum drifting from the outdoor speakers. Empty bottles and half-full glasses littered the patio tables. A few of Dad’s friends had migrated inside to argue over rare vinyl, while others sprawled on couches with cigars and old stories. I slipped away to the far end of the backyard, where the string lights faded into softer shadows near the big oak tree. 

The night air was thick and warm, carrying the scent of jasmine and distant rain. I settled onto the wide wooden bench, a neatly rolled joint in hand, and lit it up. The first deep inhale settled something restless in my chest. I tipped my head back, letting the smoke curl slowly toward the stars.

Footsteps on the grass. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was. Jensen appeared at the edge of the shadows, hands in the pockets of his jeans, that denim shirt unbuttoned one more than it had been earlier. His hair was a little messier now, sleeves rolled up over those strong forearms. He stopped a respectful distance away, eyebrows lifting slightly when he saw the glowing tip of the joint between my fingers.

– Escaping again? – I asked, smiling lazily as I exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

– Needed some air, – he said – social batteries started to run low. – His green eyes flicked from my face to the joint and back. – Didn’t mean to interrupt your private moment. 

– You’re not, you never interrupt. – I held the joint out toward him, offering.  – Want some? It’s really nice. Helps unwind after long studio days.

Jensen let out a soft, amused chuckle and shook his head: 

– Appreciate it, but I’m good. I’m a little too old for that shit. Last thing I need is to be the forty-eight-year-old guy getting crossed at your dad’s house.

I laughed quietly, taking another slow drag while watching him. 

– Too old? Please. One hit won’t kill you, Jensen. Live a little.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, that perfect stubble catching the faint light. For a moment he just looked at me, like he was weighing something. The polite gentleman mask was still there, but it was fraying at the edges. We talked for a few minutes, the easy things at first, how he’d gotten into music again after wrapping his latest project, how different the energy was here compared to a sterile studio or a film set, how my dad had basically strong-armed him into coming tonight and he didn’t entirely regret it. Every time he smiled, small lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes, and I felt myself leaning toward him without meaning to.

Eventually I held the joint out again, tilting my head with a playful little challenge: 

– Come on. Just one. For the experience. I promise I won’t tell Dad.

Jensen exhaled a quiet laugh, running his hand through his hair. 

– You’re trouble, you know that?

– So I’ve been told.

He hesitated one more second, then leaned closer. His fingers brushed mine as he took the joint. He brought it to his lips with the casual confidence of someone who definitely knew what he was doing, even if he pretended otherwise. He inhaled slowly and deep, holding it for a beat before letting the smoke drift out through his nose and parted lips. The way his mouth moved, the subtle flex of his jaw, the way his broad chest rose and fell… God. He looked insanely hot doing it, and relaxed, and masculine, completely in control, even while indulging. The smoke curled around his face, softening the hard lines of his features for a moment, and when those green eyes met mine again, there was a new, heavier warmth in them.

– Damn – he murmured, voice rougher now as he passed it back. – That’s smooth.

– Told you. – I took it back, our fingers lingering this time. My pulse was hammering. – You’ve done this before. – A crooked, self-deprecating smile. 

– Oh, please. I've been in this world a long time… 

We passed it back and forth a few more times in comfortable silence broken by quiet conversation. The weed worked its magic, loosening the air between us. Jensen sat on the bench beside me, not too close, but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his big frame. He looked even better up close like this: relaxed shoulders, the faint sheen of night air on his skin, his deep voice telling me a funny story about a disastrous late night jam session years ago.

Every time he brought the joint to his lips, I couldn’t stop staring. The way he held it between those long fingers. The way he inhales. The way his throat worked when he exhaled. He was so much older, stronger, experienced in ways I could only imagine and yet here he was, sharing this quiet, slightly hazy moment with me in the dark backyard while the party hummed on without us.

– You’re staring – he said softly after a while, catching me again. There was amusement in his voice, but also something else. 

– Can you blame me? – I replied, emboldened by the weed and the way he hadn’t pulled away. – You make everything look good.

Jensen chuckled, shaking his head as he passed the joint back one last time:

– Careful, sweetheart.

There it was again, the sweetheart said in that gravel-soft voice. My skin tingled. The joint burned down between us. The music from the house had grown even quieter, little more than a distant heartbeat. And for the first time since he’d walked into my dad’s studio, Jensen wasn’t just being the perfect gentleman. He was looking at me like he was starting to forget why he should be.

The morning after the party, the house smelled like coffee, leftover smoke, and regretful hangovers. Dad was already upstairs in the studio by nine, because he didn’t believe in days off when a song was calling. Jensen showed up later, looking unfairly composed in a black t-shirt and worn jeans, coffee in hand and a cap turned backwards. Only the faint tiredness around his eyes gave away the late night. I made sure I was there too. I’d chosen a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts that rode up when I moved. 

I didn’t give a shit about playing it cool anymore. I wanted him, and I was done pretending otherwise.

– Morning – I announced, sliding into the control room with fresh coffee refills. I set Jensen’s down right beside him, leaning in just enough that my arm brushed his shoulder. – How’s the head after last night?

Jensen’s eyes flicked up to mine. That polite smile was there, but his gaze lingered a second too long on the strip of skin above my waistband. 

– Clearer than it should be. You?

– Perfect – I said, holding his stare.

Dad was already lost in the board, adjusting levels on the new track they’d been building. He grunted something about “adding a bridge” and waved us off. Jensen cleared his throat and turned back to the guitar in his lap, but not before I caught the way his jaw flexed. They worked for hours. Every time he leaned forward to play something new, I watched the shift of muscle in his arms and shoulders and felt heat pool low in my stomach.

I made myself useful. Brought snacks. Adjusted mics. Sat cross-legged on the couch in the live room, notebook in my lap, pretending to write lyrics while really just watching him. When Dad stepped out to take a call, I didn’t waste the opportunity. I walked into the booth where Jensen was tuning his guitar:

– You were really good last night – I said softly, stopping close enough that he had to look up at me. – Smoking with me. The talking. Letting go a little.

Jensen set the guitar aside and stood. He was so tall, so broad in the small space. He said my name with a warning in his tone, but his voice was lower than usual:

– That was… a one time thing. I’m too old for that shit. And you’re…? 

I said my age, finishing the sentence for him, stepping closer. 

– Not a kid. I know what I want.

His green eyes darkened. For a moment I saw it, before he blinked and looked away:

– Your dad’s right outside. And even if he wasn’t… This isn’t a good idea.

– I don’t really care – I reached up and lightly brushed a stray piece of hair from his forehead. He didn’t pull back. – I care about how you looked at me when we were out there. How you look at me now when you think I don’t notice.

Jensen caught my wrist gently, but firmly, his big hand warm against my skin.

– You’re the kind of trouble I can’t afford, honey.

I rose onto my toes, lips inches from his: 

– Then why are you still holding my wrist?

He let go like I’d burned him, but the heat in his eyes didn’t fade. Dad’s footsteps on the stairs saved us both. Jensen stepped back, picking up the guitar like armor. 

The rest of the afternoon was charged. Every glance between us crackled. When Jensen sang a particularly raw take, his eyes found mine through the glass and held. I bit my lip and didn’t look away. He wanted me. I could feel it in the way he over-corrected his polite distance, in the way his hand would accidentally brush mine when passing a coffee, in the quiet tension that thickened the air every time Dad left the room.

Later that evening, after Dad had declared the session a success and gone upstairs to “make some calls” (code for falling asleep in his chair), Jensen lingered in the control room, packing up slowly. I leaned against the doorframe, watching him:

– You don’t have to run, you know.

He straightened, turning to face me. The studio lights cast shadows across his handsome face, highlighting the stubble and the faint lines that only made him hotter.

– I’m not running. I’m trying to do the right thing here. You’re young. I've got many years on you. Your dad trusts me.

– I trust you too – I said, walking over until I was right in front of him. My voice softened, and for once it wasn’t just the chase. – And it’s not just that I want you, Jensen. I like you. The way you listen when I talk. The way you treat the music. The way you are with my dad…

Something shifted in his expression, maybe conflict, desire, and a flicker of real warmth. He lifted a hand like he might touch my face, then dropped it with a low exhale:

– You’re making this very hard.

– Good – I whispered, smiling up at him.  – I’m not stopping.

He let out a rough chuckle, shaking his head, but when he looked at me again there was no hiding the hunger. 

– Get some rest, sweetheart. We’ve got more sessions tomorrow.

He left before I could push further, but I caught the way his shoulders stayed tense as he walked out. His mask was cracking. And I was going to enjoy every second of watching him fall.

Jensen pulled up at the house the next afternoon with a fresh coffee in the cupholder and a determined grip on the steering wheel. He’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, replaying the timbre of her voice and the way her body had leaned into his space like she belonged there. By morning he’d talked himself down: she was young, impulsive, and Marcus’s daughter. Off-limits. He was here to make music, nothing more.

He walked into the studio like he always did, the easy stride, polite smile already in place.

– Marcus! – He called out.

Marcus was already behind the board, nursing a black coffee and muttering at a waveform. 

– Yeah, yeah. I'm here. 

She wasn't nowhere to be found at the studio, like she always was. 

– Where's your daughter? – Jensen asked, like it didn't mean anything. 

– Around here somewhere. Probably still sleeping.

Jensen shrugged like it didn’t matter. He dropped his bag, picked up the guitar, and started warming up, fingers moving on autopilot while his ears stayed tuned for the sound of bare feet on the stairs. Nothing. They worked for twenty minutes. Jensen kept his focus on the music, nodding at Marcus’s suggestions. But the studio felt too quiet without her. He hated how aware of that he was.

Then, while Marcus was deep in his headphones, adjusting a vocal comp, Jensen stepped out of the control room to grab a fresh bottle of water. The big picture window at the top of the stairs overlooked the backyard pool. He glanced out, casual, nothing more. And froze. She was stretched out on a lounger, right by the water’s edge, sunlight pouring over her like liquid gold. Topless. Just a tiny black thong riding high on her hips, the rest of her completely bare. Her skin glowed, warm and smooth, breasts full and relaxed under the sun. A silver nipple piercing on her left breast caught the light and flashed like a wicked little secret every time she shifted. She looked like pure sin and summer heat, the legs slightly parted, one arm draped lazily above her head, sunglasses on, completely unbothered. 

Jensen’s grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic creaked. Heat slammed through him so fast it made his head spin. His body reacted instantly: blood rushing south, pulse pounding in his ears. She was stunning. Young, reckless, and so fucking tempting it hurt. 

For one dangerous second he let himself imagine walking out there, running his hands over that sun warmed skin, tasting the metal of that piercing against his tongue. He took a step back and nearly missed the top stair.

– Shit. – He caught the railing just in time, heart hammering. The bottle slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly down two steps before he snatched it back up. 

Marcus’s voice drifted from the control room: 

– You good out there, Ackles?

– Yeah – Jensen called back, forcing his voice even. – Just… Dropped something. Be right there. – He dragged in a slow breath, willing his body to calm down.

She’s too young. His friend’s daughter. Too young. Too complicated. The words looped in his head like a mantra, but they did nothing to erase the image burned behind his eyes: those soft curves, the glint of silver at her nipple, the tiny black thong that left almost nothing to the imagination.

When he finally stepped back into the control room, his face was carefully neutral, jaw tight. Marcus didn’t even look up. Jensen sat down, picked up the guitar again, and tried to focus. But every few minutes his gaze drifted toward the stairs, toward that window. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it was wrong. Still, the desire was there, growing hot, heavy, and harder to ignore with every passing second. 

Downstairs, in the backyard, by the pool, eyes covered by dark sunglasses, she was smiling, because she saw him through the big glass window.

The studio clock glowed past midnight. Marcus had called it quits around eleven, clapping Jensen on the shoulder with a tired grin: 

– Finish whatever you want, man. Lock up when you’re done. Bea’s probably out or asleep already.

Then he’d headed upstairs, leaving the house wrapped in heavy silence broken only by the low hum of the monitors and the occasional creak of the old wooden beams.

Jensen told himself he stayed because the new bridge needed work. The melody had been gnawing, unfinished, at him all day. That was the reason. Not the memory of sun warmed skin and a flashing silver piercing. Not the way she had disappeared after her little pool performance, leaving him edgy and distracted through every take. Definitely not the quiet hope that she might still be awake.

He ran another pass on the vocal, headphones half on, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the console. He tried not to check the stairs every few minutes. She wasn’t coming. Good. That was good. But then the studio door clicked open. Jensen looked up  and every rational thought in his head short-circuited. 

She stood in the doorway like a walking temptation. Tiny black cotton shorts that barely covered the curve of her ass, riding high on her thighs. Above that, a thin white top with delicate buttons down the front. Most of them were undone. The fabric gaped open, barely containing her breasts, the soft inner curves fully visible, nipples only just covered by the remaining strained buttons. The silver bar of her nipple piercing pressed visibly against the thin material on one side, a blatant, teasing outline that caught the low studio lights every time she breathed. Her hair was loose and messy, like she’d just climbed out of bed. Bare feet. No bra.

– Hey – she said softly, voice low and a little husky from sleep or smoke or both. – Saw your car parked outside, figured you might be down here… Finishing things.

Jensen’s throat went dry. He forced his eyes up to her face, but the damage was already done. His body had reacted instantly, the heat flooding low, pulse kicking hard. She looked sinful. He could see the faint tan lines from her afternoon by the pool, the way her tits shifted with each step as she came further into the control room.

Her name came out of his mouth and his voice sounded rougher than he intended: 

– It’s late. You should be sleeping.

She smiled, slow and knowing, and leaned against the edge of the console right beside him. The movement made her top gape even more. 

– I tried. Kept thinking about you here. All alone. – Her eyes drifted over his broad shoulders, the way his black t-shirt stretched across his chest. – You’ve been avoiding me all day.

– I wasn’t. – He stopped, jaw tightening. He had been. After the pool incident he’d kept his head down, stayed glued to Marcus, pretended the image of her topless hadn’t been burned into his brain. – Your dad’s in his room. This isn’t…

– Isn’t what? – She turned toward him fully, close enough that he could smell her. – A good idea? I know. You keep telling me.

Jensen exhaled sharply and stood up, needing distance. But the control room was small, and moving only brought him closer to her. He towered over her, big and solid, every inch the forty-eight-year-old man who knew better. His hands flexed at his sides like he was fighting the urge to touch.

– You’re killing me here, sweetheart – he muttered, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it. His gaze dropped again to the open buttons, the teasing flash of silver against fabric. – You know exactly what you’re doing.

She stepped into his space, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. No hesitation.

– Yeah. I do. - -Her voice softened, and for a moment the bold, spoiled girl gave way to something more honest. – I want you, Jensen. Not just because you’re hot as hell and older and make me stupid. I like you. The real you. The way you look at me like you’re trying so hard to be good.

She reached up and lightly traced a finger along the edge of his jaw, feeling the stubble. 

Jensen caught her wrist one more time, the same firm, gentlemanly grip as the other day. His breathing had grown heavier. And for one long, dangerous second he let himself imagine pushing her back against the console, undoing the last two buttons with his teeth, tasting that piercing while she gasped his name. Instead, he closed his eyes for a beat, fighting every instinct. 

– You’re Marcus’s daughter. You're too young. I’m forty-eight, honey. This is… Complicated as hell.

– I don’t care about complicated – she whispered, pressing closer until her barely covered breasts brushed his chest. – Do you want me? 

The silence stretched, thick and electric. Jensen’s hand tightened on her wrist. His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper:

– Too fucking much.

The words hung between them like a live wire. Jensen stared down at her, chest rising and falling heavily. The polite gentleman was gone, and in his place was a man barely holding onto the last threads of control. He muttered a low curse under his breath, stepped back, and dropped onto the wide leather couch in the corner of the control room. His big hands ran through his hair, tugging at the dark strands as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

He growled, voice rough with frustration and want: 

– This is insane.

She didn’t hesitate, just crossed the small space slowly, hips swaying just enough to make the tiny cotton shorts ride higher. When she reached him, she placed one hand firmly on his broad chest and pushed. And he let her. His back hit the couch as she climbed onto him, swinging one leg over and settling into his lap, straddling him completely. The heat of her core pressed right against the growing bulge in his jeans. Jensen’s hands moved instantly, his strong palms sliding over her bare hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh just beneath the hem of her shorts. He gripped her hard, like he was torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer. A low groan rumbled in his chest when she rocked once, deliberately grinding down against him.

He said her name as a warning, but his hands didn’t let go. If anything, they pressed her down firmer, letting her feel exactly how hard he was beneath her. She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, her breasts hovering inches from his face.

– What do you want, Jensen? – she whispered, voice sweet and filthy all at once. – Please, tell me.

He closed his eyes, head tilting back against the couch. His fingers flexed on her hips, thumbs stroking the skin just above her waistband. 

– We shouldn’t – he rasped. – Your dad is near. I’m too goddamn old for this. You’re…

– I’m right here – she murmured, rolling her hips again, slow and teasing. – And I’m asking what you want, Jensen! 

Jensen’s breath hitched. The internal battle played out across his handsome face, his eyes dark with hunger. After a long, tense moment, he exhaled sharply: 

– I want to eat you whole – his voice dropped even lower, almost embarrassed by the admission. – Been thinking about that fucking piercing of yours since this afternoon.

Her lips curved into a satisfied, wicked smile. She didn’t rip the top open. She didn’t undo the last two buttons. Instead, she reached into the deeply gaping neckline and carefully maneuvered her breasts out one by one, pulling them over the fabric so they sat exposed and pushed together above the bunched material. The silver nipple piercing on her left breast gleamed under the low red studio lights, catching every flicker. Jensen’s eyes went molten. A rough sound escaped him as he leaned forward without another word.

His mouth closed over her right breast first, hot and wet, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before he sucked deeply. She gasped, arching into him, one hand sliding into his hair. He groaned against her skin, the vibration shooting straight between her legs. Then he moved to the pierced nipple, licking around the silver bar with careful, reverent strokes before drawing it into his mouth with just the right amount of pressure.

– Fuck, Jensen… – she breathed, grinding down harder on the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans.

He sucked harder, one big hand coming up to cup her other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple. His other hand stayed locked on her hip, guiding her movements as she rocked against him. The hunger he’d been holding back poured out in every slow, filthy pull of his mouth. She held his head to her chest, panting softly, feeling every bit of his strength, every year of experience in the way he worked her. 

Jensen didn’t stop. He spent long, greedy minutes devouring her breasts, sucking, licking, teasing the silver piercing with his tongue until she was a whimpering mess, hips grinding desperately against the hard line of his cock. Every pull of his mouth sent sparks straight to her core. He groaned against her skin like a starving man, switching between them, leaving her nipples shiny and swollen, the piercing glistening with his spit.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. She didn’t even give him time to think, just crashed her mouth against his.The kiss was messy and filthy from the start. Jensen took control instantly, by one big hand sliding up into her hair, gripping the nape of her neck as he angled her head exactly how he wanted, demanding, tongue stroking against hers with raw hunger. All she could do was moan into his mouth, melting under the sheer dominance of it. He tasted like sin and the faint trace of whiskey, and he kissed like a man who knew exactly how to ruin her. 

They were both breathing hard when he broke the kiss, forehead pressed to hers.

– Fuck it – he growled, voice wrecked.

He lifted her off his lap like she weighed nothing, spun her around, and bent her over the large control console. Her breasts pressed against the cool surface, still out and sensitive from his mouth. Jensen’s hand came down hard on her ass, a sharp, resounding smack that made her cry out.

– You've been teasing me for days, sweetheart, –  he said, voice low and dirty as he rubbed the stinging flesh – walking around half naked, shoving these pretty tits in my face, sitting on my lap like a needy little thing. You wanted this?

All she did was gasp, pushing back against him. Another hard slap landed on her other cheek. 

– Say it. 

– I wanted you to fuck me, Jensen. Please. Please. 

He dropped to his knees behind her, yanking the tiny cotton shorts down her legs in one rough motion, her panties going with it. They pooled at her ankles. His hands spread her ass cheeks, and then his mouth was on her, hot, wet, and relentless. He licked a broad stripe up her soaked pussy, groaning loudly at the taste.

– Jesus Christ, you’re dripping – he muttered, lustful.

She moaned shamelessly, pushing back against his tongue as he devoured her, focusing on sucking on her clit. He ate her like he’d been dying to, two thick fingers sliding inside her, curling just right. She was shaking, gripping the edge of the console, when he suddenly stood up.

She heard the sound of his belt, the zipper. Then the blunt, heavy head of his thick cock was nudging against her entrance, sliding through her slick folds. He pushed in slowly, stretching her open inch by inch. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry as he filled her completely, so deep, so thick, burning just right

– So tight – Jensen hissed through gritted teeth, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. 

When he bottomed out, hips flush against her ass, he stayed there for a moment, letting her adjust, letting her feel every inch. She was drunk on the feeling of him inside her, drunk on him. Her walls fluttered around his cock, already close just from the stretch. Jensen leaned over her, one hand fisting her hair again as he pulled her head back slightly. His lips brushed her ear.

– Is this what you wanted, huh? – voice rough as gravel. He gave one slow, deep thrust, then another. – You wanted me to bend you over your daddy’s console and fuck you like this? Stretch this pretty little pussy with my cock?

– Yes, – she cried – God, yes – pushing back to meet his thrusts. – Don’t stop.

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down her spine, and started fucking her harder, deep, punishing strokes that made her breasts bounce against the console and her moans fill the studio. And she has never been happier.