javiersvest

The industry party is already half a blur by the time you get to your third glass of champagne. Los Angeles feels like it’s been chewing you up and spitting you back out for months, and while you’re good at faking confidence, lately you’ve been questioning whether this city has a place for you at all. The last agency you were with booked you for a toothpaste commercial and a recurring role as “Hot Girl #3” in a show that didn’t even survive its pilot. You’d had enough.

You’re about to retreat to a corner when a familiar voice calls out.

“Y/N!”

You turn, exhaling a relieved laugh when you see Joaquin Torres, your longtime friend and occasional lifeline in a sea of snakes. He pulls you in for a hug that smells like cologne and tequila.

“Thought I wasn’t gonna find you,” he says, glancing down at your drink. “You good?”

You give him a tight smile. “Define good.”

He winces. “That bad?”

You shrug, eyes scanning the glittering crowd of producers, actors, and people who only exist in photos. “It’s just all…exhausting. This is the latest I’ve been outside in over a month. I should be binging Real Housewives right now.” You say, and then almost as an afterthought, you add, “And these stilettos were not meant to be worn long term.”

Joaquin huffs out a laugh that’s mostly swallowed by the din of the crowd. “Well, tonight might be different,” He says, tilting his head. There’s a glint in his eye that you recognize; Clearly he’s up to something, and you don’t even have a chance to say no because he’s already reaching for your hand. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Your brows lift, but he anticipates your answer with an easy smile, disarming you before you’ve even had a chance to properly turn it—whatever he’s thinking—down. “Not Scorsese,” he says, a knowing smile on his face. “Bucky Barnes.”

You blink. “The Bucky Barnes? As in—”

Your stomach does a small, traitorous flip. You hesitate, your gut twisting with the now familiar cocktail of hope and dread. “I don’t know.. I’ve done this exact song and dance so many times.” You take a nervous sip of what’s left of your champagne, your eyes scanning the crowd once more. “I don’t think I can stomach another disappointment anyway.”

Joaquin studies you for a beat, but it’s clear his mind has already been made up and he’s not taking no for an answer. “C’mon. You’re not even auditioning for anything, not right now anyway.” He jokes, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “It’s just a little meet and greet, no harm, no foul.” He said, and with an exasperated sigh, you give in.

His hands slip from your shoulders, and weaves you through the crowd and toward the back patio, where golden lights bathe a group of people standing around with drinks in hand. That’s when you see him.

Bucky Barnes.

He’s not what you expected.

For all his credentials and the air of mystique that surrounds his work, he’s surprisingly…lowkey. He’s standing casually, one hand cradling a drink, while the other is stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans, listening to someone with an easy half-smile. He’s dressed in black, the sleeves of his shirt rolled, a few buttons left undone at the collar. He looks like someone who knows exactly what he’s doing—but doesn’t need to prove it.

You steel yourself.

“Buck,” Joaquin calls, breaking into the circle. “This is Y/N. She’s the actress I’ve been telling you about.”

Bucky looks up, and suddenly, all your nervous energy dulls. His eyes land on yours, and everything slows for a second. There’s no judgment in his expression, no boredom, no performative interest. Just calm curiosity.

“Y/N,” he repeats, like it tastes good in his mouth. “Nice to meet you.”

His voice is smooth, unhurried. You offer your hand, and he doesn’t rush the moment. Doesn’t scan you up and down. Doesn’t launch into small talk like he’s got somewhere better to be. “Nice to meet you,” you say, surprised by how steady your voice is.

He shakes your hand, and you can only hope that he doesn’t feel how clammy your palm is.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” He said, and your gaze darts to Joaquin, who only gives you a grin and a thumbs up before stepping away.

“All good things I hope, though that would explain the ringing in my ears.” You reply, and he chuckles. The sound sparks something in your chest, but you choose to ignore it for the time being.

He glances at your almost empty champagne glass, and he gestures towards the party. “You want something better than whatever they’re calling champagne in there?”

You laugh—more than you meant to, but you go with it, nodding. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He waves a waiter over, and orders a cocktail for you, and the two of you find yourselves in an easy flow.

The conversation that follows is effortless, surprising even you. You talk about the state of the industry, the uphill climb for actors like yourself, and how exhausting it is to be underestimated in rooms full of people who smile too much. He listens—actually listens—with a kind of calm intensity that makes you feel seen in a way you hadn’t realized you were craving. He wants to know what drives you. What kind of roles scare you. What you want to do that no one’s let you touch yet. It’s been so long since someone has looked at you like an artist instead of a résumé.

And he’s funny. Dry, understated. Every sarcastic quip you throw at him, he volleys back with ease.

When you call out the hypocrisy of producers who say they want “fresh talent” but only cast the same five people, he chuckles and raises his glass.

“To burning the house down.”

You tap your glass to his.

“To rebuilding it better.”

There’s a beat where the conversation lulls and neither of you fill the silence. You glance over at him, and he’s already looking at you, head slightly tilted, like you’re a puzzle he’s just beginning to enjoy solving.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’m putting something together. Casting’s still in early stages.”

You arch a brow. “That sounds suspiciously like a pitch.”

“Maybe it is,” he says. “Or maybe it’s just an excuse to get dinner with you.”

You blink. “Dinner?”

“Strictly professional,” he adds, his grin betraying him.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your cool. “I usually avoid producers who make vague offers over free cocktails.”

He laughs then—a genuine laugh, that makes the corners of his blue eyes crinkle. “Understandable. But I’m very persuasive, and I don’t make promises that I can’t back up.”

You pause, heart racing a little faster now—the traitorous thing. Then you nod.

“Okay. Dinner.”

He pulls out his phone. “Can I get your number?”

You give it to him, trying not to show the slight tremble in your fingers. He types it in, saves it, then looks back at you with that same, magnetic calm.

“I’ll text you,” he says. “We’ll talk shop.”

You nod, lips curving despite your best efforts. “Looking forward to it.”

You smooth your hands down your dress—a silky, low-cut number you’ve only worn once, and never with this much confidence.

You kept telling yourself it was just dinner.

You told yourself the extra twenty minutes you spent curling your hair wasn’t for him. That the subtle shimmer on your eyelids, the gloss on your lips, the soft sweep of highlighter on your collarbone—those were all for you. Because you wanted to feel your best. Simple. Empowering. Strategic, even.

It had nothing to do with how Bucky Barnes looked at you that night on the rooftop. Nothing to do with how your heart had skipped when he saved your number. Nothing to do with the way his voice had settled into your head and lingered there like a song you couldn’t quite shake.

Right.

He picked the place—low lighting, real candles on the table, waitstaff that smiled like they already knew his order. It was intimate but not too forward, elegant without being stiff. Like him. He stood as you approached, and for a beat, just stared. Not in the uncomfortable, lingering way some men did—but in that quiet, appreciative way that made you hyper-aware of your own skin.

The restaurant is dimly lit and intimate—modern Italian with moody lighting and quiet music. Definitely not the kind of place where deals are typically made.

You raise an eyebrow as you slide into the booth across from him.

“So,” you say. “What kind of role are we pretending to talk about tonight?”

Bucky laughs, tilting his head. “You always lead with sarcasm?”

“It’s a defense mechanism,” you say sweetly.

“I like it,” he says. “Keeps me on my toes.”

You fight the smile tugging at your lips as the waiter comes over. Bucky orders a bottle of wine without looking at the menu, and you wonder how someone can be so effortlessly confident without being unbearable. The waiter comes and goes. Wine is poured. Small talk is easy—dangerously easy.

Bucky asks about your recent auditions, your dream roles, the kinds of stories you want to tell. And when he talks about his work, his voice gets lower, more thoughtful, like he’s letting you in on something sacred. And you surprise yourself by how freely you answer. With most producers, it’s all strategy and filters. But with him, it feels easy.

Safe, even.

Still, there's something beneath the surface. A tension. A current.

It starts small. His gaze dropping a beat too low when you lean forward to reach for your glass. The momentary pause when his eyes catch the way the neckline of your dress curves—and dips.

You notice.

You definitely notice.

And when he looks up and sees you watching him catch himself, there’s a flicker of guilt in his smile—followed by something else. Something darker. Bolder.

“You’re staring,” you say softly, amusement coloring your voice.

He doesn’t flinch. Just leans back in his seat, expression relaxed but eyes locked on yours.

“Can you blame me?”

You tilt your head, letting your fingers toy with the stem of your wine glass. “You said this was strictly business.”

“I did,” he says, voice lower now. “And I meant it. But I’m not blind.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the movement slow, like he’s trying to ground himself.

“You walk in like the part’s already yours,” He says, eyes locked on you like he’s seeing something everyone else missed. “Then you start talking, and somehow you’re even better than how I pictured. You really think I’m not gonna look at you?”

Your lips part, heat rising up the back of your neck—and not just from the wine.

He watches your reaction, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes, as if he’s waiting for you to shut this down. To draw the line.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean forward, just a little—enough to let him look if he wants to.

And he does.

“I thought we were here to talk shop,” You tease, your voice barely above a whisper.

“We are,” he murmurs, his gaze briefly flicking to your cleavage before snapping back to your face. “But you’re making it really hard to concentrate.”

You smirk, resting your chin in your hand. “Maybe I’m testing your professionalism.”

He exhales a soft laugh, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “So that’s what this is.”

You don’t answer, but the way your leg brushes his under the table speaks for you.

The moment hangs there, suspended in candlelight and tension.

Then you lift your glass again, cool as ever. “So. Tell me about this role you had in mind.”

He picks up his drink, but he’s not even pretending to be unaffected anymore. His voice is rougher around the edges now, dipped in something thicker.

“I think you’d be perfect for it,” he says. “But I’m starting to realize the real challenge is gonna be keeping things…professional.”

You smile, sipping slowly.

There it is.

That slow pull in your belly, the warmth that curls beneath your skin and spreads all the way to your throat.

He’s trying to behave. You can see it in the way he clenches his hands now and then. In the way his gaze keeps drifting—just below your neck, just a beat too long on your lips before he forces himself to look away.

“You’re making this very difficult, Y/N.”

Your smile widens, slow and knowing. “I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth again. “You don’t have to.”

You sit in the silence that follows, tasting the tension between you like the wine on your tongue. Part of you knows you should pivot—say something smart about your range or your process or whatever—but you don’t.

Because it feels good, being looked at like this.

Not like a product. Not like an audition.

Like a woman.

And Bucky Barnes, for all his restraint, is very much a man who’s interested.

The waiter comes with the check, and Bucky doesn’t even glance at it before sliding his card across the table. You let him. You don’t argue.

Outside, the night is cooler than before, and you shiver slightly as you step onto the sidewalk. Without thinking, he slips off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

There’s a charged silence between you, and Bucky’s gaze lingers on your face, on the curve of your neck where the jacket slips just so.

He clears his throat. “I was thinking… maybe you’d want to come back with me. For a nightcap. Nothing fancy. Just some whiskey and quieter company.”

Your heart skips.

The sensible part of your brain screams No. You just met him, you barely know this man, and—let’s be honest—you’re tired of people promising things they don’t keep.

But the reckless part—the part you’ve been trying to ignore—whispers Yes. Yes to a night where you forget the struggle. Yes to being wanted. Yes to whatever this is.

You hesitate, searching his eyes for any sign he’s not serious.

He’s watching you, patient. Respectful. But there’s something fierce beneath it, an invitation you can’t quite refuse.

Finally, you breathe out.

“Okay.”

He smiles, half-relieved, half-triumphant, then holds out his arm. You wrap your hand around his forearm, and together you walk towards the sleek, black car he’d parked just around the corner.

The door to Bucky's penthouse clicks shut behind you with a low thud that seems to echo through the sleek, open space. You step forward slowly, taking in the minimalist design, all dark wood, clean lines, and soft lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline, glittering like spilled diamonds.

“This is…” you begin, turning in place to admire the view.

“Overkill?” Bucky cuts in, lips twitching.

You smirk, shrugging off his jacket and laying it over the back of a velvet armchair. “I was gonna say impressive. But sure, overkill works too.”

He chuckles and makes his way to the bar in the corner, where a decanter of dark amber scotch glows under the low light. You follow, watching as he pours two generous glasses, his forearms flexing as he lifts the crystal bottle.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, handing you a glass.

You take a sip—smooth, smoky, expensive. “I figured I owed you a nightcap after dinner.”

His eyes flick down your body before snapping back to meet yours, and this time, there’s no polite veil. No public persona. Just him. And you.

“You don’t owe me a damn thing,” he says quietly. Then adds, with a crooked grin, “But I’m sure as hell glad you’re here.”

You blink once. Twice. “Well,” you murmur, swirling the liquid in your glass, “You did say you wanted to talk more.”

“I did.” He throws back half his drink in one gulp, eyes still locked on yours. “But let’s be honest, sweetheart. I didn’t bring you up here to talk about casting calls.”

There it is.

Blunt. Shameless. Heat flares low in your belly.

He watches the way you react—how you shift slightly on your heels, your breath catching just enough to betray your interest. He sees everything. He’s looking now, really looking. At your mouth, your neckline, the rise of your chest under your blouse. His gaze drags over you like a physical touch, and he doesn’t bother hiding it anymore.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply, the words landing like a strike to your core. “You walk into a room and every man forgets his name. But what gets me the most—what’s driving me fucking insane—is that mouth.”

Your lips part, stunned at the turn. “My… mouth?”

He steps closer. His glass clinks softly on the counter as he sets it down. “You’ve got this sharp little tongue and all I can think about is what else you could do with it. Now that we’re alone, I’m not in the mood to play coy. I want you, Y/N. Plain and simple.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Not with him standing this close, not with the way his voice has dipped low and rough like velvet dragged over gravel. The warmth of the scotch turns molten in your chest. He steps forward, each stride measured, confident, until he stands just a few feet away from you. The low light accentuates the angles of his face—his jaw, his cheekbones—making him look predatory in the most intoxicating way possible. You glance at his mouth, then back up—his expression hungry, dangerous, focused.

You finally find your voice. “Do you usually mix business with—”

“I don’t,” he cuts in. “But I’ve been thinking about you since the second Joaquin introduced us. And I’m not about to stand here and pretend I’m not imagining how you’d sound underneath me.”

Your knees nearly buckle. He’s still not touching you, but you feel the pull in every inch of your skin, every nerve ending tuned to the moment he might.

“And if I said I wasn’t here for just a nightcap either?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

A slow, sinful smile spreads across his face. “Then I’d say stop pretending, and let me show you exactly how much I want you.”

You don’t wait. You set your glass down beside his and he closes the distance, your fingers curling into the fabric of his button-down. His hands are on you in an instant—one at your waist, the other sliding up your spine. He kisses you hard, deep, like he’s been holding back all night and has finally cracked. His mouth is demanding, tongue sliding against yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he exhales a growl into your mouth.

You gasp as he lifts you without warning, setting you on the edge of the marble counter. His hands slide under the skirt of your dress, thumbs dragging along your thighs until they reach your hips.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs into your neck, already knowing you won’t.

“Don’t even think about it.”

That’s all he needs.

He slips one hand between your thighs, fingers dragging along the damp heat between your legs through your panties. His groan is immediate, deep and primal. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re soaked.”

You tilt your head back as he mouths at your throat, sucking a bruise just beneath your ear. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night in this little dress, pretending you weren’t doing it on purpose.”

“I wasn’t,” you lie, breathless.

His eyes flash as he pulls back to look at you. “Sweetheart, you wore this knowing damn well I wouldn’t be able to stop looking at your tits all night.”

You bite your lip.

“See? Not denying it now,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragging them down, slow and deliberate.

He drops to his knees, parting your legs, and when his mouth finds you, your head hits the cabinets behind you. He’s not gentle—he’s ravenous. His tongue moves with confidence, circling, flicking, devouring until you’re moaning, shaking, fisting his hair as he pushes you closer to the edge.

“Bucky—” you gasp, thighs trembling as he grips them tighter.

“I know,” he murmurs, mouth still moving against you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me taste you.”

And you do—your body snapping tight as your orgasm crashes over you. He doesn’t stop until your hips buck, until you’re whining and breathless and begging him to give you a second to breathe.

He rises, mouth glistening, and kisses you again—filthy and deep and tasting like you. Then he scoops you off the counter and carries you down the hall toward his bedroom.

The bedroom door closes behind you, and the room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of streetlights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A king-sized bed dominates the space, sheets the color of storm clouds draped neatly across the mattress.

Bucky doesn’t waste a second. He steps in front of you, pressing you against the wall with a force that sends your breath scattering. One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back so he can lean in and kiss the column of your throat. The other hand works on the infuriatingly tiny zipper to this damned dress. He’s about to tear the damn thing off of you, but he finally manages to unzip it.

The dress pools at your feet like water, and his eyes trail shamelessly down the length of your almost-bare body, lingering on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips with an audible, appreciative exhale. He presses hot kisses along the valley between your breasts, and then back up again.

“On your knees,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I’m half-hard, and I want you to take care of it.” And you nod obediently. He snatches the pillow from his bed, tossing it at your feet before you kneel before him.

You reach for his belt buckle; fingers fumbling just enough that he chuckles low in his throat. With an impatient sigh, he hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, jerking his jeans down in one swift motion until they puddle around his ankles along with his boxers. The sight of him—naked, upright, unashamed—makes your fingers tremble as you close the gap again, dropping to your knees.

His cock is already slick with precome, aroused at the thought of you. When you take him into your hand and slide the head across your lips, he shudders, throwing his head back softly. You swallow him slowly, lips gliding from head to base, tongue flicking against the sensitive underside. Already he’s gripping your hair, gentle but firm, encouraging you without forcing. He groans, hips jerking ever so slightly, and the vibration through his length is electric against your tongue.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Just like that. Don’t stop.” He leans against the wall, one hand bracing him while the other fists your hair. You swirl your tongue around the head, then hollow your cheek in a speedy, almost desperate motion. His breath hitches, and his eyes close as though he can’t bear to watch.

When the coil in his body tightens, he pulls you from him and helps you stand, his mouth on yours again. You’re acutely aware of every curve: collarbone, breasts, the hollow at your sternum. He cups you, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples, eliciting a soft moan from your lips. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, voice husky. “So perfect.” He flicks his tongue across one nipple, then the other, and you arch into him, mouth falling open.

His clothes—and yours—have long since been discarded on the floor, a trail of temptation from the hallway to the bed. He pushes you down onto the mattress with a steady hand on your shoulder, the sheets cool against your heated skin. You sit up on your elbows, breath catching in your throat at the sight of him: thick, heavy, and achingly hard, veins pronounced along the length, his tip flushed and glistening. Every part of him is sculpted, taut with restraint, like he’s been holding back since the moment he laid eyes on you. And now, he isn’t.

He stands at the edge of the bed, his hand wrapping around himself with deliberate, unhurried strokes, gaze fixed on you like he’s memorizing every inch of your body—the way your lips part in awe, the way your thighs instinctively press together in aching anticipation.

“You want this?” he rasps, voice ragged with desire. His thumb swirls over the slick head of his cock, drawing a low hiss from his throat. “Tell me you want me, baby.”

You shift closer to the edge of the bed, legs spreading wider, like you’re offering yourself up to him. “Quit being a tease,” You murmur, eyes locked on his cock as he strokes it slowly, “And come fuck me like you mean it.”

He groans at your boldness, that shameless invitation tipping him over the edge of restraint. He pulls you closer to him, then steps between your spread thighs, the heat of his body searing against yours. His hands roam your sides—firm and possessive—before gripping your hips with purpose. You can feel him, thick and pulsing, as he drags the head of his cock along your slick folds, lining himself up with a low, reverent curse.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, barely holding back, and then he thrusts in.

The first thrust is slow but impossibly deep, stretching you inch by inch until your breath escapes in a broken gasp. He fills you completely, the pressure overwhelming, perfect. He pauses there, buried to the hilt, savoring the moment as your body tightens around him. And then—he moves.

His rhythm starts punishing and purposeful, each thrust punching the air from your lungs, knocking moans out of you that you don’t bother to muffle. Your fingers claw at his shoulders, nails dragging down the sculpted muscle as he pounds into you, over and over, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. The bed creaks beneath the force, his hips slamming into yours with delicious brutality.

Bucky’s free hand braces against the headboard, gripping it so hard his knuckles go white. His head falls back, sweat-damp hair brushing his temples, jaw tight and mouth parted on a ragged groan as he loses himself in the feel of you—tight, wet, wanting.

You can feel every inch: his cock slick and hot, the way your walls clamp around him with each pass, the slick, wet friction. Your breaths come in ragged pants, and you hook an arm around his neck, tugging him down for a fierce, open-mouthed kiss. Tongues collide, teeth graze, and in that kiss you taste the same hunger you feel in your core.

He pulls back just enough to stare into your eyes, voice rough. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, then drives into you faster. “So fucking wet for me.”

You moan, head falling back on the pillows as he hammers into you. The thrusts come harder now, each one a sharp stab at the center of your heat. Your cunt clenches around him, and you can feel the coil tightening—your orgasm building like a star about to explode.

“Bucky!” you cry out, fingers carding through his hair. “Oh God, Bucky—”

He dips his head and sinks his teeth into the hollow of your collarbone, and a bolt of heat races through you, shattering whatever control you had left. Your back arches off the mattress, hips lifting into him as a tidal wave of white-hot pleasure crashes over you. Fingernails graze his shoulders, leaving trails of need, while your breath tears from your lungs in ragged gasps.

He doesn’t relent. With one last series of punishing, relentless thrusts—each harder, each deeper—he drives you even higher. His voice breaks as he grunts your name like a benediction, and you feel the weight of him shuddering as he swells and spills into you. Your body trembles beneath his, every muscle trembling in the aftershock of his release. Then, spent and utterly raw, he collapses beside you. Together you lie there, chests rising and falling, hearts pounding, breaths mingling in the hushed stillness of the penthouse.

The city hums quietly beyond the penthouse glass, a soft backdrop to the silence stretching between the two of you. The air still smells like sex and skin and scotch, and your limbs feel heavy—sated, warm, anchored beneath the lazy sprawl of his arm around your waist.

Bucky’s chest rises and falls gently, the heat of him pressed against your chest. His fingers graze slow circles into the dip just below your navel, but otherwise, neither of you moves. Not yet. Not when everything is still humming between you.

You let the quiet sit for another beat before speaking, your voice sleep-rough and teasing.

“So… that role you were pitching to me earlier...”

He freezes above you. Just for a second.

Then a breathless laugh bursts out of him, low and startled. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, burying his face into the crook of your neck with a groan. “Jesus Christ, Y/N. We just had the kind of sex people write bad poetry about, and you’re still chasing your next gig?”

You smirk, tilting your head to glance at him. “I’m just saying. If you’re done defiling me, I’d like to circle back to the business portion of this evening.”

He laughs again—truly laughs this time, the sound warm and sharp and so completely disarmed that it makes your chest squeeze a little.

“You’re fucking ruthless,” he says, still grinning as he tightens his arm around you, tugging you closer like he already doesn’t want to let go. “Alright, alright. We’ll talk casting.”

You smile, eyes fluttering closed as you sink deeper into the pillow. He kisses your shoulder once, slow and lingering.

You lay there, the cool sheets brushing against your bare skin, save for the sheer black stockings that cling to your thighs and the sleek heels adorning your feet.

The faint sound of the front door opening and closing sends a thrill of anticipation through you. You know Javier would be tired from work, his usual routine predictable: a kiss hello, then a quiet retreat to unwind. But tonight, you planned something different, something to jolt him out of his rhythm and straight into your arms—or more accurately, between your legs.

His footsteps grow louder, the soft creak of the bedroom door opening a second later. Your lips curve into a smile as his figure fills the doorway. The instant his eyes meet yours, his entire demeanor shifts.

His shoulders roll back, those soft brown eyes gleam in ardor and his lips part as if to say something, though no words come out. Instead, his hand slackens, his briefcase thudding to the floor as he takes a slow step toward you.

“Mi amor…” he murmurs hotly, shrugging his suit jacket off as he approaches the bed.

You shift further up until your back is pressed against the headboard, the slight movement causing your breasts to bounce, nipples pebbling under his sharp gaze. You see his jaw tighten, that smoldering gaze riveted to the soft curves of your body framed so perfectly by the stockings.

Javier loves this. Loves how you embrace your sensuality and femininity just for him. The little details—like the patch of curls that tease him with the promise of heaven between your thighs, make his mouth water.

"What’s all this?" His voice never fails to turn you on, smooth yet raspy, as his hands move to his tie, yanking it loose with an impatience that makes you feel like the most desired woman alive.

“I thought you’d like the surprise,” you purr, running a hand slowly over your thigh and up your side, stopping just shy of your breast. He track the movement, a faint groan slipping past his pouty lips.

Javier moves closer, his dark eyes locked on yours, his intent clear as he kneels at the edge of the bed. His hands press into the mattress as he starts crawling toward you, head tilted, lips parted and prepared to dive headfirst into the sweetness of your cunt, the very thought written all over his flushed, eager face.

But you stop him. The sharp tap of your shoe against his forehead halts him mid-motion. He freezes, his eyes darting up to yours in confusion before narrowing with a frown. He exhales sharply, the sound almost petulant.

“I’d like to enjoy my surprise.”

You tut softly, shaking your head with a playful smirk. “Do you deserve to enjoy your surprise?” you muse, cocking a brow as you extend your leg, the smooth sole of your shoe nudging him back until he’s upright on his knees.

He huffs again, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a dramatic sigh. “No,” he admits, his voice gruff but obedient, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Smart boy,” you coo, your tone teasing as you pull your leg away, but not before he catches your ankle in his hand. He brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss against the fabric of your stocking.

His eyes flicker to the heels you’re wearing, lingering there for a moment too long. His cock stirs as he imagines how you’d look standing in this little ensemble—the arch of your back, the curve of your ass, the way the tops of your thighs spill over the edge of the stockings.

His jaw tightens, a faint groan escaping him. Fuck.

You notice the shift in his gaze, the flush creeping up his neck, and it makes you smile. “Eyes up here,” you hum, pulling your leg from his grasp. He rolls his eyes, but his compliance is instant. He stays put, hands resting on his thighs, his entire body taut with restraint.

Now it’s your turn to admire, letting your gaze drift lazily over him.

God, he looks good like this, all pent-up desire and buttoned-up control. His crisp work shirt clings to his chest, the faint sheen of sweat along his collarbone betraying his calm facade. You’ve always loved how he looks in his work clothes—so professional, so serious.

All business, no play, unless of course, you’re involved.

“You’re going to stay right there,” you drawl sensually, “while I play with myself for a little. Show you what I do when you leave me here, night after night, lonely and aching to feel my husband’s touch… his mouth… his cock.”

Javier growls, a sound low and primal, his hands flexing against his legs. You can see the effort it takes for him to stay in place, gripping his knees.

Every inch of him screams to pounce, to pin you down and take what you’re teasing. But he doesn’t. He waits, the intensity in his eyes burning a hole right through you.

Slowly, you spread your thighs, your fingers trailing languidly down your body as you bite your lip. The glistening heat of your pussy comes into view, swollen and throbbing with desire. Stickiness twinkles on your inner thighs, the evidence of how turned on you’ve been all day—thinking about this moment, about him.

His breath catches, his chest rising sharply. You see the appetite in his gaze, the tension as he rolls his jaw, the way his cock strains against his pants

You moan softly as the cooler air of the bedroom licks at your heated sex, your hips shifting instinctively at the sensation.

Your hands slide up to your chest, fingers teasingly kneading the soft flesh of your breasts. You rub your thumbs over your pert nipples, and a contented sigh escapes your lips, each stroke sending a sharp pulse of arousal straight to your clit. You watch him through heavy-lidded eyes, seeing the way he’s utterly entranced, like you’ve cast a spell over him.

His lips part slightly, his breathing uneven as his gaze follows your every move. He’s motionless, a predator coiled in wait, except for the way his hands flex on his thighs.

With deliberate slowness, you spread your pussy lips, exposing yourself fully. Your eyes are locked on his face, eager to drink in his reaction—and it’s everything you hoped for. His composure cracks, his brows furrowing, and his mouth twitches into a faint snarl, his restraint barely hanging by a thread.

“Mamacita, por favor,” he rasps, needy. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip as if he’s already tasting you in his mind.

“Not yet,” you whisper teasingly, but your own breath is starting to hitch. Your fingers begin to trace gentle circles over your clit, and the sensation is enough to make your back arch.

You’re dripping—so slick that your fingers glide effortlessly over the swollen bundle of nerves.

Javier’s dark eyes follow every movement, the golden brown now almost entirely swallowed by black, his pupils drowning in lust.

For a moment, his gaze flickers to your hand, lingering on the way your engagement ring catches the dim light of your bedroom. The sight ignites something deeper in him, a primal kind of possessiveness that makes his cock throb painfully.

You smirk, reveling in how completely you’ve unraveled him, before bringing your slick-coated fingers to your lips. You lick them clean, savoring the rousing taste of your pussy as your eyes lock with his.

He groans low in his throat and it makes you giggle softly, the sound playful, sinful. Your spit-slick fingers trail back down to your pussy, and this time, you sink not one, not two, but three fingers inside yourself.

Your body reacts instantly, fleshy walls tightening around the intrusion, your heels digging into the plush duvet as you begin to fuck yourself.

Your head tilts back, eyes rolling as pleasure ripples through you. “Javi,” you sigh his name, breathy and wanton, and the noise alone looks like it’s about to break him.

“Feel good, baby?”

“So good,” you whimper, pressing your thumb against your clit while your free hand finds your nipple, giving it a sharp pinch that makes you gasp.

“Is this what you do when I’m not around?” he growls, the edge in his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you whimper, curling your fingers inside your pussy to hit that perfect spot. “But it’s never good enough. I’m never s-satisfied.”

A slow, wolfish smirk spreads across Javier’s lips at your words, and you can feel him inching closer. As much as you want to keep teasing him, to prolong this game, the need inside you is unbearable, like your entire body is being engulfed in flames. You need him to put it out—to consume you.

His broad frame looms over you now, dark eyes gleaming with overwhelming need. His large, gun calloused hand reaches out to stroke along the edge of your stocking, right near that crevice where your thigh meets your groin, and you moan pathetically, picking up the pace of your fingers.

Despite you working yourself over in a fucking frenzy, Javi is careful, tracing the lace border where the stocking ends and your bare skin begins. Then he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.

“I’m so fucking hard watching you play with yourself,” he murmurs, like a secret meant only for you.

His other hand slides down to your hip, gripping it firmly as he pulls you slightly closer to him. The possessive strength in his touch sends your heart racing, and your pussy clenches hard around your fingers. “And you smell so good,” he groans, the words almost a growl as he presses a lingering kiss to your temple.

You push your fingers deeper, filling yourself to the knuckles, your palm grinding against your swollen clit. The friction is maddening, the pressure perfect, but it’s amplified tenfold by the heat of Javi’s body so close to yours.

His words, his presence—it’s all too much and not enough. The way he speaks to you, that bedroom voice of his, feels like his tongue is fucking your ear, making your toes curl and your hips buck.

Your body quivers under his gaze and touch, the flames inside you fanned higher with every purposeful move he makes. The tension between you crackles, thick and intoxicating, until you’re certain you’ll shatter if he doesn’t give you what you need.

Your fingers falter for a moment, desperate for him to take over, but the sharp press of his grip on your hip keeps you grounded. “Keep going,” he growls, his tone brooking no argument. “You wanted to fuck with me so go ahead, finish.”

You whimper, your body trembling as you pick up the rhythm again, working yourself harder, faster. “Javi,” you cry out, your voice trembling, your orgasm hurtling toward you like a freight train.

“Let go,” he encourages, kissing behind your ear. “Come for me, baby.”

His permission shatters what little control you had left. Your body seizes, your walls clamping down around your fingers as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you trembling and gasping beneath him.

He’s on you quickly after that, his larger frame pressing you into the mattress. His hands move your wrists, pinning them above your head with ease, the sheer strength in his grip making your core flutter all over again as he cages you beneath him.

He’s still fully dressed, the fabric of his shirt brushing against your sensitive nipples as he looms over you, his body a solid wall of heat and restraint. 

“Open the fucking door.”

His abrasive command beats through the cheap wood. You don’t move. You can’t, really, only feeling your heart pounding its way up your throat.

Your ratty apartment doesn’t do you any favors. A little thing crammed high up over the city. The only place you can afford despite the type of clientele you usually service. The door you’re staring at won’t hold back a stiff breeze, let alone a pissed off DEA agent.

You fucked up. Bad. 

Slipped some half-heard name, passed the wrong message along, and now the wrong people are dead because of it. You’ve had close calls before, but this one’s different.

Because this time, it was at his expense.

The man who showed up like the first hit of an uncut drug: euphoric and bound to ruin you the second you got hooked. He convinced you to open your legs and mouth for the good of the cause, whispering empty promises with his hand shoved between your thighs and making you come harder than any sicario ever bothered to try.

He never promised you safety. Never promised anything tangible, either.

The hinges rattle beneath his fists, causing you to swallow harshly, nails biting the soft skin of your palms. You think about pretending you’re not home, but you know better than to insult Javier’s intelligence like that.

This is a completely different side from what you are used to. Usually, he’s a man of few words and even fewer feelings. When he shows up, it’s always the same routine: quiet knock, tired brown eyes, the scent of stale whiskey and gunpowder trailing in behind him like a shadow. No warm greeting. No small talk. Only the heavy scrape of his boots as he kicks the door shut behind him, and then he’s on you.

Rough hands and a rougher mouth, always rushed and desperate. Like he’s trying to fuck something out of himself; indignation, repentance, the weight of whatever hell he crawled through that day. He never says your name. Not when he fucks you, at least. Just grabs, pulls, bends you over whatever’s closest—couch, counter, the damn windowsill if he’s in a mood—and drives his cock into you like he’s punishing both of you for something neither of you will acknowledge out loud.

Cum paints your skin like a mark he never stays long enough to claim. He tucks himself back into his jeans with those calloused fingers and mutters a half-hearted thanks, fishing a crumpled wad of bills from his wallet, tossing it wherever like an afterthought. 

Sometimes, though, sometimes, he stays.

Those nights are quieter. He’ll fuck you softer, deeper. His hands will cradle your face instead of your throat. His mouth will linger at your jaw, then your breastbone, like he’s memorizing the map of something he knows he can’t keep. That’s when you know he wants something. That he’s here for more than just your body.

He wants intel—names, whispers, pillow talk from men who trust you too much. You give it to him. Every damn time. Why? Because it means he stays a little longer. Long enough for you to count the freckles on his shoulders with your fingers. Long enough to watch him light a cigarette by the window, tight jeans low on his hips, smoke curling around him, eyes lost in some far-off place.

But this? This isn’t moody. This is a whole fucking storm.

Another heavy blow slams into the door. The frame shudders. “I swear to God, if you don’t open this—”

You step back, barefoot on the warped linoleum, voice brittle yet defiant. “We don’t have anything to talk about, Peña. Just go.”

Silence. For a flicker of a second, you think… maybe he’s gone. Maybe this time, he’ll do what he always does—leave it all behind, choking on his own rage and regret, too proud to bleed in front of anyone else.

Then a brutal, splintering sound as his boot crashes against the flimsy door. It swings open with a shriek, slamming into the wall as dust kicks up into the air. You stumble back with a choked gasp, eyes wide as he crosses the threshold.

His chest is heaving like he’s run miles to get to you, sweat clinging to his neck, glistening along the sharp line of his jaw, trickling down his temple. His nostrils flare, jaw grinding so tight you can almost hear the tension crack in his teeth. But his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—sweep the room until they lock on you. When they do, something inside you curdles.

He charges without a word.

Your feet move on instinct, backing into the clutter of your shitty living room, knocking into the corner of the couch. “Javier—Stop—” You spin away, trying to duck out, but you’re not fast enough.

His large hand clamps around your arm firmly and drags you with him like you weigh nothing. You cry out when his fingers dig into the meat of your bicep, and then he slams you against the wall, hard enough that your breath rattles in your lungs and your vision swims for a second, body pinned between the cracked plaster and his broad chest.

“Let me go!” you bark, thrashing against him, but there’s no space to move. He cages you in with his body and the fury that led him here.

That hardened expression, the one that usually stays buried behind cigarettes and casual fucks, is out in full force and inches from your face. Tension bleeds from every pore, betrayal burning in his stare.

His breath hits your cheek, soaked in liquor and ash.

“After that shit you just pulled…” he scowls, voice low and grim, fingers moving to wrap tightly around your throat, complicating your ability to breathe. “Tienes suerte que fui yo el que apareció en tu puerta. Si hubieran sido ellos, ya estarías muerta.” (You’re lucky I was the one who showed up at your door. Had it been them, you’d already be dead)

You claw at his forearms, face growing hot from the lack of oxygen, nails dragging across thick veins and taut brown skin. Your legs kick out, attempting to get your balance—to do something, but he yanks you forward just to throw you aside, hip bumping into the side table as you fall harshly.

The lamp topples and shatters, trinkets scattering across the floor. Something nicks your arm, the cut blooming red. You choke on your own breath when it comes rushing back, eyes blinking through the watery haze as you try to sit up.

Javier stands over you intimidatingly, broad shoulders eating up the skewed light from the fallen lamp, the angles of his face more defined than usual in the shadows. His jaw is clenched, lips drawn tight beneath that stern mustache, brows pulled into a frown. 

“It’s my fault,” he mutters, half to himself. “Should’ve never gone soft on you. If I’d treated you like every other whore, maybe you wouldn’t’ve fucked me over.”

You flinch at the words, but your mouth works faster than your pride. “Eres igual que los demás.” (You’re just like the rest of them)

In two steps he’s on you again, grabbing and maneuvering you onto your stomach, uncaring of the mess around you. One knee pins your legs down, and your arms are wrenched behind your back. Metal bites into your wrists—cuffs, real ones.

You can’t tell if it’s panic or arousal that crawls up your spine. Then he yanks you up by where the restraints join, hard enough to make you yelp, no doubt leaving bruises and marks in their wake. You know then—it’s both. Pain and lust, twined tight.

You’re back against the wall before you can further irritate him, hands subdued behind you. The chill of the cuffs contrasts with the burn on your skin, and every tug sends a throb straight between your legs.

You can feel the tension rolling off him, agitation coiled in every part of his body.

“Sayin’ I’m just like them. The fuck is wrong with you?”

The slap lands clean across your cheek, immediate and punishing. Your head jerks to the side, heat pooling under your skin. It shouldn’t make your pussy flutter and drool, but it does. The sound of it echoes, followed by a quiet, needy sigh that escapes you before you’re able to swallow it down.

He seizes your jaw with the same hand that struck you. The other presses hard into your hip, anchoring you to the wall. Tilting your pretty face toward him, his eyes rake over every flicker of desire—how your lips part, your tongue catching the swell of your bottom lip, tasting your own hunger.

“You like that?” He rasps, almost in amusement, pulling you apart with a look alone. “Is that what you want? For me to slap you around? Treat you like those motherfuckers do?”

You’re too breathless to speak. Too dizzy from all the overwhelming sensations. You feel his shaky exhale on your lips, the coarse brush of his mustache against your skin, the ghost of his mouth over yours. 

“Answer me.” He adjusts his grip. You don’t even see it coming when the second slap lands—same cheek, same burst of heat. Tears spring to your eyes, unbidden and humbling.

“Yes. Please.” It comes out cracked and pitiful, a desperate little whine that doesn’t sound like you. But you barely know who you are when the air is this thick with peril. 

Javier sucks at his teeth. A mirthless sound paired with a smug grin that barely reaches his eyes. His fingers stay locked around your jaw, thumb pressed into your cheek like he’s testing the depth of your obedience. His other hand slides away from your hip, reaching behind him. Then it returns—holding his Beretta.

You’ve seen it before, tucked at his back, half-hidden beneath his jacket. But never this close. Never like this.

“I should finish the job.” He cocks his head as he trains the muzzle right between your brows. “Feed you this fucking bullet and be done with it.”

The pistol gleams under the flickering light, silver and sleek and heavy-looking in his palm. It’s so close you can smell the faint tang of oil and steel.

The gun clicks and your eyes widen, joints going numb from how they’ve been pinned behind you. Would he actually do it? Kill you for fucking up his operation? It’d be a more merciful death than the other fate that’d await you.

He drags the barrel along your cheekbone, slowly as if it were his fingertip, then down, lower, tracing the shape of your mouth. Your lips tremble under the weight of it. That clean metal taste hovers just out of reach. Your thighs press together, slick pooling between them so fast it’s humiliating.

The gun’s not shaking. His hand is steady as he watches you like he’s cataloging every twitch or flutter of your lashes. The weapon is right there, dancing over your lips like it were the leaking tip of his cock.

He pushes it just slightly into your mouth. Not enough to gag. Just enough to taste.

Gunpowder. The phantom taste of his precum.

You don’t bother swallowing your moan and he sees what it does to you. How you shiver, how your eyes roll back, how your tongue grazes the steel sloppily as you deepthroat it, wetting it with your saliva.

“Fucking hell…” he mutters, voice growing thick with disbelief, like he hadn’t expected you to like it this much. His fingers twitch against your face.

Then, just as you start to sink into it, to let the tension twist into something lecherous—he pulls it away, a thin trail of spit clinging to the underside.

Javier moves with a precision that’s practiced: popping the mag free with one fluid motion, tucking the full clip into the back pocket of his jeans then pulling the barrel back to eject the chambered round. All without breaking eye contact.

The disarmed pistol returns, brushing along the curve of your jaw. It traces a path beneath your ear, gliding down the side of your neck. You shiver hard, the kind that starts in your spine and rolls outward, tugging your nipples into stiff, aching points. Your breath leaves in a shaky puff, and your back arches ever so slightly.

“You make me think about shit that I shouldn’t,” he mutters, eyes tracing over your chest. The gun shifts, grazing your collarbone before settling at your shoulder. He uses the tip to toy with the thin strap of your top, nudging it down inch by inch until it slips from your skin.

You can’t speak. You wouldn’t know what to say even if you could. Your body’s burning, pulse screaming, mouth parted and aching for him, for the weight of that gun again, for the way this entire situation just shifted into something so crude.

Your tit spills free and his mustache twitches at the sight. The gun dips again, this time over the slope of your breast, the weight of it featherlight but unignorable. He circles your areola slowly and you keen, hips jolting, wrists twitching against the unforgiving cuffs.

Neither of you utter a word, both lost in your own lust to do anything but pant and yearn. 

Your own spit is left on the sensitive flesh as he brushes the gun over your stiff nipple, rimming the muzzle with it.

A whimper cracks through your throat, slick already smearing your inner thighs. His whole body shifts closer like he can smell your arousal in the air.

“Fuck,” it’s as if the word’s been ripped from somewhere deep. He drags the other strap down with the back of his fingers, baring your tits fully.

Your other nipple is teased with the edge of the tip, eliciting the same reaction, if not more intense from how worked up he got you with the previous tease.

Broken moans tumble out of you with each flick against your breasts as he alternates. You’re a mess against the wall, pussy dripping. You’re not even ashamed.

“More, Javier—give me more.” The plea is covered in a sob. A couple of tears slip free, tracing warm lines down your cheeks. You’d take anything from him right now—pain, pleasure, punishment. Whatever he’s willing to give.

“Turn around.”

He takes a step back, pistol hanging loose at his side, his fingers twitching against the grip. You obey, turning and pressing your flushed cheek against the sticky wall. Your top is already bunched at your waist, spine curving, legs wobbly. Javier’s right behind you, pressing a steady palm between your shoulder blades, forcing your arch deeper.

Then he kicks your ankles apart unceremoniously with the toe of his boot. The scrape of leather on your bare skin has you biting your lip to hold in a moan. Your bound wrists thud behind you, matching the chaotic beat at your cunt.

“Stay like this.” Smack! His palm cracks on the meat of your right ass cheek, followed by your sharp cry. The spanks that follow are heavier, feeling like fire licking at your skin. You love how good it hurts, vocalizing as much. 

Your flimsy sleep shorts cling to you now, the outline of your pussy marked by a dark, wet patch.

Tears trickle freely down your cheeks, mascara streaking onto the wall as you brace yourself for the next hit—only this time, it doesn’t come. Instead, his hand grips your ass roughly, kneading the sore flesh like he’s half-soothing, half-claiming it. You whimper when his fingers slip lower, not even trying to hide the way they press into the soaked fabric covering you.

He groans, the sound full of want. “You’d let me do anything to you. So fuckin’ easy.”

You barely have time to brace before the pistol returns, pressed directly to your clothed cunt. Right against your swollen clit.

You lurch upright with a gasp, but his forearm presses across the back of your neck, shoving you against the wall, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Don’t go runnin’ on me now, baby,” he snaps. “Keep still.”

He moves the muzzle in slow, tight circles over the damp fabric, coaxing a helpless mewl from your lips. The sensation is maddening—too much and not enough. You’re writhing in place, tears still falling, lips parted and wavering as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge, hips instinctively chasing every calculated stroke against your clit. 

He tilts the weapon at an angle, then a dense slap of impact lands square over your covered pussy. You wail, back arching from the unexpected pain.

“¿Qué te dije? Quédate quieta.” (What did I tell you? Stay still)

“F-Feels so good,” you struggle to articulate and he does it again, harder this time. The pain outweighs the pleasure which triggers more tears and an attempt at squeezing your legs shut, but his knee is already between them, keeping you exposed and compliant.

He goes back to circling over the soaked fabric clinging to your pussy lips. Then you feel the gusset being pushed aside, the press of cold metal against bare, sensitive flesh. You suck in a breath, trying to keep still like he ordered you to.

You wish to see him, feeling his eyes studying the way your pussy reacts, wet and wanting, aching for him to defile you using the same gun that’s taken lives. The same one that has the potential to take yours.

He’s still in the clothes he arrived in—creased cream shirt unbuttoned at the neck and clinging to his frame, sleeves pushed up over strong forearms, dark jeans tight against his thighs, boots heavy where they cage your feet. 

Javier steps in closer, his hard cock dragging against your hip, a steady throb under rough jeans. Then comes a flick as the muzzle taps your bare clit a few times, thighs twitching as the buzz rockets through your spine.

You’re coming undone, right there against the wall. Your fingers fidget uselessly behind your back, skin sore and slick with sweat. Every breath is a sob, every whimper submission to him. He hears it all—and it pleases him. You can tell by the low grunt he lets out, by the way his hips subtly grind forward like he can’t help it.

The pistol trails through your slit, nudging between your folds, slow and steady as your spine curves to offer yourself up, to spread wider, ready for what he decides comes next.

“If you come, I will leave you here naked and cuffed, door wide open so they can just come in and take whatever the fuck they want.” He punctuates the last word by sinking the Beretta inside you. The unfamiliar shape parts you with a stretch that borders on too much—but your body welcomes it anyway, a broken wail slipping from your lips.

“Oh fuck, Javier.”

The thrill is unlike anything else. The textured surface teasing every muscle inside you. With each ardent pump, slickness gathers and coats the weapon, your body pulsating around it, greedy for more, globs of your creamy arousal catching on the divots.

“So hot, god damn.” He groans against your hair, flexing his forearm against you as he thoroughly begins fucking your cunt with the pistol.

“Just like that. Oh god—more.” Drool leaks from the corner of your mouth, eyes crossing as your pussy clenches around the object.

He obliges, intrigued, rotating his wrist slightly, drawing out another pornographic sound from your throat. The graze of his shirt against your back only adds to the sensory overload—rough against bare skin, almost intimate in a way.

“You better not fucking come.” His voice is low, dangerous, grinding the threat into you as surely as he grinds the gun deeper inside. Your body jerks, a pinch making your breath catch—but it only fuels the heat spreading through your core. That orgasm you were so close to before? It’s back with a vengeance, knees threatening to give.

“F-Fuck, stop, Javi, I’m—” The words spill out in a whimper, pleading for him to slow down, to show you just a shred of mercy.

“You’re what?” he growls against your ear, not letting up for a second. “I already told you what’s going to happen if you don’t listen.”

You squeeze your eyes close, as if that’s going to keep you in check. You attempt to think of anything to take you out of this moment and keep you from covering his pistol in the evidence of your pleasure. Nothing helps since the only thing that currently occupies your mind is him.

You can’t stop trembling, can’t stop the slick sounds of your folds clinging to the steel as he works you over. He’s making this impossible.

“Nonono, Javi—No puedo—I need to come, please,” you beg, voice cracking as your knees buckle. “Let me come, baby, please.”

He snarls under his breath, pushing the weapon deep and holding it there. The hand on the back of your neck knots into your hair, yanking back until your throat is bared, your breath caught somewhere between throe and want.

“Shut the fuck up.” His voice grates low in your ear, teeth sinking into your earlobe rough enough to make you flinch. A few more deep, deliberate thrusts of the barrel, and suddenly you’re left empty—your body shudders, whining at the loss. The sticky web of your juices still clings to the metal as he pulls it away.

You feel it press to the middle of your back, slimy from being in your cunt, and it sends a fresh shiver skimming across your skin. Behind you, there’s the frantic sound of a belt being unfastened, a zipper dragged down in haste. Javier hisses through his teeth when the cooler air caresses his cock. You feel him rubbing along the tender curve of your ass, ardent and pulsing.

He strokes himself with sure, rough fingers, guiding the slick crown along your entrance, dragging it through the mess already there. With a single greedy push, he’s buried inside you—thick, unrelenting, and infinitely more tender than the weapon. Your walls stretch around him in relief and bliss.

The gun remains where it is while his hips begin to snap into yours. Each thrust finds your deepest, most sensitive places with precision, the angle devastating. His grip shifts; first to your hip, then your shoulder—using your body as leverage to deepen every stroke. He guides your movement, grinding you back onto him, groaning at how easily you yield.

Your legs feel inflamed and weak, finally giving out. He catches you mid-fall, following you down until both of you are on your knees, his cock still buried inside you, locked in tight.

“Not yet,” he grits, a cruel reminder of his earlier command.

He hauls you flush against his chest, three thick fingers push past your lips, thumb pressing under your chin to hold you open. You whimper, helpless, your jaw aching slightly from the stretch.

The hand holding the pistol snakes forward now, dragging across your stomach before lowering with intent. When the messy tip presses between your thighs again, brushing against your puffy clit, your whole body tenses in his hold.

“Fuck!” You exclaim, though it comes out in a gag, his fingers hooked against your tongue. Your throat tightens reflexively, but it only seems to please him, and he grinds the Baretta to match the rhythm of his cock.

It’s fucked up how good it feels, the clash of steel and skin triggering your delirium with tenacious pressure against a frantic beat. You can feel every inch of him inside you, hitting so deep your vision blurs. Your lips stretch wide around his fingers as drool slips down to his wrist, catching on the face of his silver watch.

It turns him on like nothing else.

The squelching coming from where you’re joined is obscene. Each breath is a desperate whimper, and your body betrays you—tightening around him with a grip that gives you away.

“Oh baby,” he hisses through clenched teeth, forehead falling against your shoulder. “Pussy can’t help it, huh?”

“Javi—ah, Javier—” It’s a broken, spluttered cry, the only warning you manage before your orgasm breaks. Your body seizes with it, your walls flutter violently around him, and your moans pitch upward into something helpless and keening. You sob madly, teeth on his fingers, not even aware of how hard you’re biting down until you taste the faint tang of his blood.

It fuels his carnal desires. His body tightens behind you, movements growing wild and urgent. He tosses the weapon aside and slides his fingers from your mouth, freeing his hands to grasp your hips, your shaky thighs, your breasts—groping everywhere at once. He fucks you through the wave of your orgasm, chasing his own release until he spills into you with a low Fuck and a groan.

All you can do is let yourself fall limp in his strong arms—pliant and dazed. The bristle of his mustache scratches the sensitive skin of your neck. Tears continue steadily down your cheeks from the overstimulation, body wracking with the aftershocks.

You hurt all over, shoulders burning from being restrained so long, wrists injured from the jagged grip of the cuffs. Your knees are raw where they rubbed against the floor, and your lips are chapped and swollen.

You’re ruined—chest rising and falling with shallow, exhausted breaths.

He pulls out without so much of a word, only the sound of his own deep breaths filling the space. You feel the sudden emptiness like a hollow echo deep inside, followed by the warm, slow trickle of his spend dripping from you. It smears against the fabric of your sleep shorts, already damp and clinging to your used cunt. Each throb is a lingering reminder you’ll have to live with for the days to come.

Only when the cuffs ease off your joints do your arms drop and instinct pulls you inward. You collapse into yourself on the floor, shivering despite the perspiration on your skin. You fold your arms over your bare chest, trying to shield whatever vulnerability you have left. 

Your apartment is a mess, you feel lost. Weeping quietly as reality catches up. Javier doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. He just stands there, adjusting his belt and flexing his jaw. His detached and cool persona adding salt to injury. 

“Leave the city tonight. Lay low, don’t come back for a few months.” His voice strains, the rasp curling at the edges.

Your lips quiver as you lift your head, blinking against the sting in your eyes when you turn to look at him. “W-Where am I supposed to go?” You croak out, throat tight and sore. “I have no one. Medellín is all I know.”

There’s a pause. Just enough for a sliver of hope to cut through the fog. Maybe he’ll look at you, maybe he’ll change his mind, maybe he’ll—

“You’ll figure it out.”

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God. Harry has such a filthy mouth.

Someone calls your name.

“Do you think he’d want that?”

Your eyes meet those of Harry’s personal PR manager, who has one brow raised. You like her. She’s sharp and direct and doesn’t have time to waste, a trait that’s written all over the look she’s giving you now.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” you admit. “What was the question?”

An impatient sigh.

“I asked if you think Harry would want to talk about his career journey.”

“No,” you say immediately. “He covered that in the last interview, and he’ll kill someone if he has to answer the same questions again.”

The intern to your left scrambles to erase something from her own iPad.

When you leave the meeting, it’s settled that Harry’s next interview will be with Forbes, set to be edited and published on a rush schedule. Now you need to inform him, schedule the interview, send ten thousand emails.

You press the elevator button and wait. When the doors finally open on your floor—Media, Marketing, and Advertising—there are three people inside, and your boss is one of them.

Your first instinct is to stay put, but one of the men is holding the door open for you, and Harry is looking at you with an unreadable expression. Everyone knows the two of you get along well, so you can’t exactly not step in.

“Good morning,” you say as you enter, greeted politely by the other two men. You stop beside Harry, both of you facing forward, side by side. “Good morning, Harry.”

“Morning.”

His tone is polite and to the point, as it always is when other people are around.

The doors close. The elevator screen shows stops on the fifth and seventh floors before heading to the fifteenth, where Harry’s office is. Background music resumes while you focus on breathing mechanically, because even that feels too tense right now.

Is he thinking about how he practically begged to come inside you twice?

The elevator stops. One of the men steps out, exchanging good mornings.

At some point last night, he brought up your boyfriend while he was still inside you, and you wanted to kill him for it, because your body was torn between being turned on by the wrongness of it all and feeling sorry for your partner, who was probably asleep at that hour, completely unaware of how his name was being dragged through the situation. But then the irrational possessiveness bug bit Harry and he made you admit your boyfriend didn’t fuck you nearly as well.

The elevator stops again. The last person exits, leaving just you and Harry in the confined space. The music starts up again.

Harry speaks first.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, still looking ahead.

“What do…” you start to say, then remember how, toward the end of the night, you told him you were so sensitive between your legs, something Harry then soothed with his own tongue. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“You complained.”

“I made an observation,” you clarify. “Because it’s true. You and my boyfriend are different. And with you, it was hours.”

He says nothing.

“We said we wouldn’t talk about this at work,” you remind him. “Last night didn’t happen.”

The doors open on your floor, and Harry, without addressing your last comment, holds them open for you to exit first. You both begin walking to your respective places — your desk, his office — and you slip back into your executive assistant persona. The one who doesn’t know what his sweaty skin smells like, how his kiss tastes, or the sound of that deep groan when whispered into your ear.

“I need to talk to you about the Forbes interview,” you call after him. “Can we schedule a meeting at three?”

“Yes. Put it on the calendar, please,” he says without slowing down or looking back.

He enters his office and shuts the door behind him, which means: do not disturb.

So you don’t.

You and Harry are good actors. That you gotta admit.

For the next three weeks, nothing happens. He’s your boss, you’re his assistant, and that’s the only dynamic that exists between you. The world keeps spinning. And you don’t get fired, which was a very real possibility in the mental report you filed the morning after that night.

You start arriving earlier so you don’t have to stay late, which means you don’t have to be alone with him. Harry stops sending cryptic messages about his meetings. He also stops emerging from his office when you walk in wearing the red dress he once said he loved.

Three weeks later, on a Friday at four p.m., Harry steps out of his office and walks over to your desk.

You look up from the Excel spreadsheet where you’re logging his personal expenses and ask politely,

“Can I help you, Harry?”

“Are you going to the cocktail party?”

He’s talking about the Castillo & Co. event tomorrow night, celebrating the release of the Forbes issue featuring his new interview.

“Yes, of course. Do you need something?”

“I need you to come with me to the tailor and take the suit to my apartment. I’ve got something at six, won’t have time to go back to my house.”

“Okay. Now?”

“Now.”

You nod, like the good assistant you are, and save the file before shutting down your computer.

In silence, you both head down to the parking garage and slide into the back seat of Harry’s car. His driver is already behind the wheel. Harry immediately crosses one leg over the other, foot bouncing, and pulls out his phone. You turn toward the window as the car leaves the underground lot.

This is the last time you two are in a car together after that night, that had felt so different.

Harry had dismissed the driver, so he was the one behind the wheel. The silence back then was heavy with anticipation, tension, and the electric certainty that something was going to happen. When he stopped at a red light, he leaned across the console to kiss you and slid a hand under your skirt, pressing against you through your underwear in a way that made you feel completely, undeniably his.

You squeeze your thighs together and close your eyes, steadying your breath.

The moment shatters with the sound of your phone. You glance down and see “baby” on the screen — your boyfriend. You’d asked him to call to plan dinner.

Shit. Perfect timing.

“Hey, babe,” you say softly. In your peripheral vision, you catch Harry’s foot stilling. Your boyfriend is cheerful, loud enough that Harry can probably hear every word. He asks if you’re still at the office. “No, I’m heading to the tailor with Harry, then I’ll go straight to your place. Is that okay?”

He says it is. Says he bought a special bottle of wine because the pink label reminded him of you—your favorite color—and the ache in your chest tightens.

“You’re so sweet to me,” you say, and maybe it’s just in your head, but your voice sounds too guilty. He tells you that you deserve it. You don’t know what to say, so you ask, “Do you want me to pick anything up for dinner?”

He says no. Says he just wants one thing from you. You lower your voice.

“What do you want?”

The car is dead silent. Your phone volume is up too high when he says, “I want you on the kitchen counter, wearing nothing but your panties, while I cook.” That’s your assignment, he adds.

You let out an awkward little laugh, praying Harry didn’t catch it.

“Deal,” you say. “See you tonight.”

When you hang up, Harry isn’t on his phone anymore. He’s just staring out the window, unreadable.

You arrive at the tailor and the driver opens your door. Harry joins you on the sidewalk and, for the first time in nearly a month, places a guiding hand at the base of your back as you walk inside. He used to do that all the time, but apparently that kind of touch was banned after what happened between you.

The receptionist greets you and leads you to one of the private fitting rooms. Three of the walls are mirrors and two velvet couches sit in the corner. There’s a tray with water and candied orange peels, and, In the center of it all, is the raised circular platform where Harry usually stands during fittings.

She shows him the suit, neatly arranged on two hangers, and tells him to try it on. Then she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

You head straight for one of the couches, which makes Harry’s hand fall away from your back.

“Want me to wait outside?” you ask, out of habit, as you sit down. You’ve done this a dozen times.

“Nothing you haven’t seen,” he says, pulling off his shoes.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Off comes the blazer, placed on the rack. Then the watch and the cufflinks are dropped into the tray. Then come the buttons—first the sleeves, then the collar, all the way down…

You clear your throat and open your phone, responding to emails, not looking at him.

“So your boyfriend cooks for you,” Harry says casually.

And just like that, you know he heard everything.

Half his chest is exposed. He’s not even looking at you as he untucks his shirt and slides it off, standing shirtless in front of you, wearing only slacks.

“Yeah, he likes to cook.”

“Is it a special occasion?”

“Does it have to be?” you counter, eyes glued to your screen.

“Just asking.”

He unbuttons his pants, and you lock your gaze on your phone.

“Anniversary,” you finally say, which makes you realize that you’ll need new lingerie for tonight.

“What if he proposes again? Will you say yes?”

“Harry,” you say firmly, lifting your gaze now that he’s put on the dress pants. “That’s none of your business. You pay me to manage your life, but that doesn’t mean you get to know everything about mine.”

“I love how passive-aggressive you get when I bring up your relationship. You hate it.”

“I don’t hate my boyfriend.”

“I didn’t say you hate your boyfriend. I said you hate your relationship.”

He starts buttoning the newly fitted shirt, and his tone is so maddeningly casual you feel heat rising in your chest.

“You just want me to hate my relationship so you can feel a little better,” you say, holding your fingers up, barely apart, “just this much better, about the fact that you hate yours too.”

“I don’t need to feel better about it. I know the truth. If we didn’t hate our relationships, we wouldn’t have had sex.”

“We agreed not to talk about it.”

“Oh, that again. Has it helped? Not talking about it has made you think about it any less?”

You lock your phone and set it aside. Adjust yourself on the couch and look directly at him. Your voice stays quiet, but sharp.

“Of course not, but what do you want me to do? I’m in a relationship, you’re married, we have lives, and I need my job. And even if I do think about that night, I can’t do anything about it. So yeah, it’s better to pretend.”

“So you do think about it.”

“If that’s what strokes your ego, then fine, yes. I think about it. There hasn’t been a single damn day since that night that I haven’t remembered it. It haunts me.”

Harry finishes buttoning his shirt, tucks it in, then slips on the blazer. The suit fits like a glove. Every seam perfect, every line flattering.

“I told you I had morals,” Harry says quietly after a beat. “But I put them aside for you. And now, here I am, with none, asking you to keep going.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Keep going what?”

“What started that night in my office. I’m not going to ask you to break up with your boyfriend, and I won’t promise I’ll divorce my wife. I can sign a five-year job security agreement if that’s what it takes to make you feel safe. But I want you.”

“This won’t work.”

“Do you want it?”

What a stupid question. You nearly die a little every day from how much you want him.

But your answer never comes, because the tailor opens the door and walks in, greeting Harry cheerfully.

And now you can’t stop thinking

You think about it as you head to Harry’s apartment to drop off his suit, ignoring the pair of gold hoops on the entryway table that make it painfully obvious he’s a married man. You think about it later, when you go to your boyfriend’s place and undress for him. And even later, in the shower, when you notice the mark he left near your breast while you were having sex.

This has absolutely no chance of ending well, and you’ve never been the kind of person who lets irrational impulses get in the way of your career. But for the first time… you’re tempted.

And the worst part? You can’t tell anyone. Maybe your therapist, but she’ll just say again how unhealthy this dynamic is, and you don’t want to hear that. And you don’t trust her that much with this kind of secret.

You think about it as you get ready for Harry’s cocktail party, aching to see him and hoping for permission to touch him.

Your boyfriend approaches, eyes wide when he sees you in the strapless red gown, and lets out a whistle.

“Are you sure I’m even allowed to be seen with you tonight?” he teases, wrapping his arms around you from behind and kissing your neck. “You look gorgeous. Stunning dress.”

“Harry gave it to me. Well, he gave me the money and his personal shopper bought it,” you say, because there’s no way you could afford a Schiaparelli, and your boyfriend is used to hearing about the things Harry buys you whenever there’s an event.

All so you look presentable as Harry Castillo’s executive assistant, of course.

“Of course he did,” your boyfriend says, rolling his eyes. “Ready?”

When you arrive at Castillo & Co.’s event hall, hand in hand with your boyfriend, you realize that, no, you’re not ready. The decor is tasteful and elegant in shades of fawn, black, and ice white and everyone is in black-tie. At the back of the room, a digital display showcases the Forbes cover. Harry looks amazing in the photo, completely fitting for the role he holds, but the headline reads: From Concrete to the Top of the World.

He must’ve hated that.

“Do we have fancy whiskey?” your boyfriend asks as you start to cross the room. “And shrimp cocktail?”

The questions are rhetorical. Before you can answer, he plants a loud kiss on your lips and heads off toward the food tables. You watch him walk away, wishing he stayed with you, but then a waiter offers you a glass of champagne and you accept. You walk toward the edge of the room, and sip while scanning the space.

People are gathered in polished little clusters, all impeccably dressed and beaming. But there’s a larger group crowded around one person, and the reason is Harry, who’s speaking with ease and commanding the social scene with effortless charm, looking absolutely delicious in a tux.

Your view is partially blocked when his wife appears beside him, placing a hand on his forearm, looking radiant in a white off-shoulder draped gown. Without stopping his sentence or glancing her way, Harry slips an arm around her waist.

She seems to glow under his touch. You understand the feeling, despite the hundred-pound weight settling in your stomach.

How ridiculous, to feel jealous of the wife. You are the wrong one, not her. And how twisted is it that, beneath the jealousy, there’s a flicker of satisfaction because Harry wants you, not just her?

Harry laughs at something one of the men says. He scans the room briefly, and that’s when he sees you. Your stomach twists, and nearly melts, when his eyes sweep over you from head to toe, so subtly that no one else would notice.

Smoothly, he turns back to the conversation, as if his attention had never strayed.

Your own attention is pulled back by your boyfriend returning.

“There’s so much food,” he says, his excitement making you laugh. He laughs too, but insists, “Seriously. It’s insane. Have you eaten?”

You shake your head, and he grabs your hand, guiding you toward the buffet tables. There are a million options, and you let yourself get distracted by them so you don’t start looking for Harry, which doesn’t work, because ten minutes later, he’s the one who finds you.

His wife is with him.

“Darling,” she says, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “That dress is stunning. It’s Schiaparelli, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you reply, and she keeps looking at you like she’s waiting for an explanation. You add, “A loan from Harry, so I wouldn’t embarrass him.”

“It’s not a loan. It’s yours,” Harry says, leaning in to greet you with a kiss on the cheek. His smell, what the fuck. He extends a hand to your boyfriend. “So you’re the boyfriend.”

“So you’re the boss,” your boyfriend jokes as they shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Castillo.”

“Likewise,” Harry says, though the tone is anything but warm. Then to you: “My PR rep asked for a few photos of us. Can you do that now?”

“Sure,” you reply, accepting his offered arm.

Harry kisses his wife lightly and says he’ll be right back. You do the same with your boyfriend. Together, you walk toward the PR team, and once you’re far enough from the crowd, Harry speaks, eyes still forward.

“Have you thought about it?”

“Do I have a deadline?”

“So you’re considering it.”

That shuts you up. Yes, you are considering it.

“If we were to do this,” you murmur to Harry, smiling politely at one of his business partners entering your field of vision, who’s always courteous to you, “I’d want that job security agreement.”

“I’ll call my lawyer right now and have him draft the contract.”

The conversation pauses as you reach Harry’s publicist—a tall man who always wears eccentric suits, whether because of the patterns or the bold colors. Tonight, he’s in blood-red with round glasses and greets you with a giant smile.

“Stunning,” he says, kissing both of your cheeks. “What an honor for Harry to be seen with such a beautiful woman.”

You shoot him a look.

“Besides Mrs. Castillo, of course!” he adds quickly, and you decide not to check your boss’s face. “Shall we?”

You and Harry pose in front of a wide LED panel bearing the Castillo Construction & Co. logo. He places a hand on your waist without a hint of a smile, and you fall into your executive posture: back straight, polite, demure smile.

Photos are taken with instructions from both the photographer and the publicist. When it’s over, but before you and Harry can step apart, he leans in, under the guise of a polite hug, and whispers in your ear:

“She’s traveling for work tonight. If the answer is yes, you know where I live.”

Then he disappears into the sea of people who can’t wait to be near him.

By sheer luck, you don’t see Harry again during the next two hours you remain at the cocktail party. Your boyfriend indulges in the expensive whiskey, and you sip two more glasses of champagne, but there’s an anticipation humming beneath everything you do, like something is lurking.

Like the night won’t end at your home, in your bed, with your boyfriend.

You leave around nine, and you practically have to guide your boyfriend into the Uber waiting at the curb. He’s nearly unconscious on the ride back to his apartment, just awake enough to walk on his own. You help him inside, stay with him while he showers, and then watch over him as he collapses into bed.

A glass of water and two aspirins on the nightstand. A kiss on the forehead. And then he’s snoring, totally out.

You close the door gently behind you and, leaning your back against it, pick up your phone.

You open your chat with Harry. The last message is a simple “ok” you sent after he asked to reschedule a meeting.

There’s no telling how long you stand there, staring at the screen and imagining a thousand different scenarios, but when you finally type something, it’s:

“Let the front desk know I’m cleared to come up.”

Because even though your name is on the list of people with access to his apartment, the building has strict policies about non-residents after 8 p.m.

Harry replies ten minutes later:

“Done.”

The doorman, an older gentleman who’s always polite, greets you as always: with a gentle tone, a compliment (this time about your dress), and a polite question about whether Harry’s being a decent boss. But you catch the slight wrinkle between his brows, the subtle confusion in his smile. It says: What the hell are you doing here at this hour?

You see the same look from the security guards, and from the person at the front desk. But you lift your chin, square your shoulders, and pretend your reason for being here is purely professional.

You build a whole story in your mind as you walk across the marble lobby, your heels clicking with each step, just to make it easier to face. Harry needs a report for Monday morning, and he’s paying you overtime for it, but the source documents are physical, and he can’t scan them.

He took them home because he planned to work on them tonight, but the cocktail party took over his evening.

You step into the elevator and enter the code for Harry’s apartment.

And he remembered the report at the event, of course he did, because the partner he’s meeting on Monday mentioned looking forward to the negotiations. So you, ever the good employee, offered to stop by and grab the documents.

The elevator doors close, taking you toward the penthouse duplex, and you shut your eyes, erasing the fake narrative.

Now, it’s just you and your conscience.

There’s no report. No meeting. No overtime. Now it’s just Harry and you, both willingly choosing to do this and hurt your partners in exchange for nothing more than physical satisfaction.

The doors open into the private foyer of the penthouse, warmly lit and lined with framed art. Harry is standing in the doorway of the apartment, barefoot, blazer gone, bowtie undone and hanging loose at his collar.

You take one step forward, leaving the elevator.

“How was the rest of the party?” you ask, trying to sound casual through your nerves.

“Good. They liked the feature.”

You stop a few feet away, feeling his eyes on you. You twist your clutch in your hands.

“We left early because she had to catch the flight,” Harry adds, answering the question you hadn’t asked. “Want to come in? I think I still have some champagne.”

You nod, agreeing, and step inside as Harry closes the door behind you. The long hallway leading into the living room, all decorated in earth tones and golden light, greets you like a witness.

“There are some things I’m assuming based on the fact that you’re here,” Harry says behind you. You turn to face him. “But obviously, I need you to say it.”

“I don’t know if I can say it out loud.”

He watches you for a beat, reading your face.

“Morals?”

“It’s called having a heart.”

He smiles, and it’s far too sensual for the subject at hand.

“Speaking of hearts… what excuse did you give your boyfriend?”

He walks past you, heading down the hallway, and you follow. The two of you move into the living room, and you settle onto the couch, watching as Harry disappears for a few seconds and reemerges with an unopened bottle of Bollinger and two flutes in his hands. He sits beside you, and within moments, the bottle is open and champagne is flowing into both glasses.

You slip off your heels. Harry tosses his bow tie onto the coffee table. And only after you’ve taken your first sip of champagne do you finally answer.

“I didn’t need an excuse. He was asleep,” you say, referring to your boyfriend. “I think he had a lot of whiskey.”

“That’s a shame. He could’ve spent the night with you, but he chose to drink,” Harry replies, settling in beside you as he clicks his tongue. “Rookie mistake.”

“You think it’s exciting to sleep with me because it only happened once and it’s forbidden. After three years, he doesn’t think like that anymore.”

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t find having you in my bed exciting.”

That makes you blink slowly at him, then at the ring on his finger, while the champagne tastes suddenly bitter on your tongue.

He notices where your eyes have landed.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, gesturing to the ring.

You don’t even need to think, which probably bumps you up twenty points on the I’m-A-Terrible-Person scale.

“No,” you say, because it’s true.

“Did you feel guilty?”

“Tonight?” you nod, and he draws in a long breath. He seems to test a million possible words before landing on: “No. I didn’t. I was angry at your boyfriend, and then I felt like an asshole for that.”

When you don’t respond, Harry throws the question back at you.

“Did you?”

You take another sip of champagne, gaze fixed on the massive TV mounted across from the sofa.

“I wish I had. It would be easier to deal with all this if I felt guilty.”

Harry reaches over and takes a lock of your hair that had fallen over your chest, twirling it around his finger before brushing it over your shoulder. He does the same with the others, gently moving each strand behind you, letting it fall down your back.

Before anything else, he places his glass on the coffee table beside the bottle and settles into the cushions.

“Come here.”

The way he pulls you brings your body into his, with your back partially resting against his chest and your legs tucked beneath you.

“I usually have answers for everything,” Harry says. “But for this? I don’t.”

You tilt your head just enough to hear the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear, and you intertwine your fingers with his. His arm rests over your right shoulder.

“It’s okay… I don’t need comfort. I’m here because I want to be.”

Harry makes a low sound, like agreement, and presses his hand flat against your chest. He can probably feel the same quick heartbeat under his palm.

He changes the subject because that’s the smarter choice.

“You look beautiful in that dress,” he says near your ear, his voice more intimate now, more private. You close your eyes and savor the sound like it’s dessert. “Everyone was looking at you and envying your boyfriend.”

His hand drifts lower, cupping your breast over the smooth silk of your gown, his touch feather-light. Your skin prickles.

“But I’m the one they should envy, right?” Harry keeps whispering. The dress has a slit that’s just wide enough for him to slip his hand underneath and cup your breast. “I was trying to think of a way to make that obvious.”

“That you’re cheating on your wife with me?”

His soft thumb finds your hardened nipple, and a wave of heat rolls between your legs as he circles it.

“That I got what all those wide-eyed bastards wanted.”

“You’re awfully possessive for someone who’s the other man.”

He laughs, and you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration under your cheek against his chest. You smile, and the smile stays as Harry reaches for the small zipper on the side of your dress and slowly, slowly pulls it down.

The fabric loosens with each inch the zipper drops, and you’re the one who slides the top of the dress down to your waist, exposing your breasts. His hands cover them one at a time, squeezing gently, and you push them toward his palms.

Soon, it’s his mouth on your neck, lips parted over your sensitive skin. You have to tighten your grip around the champagne flute just to keep from dropping it as Harry kisses and bites your neck, his beard scraping and tickling in a way that leaves your whole body weak.

“Turn around and kiss me,” he says, taking the glass from your hand and placing it on the coffee table.

When he leans back into the couch again, you kneel on the seat beside him, just like that first night in his office, and meet his mouth. Harry holds your face with both hands but lets you set the pace, following your movements. And you devour it, because you’ve thought about this too much. His kiss, his taste, the way he leads without ever needing to be rough.

Your mouths part wider, undoing all the restraint that’s built up over the last three weeks. Harry slides one hand down to finish unzipping the dress completely and pushes it off your hips, leaving you in nothing but panties.

You’ve barely thrown the dress to the floor before his hand is already inside your underwear, and your knees weaken. He finds the slickness there and mutters a curse under his breath before sitting up straighter to get a better angle as he rubs slow circles over your clit.

The blood is pounding so hard in your ears that you barely register the phone ringing.

Both of you freeze, breaths and hearts racing. You meet Harry’s gaze, seeking some sort of shelter in it, and he looks back at you, lips red, before glancing toward the coffee table.

Before he can move, you kiss him again. Screw the phone. Harry immediately sinks back into the kiss, and the middle finger still inside your panties traces slowly from your clit down to your dripping entrance. It doesn’t take long before he slips it inside, and you swing a leg over his lap, settling into him.

The phone stops ringing.

Harry moves slowly, probably remembering how sensitive you were last time. He takes his time with just one finger, working you open, making you wetter. Your clit is practically throbbing, and he starts to speak—

—but the words are swallowed up by the phone ring again.

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry mutters, clearly annoyed, pulling his hand from your panties and gripping your waist. With you still in his lap, he leans forward and grabs the phone. You feel his whole body tense beneath you when he sees the screen.

“What is it?” you ask.

“My wife,” he says.

You want to be a bitch and tell him not to answer, to hang up, but you can’t. Even though you know he might actually listen if you said it.

“Answer. It could be important.”

Harry squeezes your waist as you try to move off his lap.

“Stay,” he says, and clears his throat before answering. “Hi, darling. Everything okay?”

“Hey, babe. Why didn’t you pick up the first time?”

You can hear her voice clearly because she’s speaking loudly and because of how close the two of you are, but you stay quiet and still, as if moving might somehow make her see you.

The lie rolls off his tongue effortlessly.

“Sorry. I was on a video call with some investors in Japan. I didn’t see the phone ring.”

You keep your eyes on his as your hand reaches the button on his pants. You undo it silently, then ease the zipper down.

Harry doesn’t stop you.

“I’m at the airport,” his wife is saying. “I upgraded to business class, but for some reason they need you to authorize the purchase on your bank app.”

“That’s strange. They’ve never needed confirmation before.”

With the zipper all the way down, you slide your hand into his underwear and pull out his hard cock. Your mouth practically waters.

“I said the same thing!” she laughs. “I think I’m just going to cancel and try using my own card… Not the joint account.”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but it’s exactly when you lick your hand and wrap it around him. His jaw tightens and his eyes flutter shut. He pulls the phone away from his face to suck in a sharp breath.

“Harry?”

“I can authorize it from here,” he says into the phone, eyes glancing down to follow the motion of your hand. “Up to you.”

“Hmm… no worries, I’ll just use mine.” A pause. “My flight boards in thirty minutes and you know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

“What?”

You remove your hand from his cock only to quietly slip out of your panties. His gaze drops, devouring the space between your legs, and you sit back down on his thigh, not caring in the slightest if you leave a wet mark on his pants.

She says,

“The way you fingered me in the car after the party.”

Your hands freeze. You raise an eyebrow at Harry, and he gives you a small, crooked smile before replying to his wife,

“You liked that?”

“Mhm. Too bad I couldn’t make you come, too.”

You narrow your eyes and squirm with jealousy. You tighten your grip and focus on the swollen tip. Harry tries to stop you, but you challenge him and keep going, watching his expression break. You want her to hear.

“I didn’t need to,” he manages to say. “That was for you.”

Harry moves the phone away completely, whispering a curse just as her voice returns on the other end.

“But I miss sleeping with you.” Her tone is overly sweet, but there’s a hint of real sadness buried beneath it.

The smile that threatens to curl your lips is cruel and selfish, and you don’t dig too deep into what it means. Probably something about how you’re about to have what she wants. Which is awfully childish, you know that.

But part of you feels for her. That’s what you think as you lift yourself onto your knees, placing one over Harry’s thigh to get the angle right, and guide his erection to the slick heat between your legs.

You’d feel that way, too, if you were married to a man like Harry and he didn’t want you.

Harry leans his head back on the couch, avoiding your eyes. He stares at the ceiling, the knuckles of the hand holding the phone pale and strained.

“Sorry. A lot on my mind,” he says, just as you sink down on him.

His chest tightens in a heavy breath. His free hand clutches your hip, his thighs tense beneath you, a vein in his neck practically pulsing. He’s a vision of self-restraint, and you revel in it, grinding down onto him and biting your lip hard enough to nearly break skin just to keep quiet.

“I get it,” she says. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Darling, I need—”

“Promise me we’ll try harder.”

You lean forward as he stretches you, kissing the side of his damp neck while your fingers work on the buttons of his shirt, your tongue tracing the line of that vein. He shudders.

“I promise,” Harry says, his nails digging into your waist as you begin to rock in his lap, moaning against his skin. “I… I really need to go. Have to finish some documents. But text me when you land, okay?”

You don’t even register their goodbye. All you know is that Harry practically throws his phone onto the coffee table.

“Brat,” he mutters against your mouth as he pulls your hair, tugging off his shirt in one fluid motion. “Can’t believe the phone didn’t pick up the sound of this wet pussy.”

“Lucky you,” you say. “So Harry Castillo isn’t fucking his wife? What a shame.”

He tightens his grip around you and stands, pulling a gasp from your mouth as he slips out of you.

“You’re too old to be lifting like that,” you say, even as your thighs wrap around his hips. “Your physical therapist’s gonna be rich.”

“And you still want this old man?”

You nod, and Harry gives a smug little smile. Men are so easy to please.

He carries you through the hallway into the master bedroom. Your wide-eyed gaze meets his a moment before he sets you down on the enormous, messy bed. One glance to the side and you see the open door of his wife’s closet, purses and heels in view, just before Harry flips you onto your stomach and raises your hips.

You brace on your elbows, spine arching.

Two pillows rest at the head of the bed. One nightstand holds a book, a pair of glasses, and a man’s watch. The other has hand cream, a gold bracelet, a bottle of vitamins, and a pink hair clip.

It’s literally the most intimate part of a couple’s life, and this bedroom embodies that, exactly why you used to think, and agree, it was a line not to be crossed. But not for Harry, apparently, who climbs onto the bed behind you and slides into you again.

Your head drops forward, blocking your vision, fingers clutching the sheets as he sinks in fully.

Harry leans over your back, his fingers finding your pulsing clit, stroking in slow circles that make your whole body melt.

“Harry—”

“Come on my cock and I’ll fuck you.”

You writhe beneath him as his fingers move faster, smaller, tighter circles. You roll your hips forward and back in short, needy thrusts, just enough friction to push you toward the edge.

Your mouth dries, eyes squeezing shut as the tension coils in your belly. When Harry switches to horizontal strokes, rubbing directly across your clit, you come so hard it borders on painful, then dissolves into something warm and all-consuming, like being lowered into a hot bath.

“Just like that,” he whispers against your moans, slowing his movements so you can ride out every last wave. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

You nod, even though your ears are still buzzing. You nearly miss the weight of his body when he pulls back, but then one hand presses between your shoulder blades and the other grabs your hip, and he starts to thrust.

It’s almost too much. You’re still sensitive, your clit sparking with each slap of his balls, but it’s so good. You hear his grunts, low and rough, and you spread your knees wider, gripping the sheets. Your eyes land on his wife’s nightstand at the same moment Harry says,

“This what you wanted? Climbing on top of me while I was on the phone? Almost making me lose it?”

You nod. Harry pulls your left leg, then your right, laying you flat. He lies on top of you, keeping your legs tight between his, and thrusts again.

“Say it out loud.”

He kisses your neck, brushing your hair away. Your skin tingles.

“For a second, I wanted her to hear,” you admit, grateful you’re not facing him.

Harry breathes against your temple.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted her to know that what she wants…” You can’t finish before he speeds up, and you have to grit your teeth. With your legs squeezed together, every thrust hits deeper. “You’re giving it to me. And you’re so, so hard for me…”

There. You said it. This time, you break the rule about not talking about the others. And you can’t regret it, not when Harry wraps a hand around your throat, bites your shoulder, and fucks you, the slap of skin clashing with the wet sounds of his cock inside you, again and again, until he growls a curse.

He pulls out and flips you onto your back. Harry climbs over you, stroking himself, eyes roving over your body—your breasts, the space between your thighs. You touch yourself too, unable not to, watching his face tighten as he gets close.

And when he comes, it’s on your belly, whispering your name as the hot ropes of cum cover your skin.

“Open your legs,” he says, voice hoarse and skin sweaty. You fold your knees and spread your thighs. “You’re already close again… Look how you’re throbbing.”

This time it’s the tip of his cock that presses against your swollen clit, massaging it, smearing his cum across your skin as he strokes. His softening head glides over you in slow, steady movements. With his free hand, Harry uses his fingers to open you wider, and when he finds the exact spot again, he presses.

Your next orgasm isn’t as explosive as the first, but just as overwhelming. When it hits, you can’t take anymore. You clamp your legs shut and push his hand away.

He gets it. He lies down beside you, pulls you into his arms, and holds you while you catch your breath.

As your senses return, you notice the only light in the room is coming from the open closet. The bedroom is softly decorated, the sheets far too luxurious to have been chosen by a man, even one like Harry Castillo.

“Why did we have sex in here?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“You must have ten guest rooms in this penthouse. Why this one?”

He stays silent, stroking your back.

“Because doing something wrong turns you on?” you ask, turning to look at him. Harry meets your eyes, saying nothing, and his hand goes still on your ribs. “I get it. I think I got wetter when I realized where you brought me.”

Before he can reply, you ask,

“Will you think of me when you’re here with her?”

“I already do,” he says. “The difference is now I’ll have memories. Not just imagination.”

You lean in to kiss him, and Harry welcomes it.

Even so, the two of you sleep in the guest bedroom, because you don’t want to use her pillow or wrap yourself in the same sheets she does.

Harry takes you to the end of the hallway, into a room that seems like it’s never been used, even though the sheets smell like fabric softener.

The bed is bigger than yours, and after a quick shower, the two of you tangle up together, naked, beneath the covers. It’s the first time you’re actually about to fall asleep with him, and he behaves exactly as you expected: he wraps himself around you, throws a leg over yours, and presses you tightly to his body. You’re surrounded by Harry—in your skin, in your sweat, in the sheets, in the house, in the scent that wraps around you.

And just like that, sleep comes easy.

Maybe it’s the unfamiliar space, or the furnace that is Harry’s body, or the emotional chaos, but you wake up in the middle of the night.

He’s completely asleep, his legs trapping yours, and you try to fall back asleep for a few more minutes, but it doesn’t work. Slowly, you untangle yourself from his body and tiptoe out of the room to get your phone, which you’d left in your bag on the coffee table.

You sit on the couch to check for any unread messages, but the moment makes you feel exposed. The champagne bottle and flutes still sitting there give you a headache. You lower the brightness on your phone and go back to the guest room.

Harry hasn’t moved.

There’s a small loveseat by the window, and you curl up there, turning your phone screen back on. The first unread message is from your boyfriend, sent about an hour ago. He’s thanking you for taking care of him. Says you should’ve stayed at his place so he could wake you up with breakfast.

You deserve it for looking after me, he writes and you let out a humorless laugh, because you definitely don’t deserve anything.

There’s a message from your mom, a photo of her, and a few from your friends who saw your picture with Harry on Forbes’s Instagram. You click the link, and it takes you to the post.

Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo Construction & Co., and his executive assistant, is the caption.

You both look good. You make a striking image.

Harry’s sleepy voice pulls your attention back.

“Can’t sleep?”

He’s rubbing his eyes, propped up on one elbow to look at you.

“Think it’s just the unfamiliar bed. I can’t fall back asleep.”

“That really all it is?”

You chew on your bottom lip, hugging your knees and resting your chin on them after leaving your phone aside. Even though you’re completely naked, you don’t feel uncomfortable around Harry, which is saying something.

“What now?” you ask instead, feeling sorry for him, seeing as he just woke up and is being struck with this emotional turbulence. “Are we something?”

“That was the proposal.”

“We’re gonna have to get really good at lying. You know that, right? At some point, ‘I need to stay late at the office’ won’t cut it anymore.” A headache pulses at your temples. You laugh. “This is crazy.”

“What is?”

“When I started working at the office, I was obsessed with you. I practically drooled when you walked by, watched all your interviews, melted whenever you talked to me. And then you got married, so I made it a point to find someone, or anyone, to date, just to get you out of my system.”

Harry looks at you in a way you don’t like.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “I’m not some virgin girl doing this because I’m in love. You fuck me well, and I like it. That’s all.”

Harry gets out of bed and grabs a pillow. He walks over to you and, without a word, places it on the floor in front of the chair. Then he kneels, and you fall silent at the sight of Harry Castillo on his knees before you, his hair tousled from sleep.

He lifts your left ankle, holding your leg halfway out to kiss from your ankle to your knee, taking his time. The moonlight from outside casts a soft glow over his profile.

You watch, heart pounding.

“I remember your first day at work,” Harry murmurs, sleep-rough voice breaking the silence as he parts his lips to kiss the inside of your thigh. Your stomach twists with nerves and anticipation. “You were wearing a white dress. Your hair was tied up. And you widened your eyes at everyone who came near, like a damn deer.”

Your own eyes are probably wide now as he rests your right leg on his shoulder, stretching your left again to repeat the same trail of kisses. You grip the edge of the seat.

He remembers what you wore your first day, four years ago.

“You came into my office,” he continues, and lifts your left leg to join the other on his shoulders, his face now nestled between your thighs as he places open-mouthed kisses along your skin. “Asked if I needed help with anything specific, and when I told you to sit beside me so I could show you how to open my encrypted report, you tripped over the edge of the rug. In that exact moment, I wanted you.”

He says the last words right before he opens his mouth over your pussy, the heat of his breath making you arch into the chair and clutch his hair.

He looks up at you, mouth still busy, and God… if you could capture a single moment in a photo, it would be this.

You slide your legs off his shoulders just to grab his face and pull him up so you can kiss him. Harry kisses back eagerly, and there’s nothing tender about the way he licks into your mouth. There’s nothing tender about the way he breaks the kiss either just to place your legs back over his shoulders and bury his face between them again. One hand presses down on your lower belly to keep you in place as his mouth seals around your clit and starts to suck.

You hold his face with both hands, pressing him harder against you, watching him, watching the way his cock hardens just from tasting you.

“So good,” you whisper, your fingers on his jaw. “You have no idea how good it feels to have Harry Castillo on his knees for me.”

He doesn’t pull away, but you swear, if he could, he’d be smiling.

What he does instead is lower his mouth until his tongue is inside you. Your eyes flutter closed. Moans echo in the room, along with the wet sounds of his mouth, and you lose yourself in all of it, until his thumb slides inside you. But just as quickly, it leaves, and instead, glides down.

You open your eyes with a jolt just in time to see Harry sucking your clit while his thumb starts circling your other entrance.

It’s different. Strange. Not unpleasant.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks, likely meaning anal.

You shake your head.

“Well, look at that,” Harry says, overly pleased, rubbing in slow circles. “So, in a way, you’re still a virgin. Can I?”

There are very few things you wouldn’t give Harry if he asked.

“Just the finger. Just one. Slowly.”

“Always, baby.”

And he goes slowly.

He waits until you’re melting under his tongue, licking his thumb before returning it to your tight rim and gently pushing in the tip. It doesn’t hurt—not with just the tip—but it’s unlike anything you’ve done, something you never even tried with your boyfriend, even though he asked.

“Relax for me, sweetheart,” Harry whispers. “Breathe. Let me in.”

You don’t know how much time passes before your breathing calms and something in you releases. You feel safer.

Harry plunges his tongue into your pussy and brings his other thumb to your clit, and you’re surrounded by him in every possible way when, slowly, he slips his lubricated thumb into your ass, pulling a deep moan from your chest. The build-up of sensitivity throughout the night, paired with the newness of it all, crashes into you, and you come in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers in both places.

He doesn’t stop, even when you try to push him away and close your legs. Harry keeps sucking your clit harder, and you shake beneath him, overstimulated. He brings you to the edge again with his mouth and hands, and just as you’re about to fall, he stops and tells you to ride him.

You do, on the floor of the guest room. Apparently, you two have a thing for sex on the floor, because it’s rawer, messier, heavier with tension. You kiss the whole time, grabbing at whatever part of him you can reach, and the two of you come together.

Harry, inside you.

You, wrapped around him.

Hardly a word between you.

The next morning, Harry drives you home in his car, without a driver.

You’re wearing one of his T-shirts over your dress, your hair still wet and your face free of makeup, and you probably look ridiculous. A charitable act from the CEO of CCC.

The good news is that the street is empty. It’s still nine a.m. on a Sunday, so there are fewer witnesses to your disastrous state. A few brave souls pass by in running clothes, others look like they rolled out of bed five seconds ago, forced outside by the physiological needs of the small dogs following on their leashes.

Harry parks in front of your building and turns off the engine.

“Too cliché if I thank you for the night?” he asks, leaning back in his seat.

“I’m not going to thank you for the orgasms, because yes, I think that’s cliché, but” you raise your index finger, watching the smug smile take over his face. “solid performance for a senior citizen. Forbes would love to know about the five orgasms.”

“Six,” he corrects, ignoring the comment about the ‘senior citizen.’ “Two this morning. One in bed and one in the shower.”

Oh, right.

“Six,” you agree. “High performance, Mr. Castillo.”

“Glad you approve,” he says. “I suppose I can’t kiss you here.”

You shake your head.

“Not here.” You exchange one last look, entirely charged. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you.” Harry says, and you force yourself to open the passenger door. You place one foot out of the car, but before you can get out, Harry places his palm on the back of your neck and makes you look at him.

“Thank you for tonight and for accepting my proposal.”

You turn just enough to place a kiss on Harry’s wrist and get out of the car, shutting the door behind you.

When you turn toward your building’s entrance, you find another gaze on you.

That gaze runs over you from head to toe, taking in the clothes from the night before, the wet hair, the bare face, and then shifts to Harry’s Mercedes.

A de eezing terror takes hold of your entire body, paralyzing you where you stand.