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rafe had been sitting at his desk since eight that morning.
it was now nearly four.
the laptop was still open.
his phone was ringing every twenty minutes.
there were papers spread across half the desk.
and somehow, despite all of that, the biggest distraction in the room wasnât the work.
it was her.
she was sprawled across the couch behind him, kicking her feet against the cushions.
dramatically.
loudly.
every few minutes she sighed.
the kind of sigh specifically designed to make sure someone heard it.
rafe ignored her.
another sigh.
louder this time.
still nothing.
she glared at the back of his head
âyouâre being mean.â
âmhm.â
âi havenât seen you all day.â
âyouâve been in this room all day.â
âthat doesnât count.â
his fingers continued moving across the keyboard.
click.
click.
click.
she hated that sound.
she especially hated how calm he was.
most people would have cracked by now.
most people wouldâve looked up.
not rafe.
military training apparently made people immune to annoying girlfriends.
ârafe.â
âworking.â
ârafe.â
âstill working.â
she slid off the couch, walked over, stood directly beside his chair.
he didnât even glance up.
the audacity.
âlook at me.â
âcanât.â
âwhy?â
âbecause if i do, youâre gonna think i have free time.â
she narrows her eyes and scoffs. âwhat if iâm naked?â
he pauses, fighting the urge to look. she could tell by his shoulders tensing and his eyes clenching shut the he was getting hard.
she runs her hands over his shoulders, kissing the spot behind his ear, his jaw, and his cheek.
he suddenly opens his eyes, looking at her.
she was, in fact, very naked.
rafe runs a hand down his face, sighing. work, work, work. but shes right there.
looking up at her again, he suddenly gets an idea.
taking his pants and boxers off, his cock springs up, hard and standing against his stomach. her breath shakes at the sight sheâll never get used to.
he pats his lap, and she sits on it. impaling herself down onto his cock, whimpering at the big stretch of his length sinking into her.
when sheâs full to the brim of his dick, she naturally starts to move up and down before his worn hands grab her hips to stop her.
âsit still.â
âwhat?â
âyou heard me, baby. stay still.â he murmurs, continuing to do his work as she sits full of his cock.
she squirms a little and whines, trying to get comfortable, when he pinches her.
she whimpers a bit and moves again, landing another pinch to her hip. ârafe! fuck me!â she snaps.
he finally gets up, pushing her to bend over the desk, her hair in his other hand. âyou cant sit still for a fuckinâ minute?â he murmurs harshly into her ear.
she glares back at him, opening her mouth to say something, but the snap of his hips cuts her words into a moan.
ârafe!â she gasps, clenching around his cock.
he doesnât slow down or be gentle. everytime his length was just barely inside her, he thrusted deep, burying himself to the brim of her cunt.
papers fall off the desk as she tries to find something to hold onto, crying in both pleasure and pain.
âyouâre just always such a needy slut, baby. iâm trying to fuckinâ work and youâre whining about not getting attention.â he whispers as one of his hands cup one of her breasts.
she whimpers as his thumb rubs her sensitive nipple, arching her back into the thrusts.
he could tell she was close by the way her thighs started to tremble and she made more sounds, not forming any sentences.
âim gonna come.â she cries out eventually.
he kisses her shoulder, coming deep inside her as she finishes, coming undone beneath him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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whenever i try to interact with a moot and they either ignore me or are super dry it literally hurts my heart like im sorry if i made you uncomfortable đŁ
Part two of something to take the edge off please!!!
Something TWO take the edge off
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x coach's goddaugther!reader
⥠Main Index | ⥠Archive for Earth-66
⥠Here's part 1!! Something to take the edge off
a/n: Fun-not so fun-fact, I was 6k words deep into the first version before I scrapped the whole thing and restarted. So here's V2 I really hope it was worth the wait! Please like and reblog if you liked it, it means a lot to us writers đ€
Summary: Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence and threeâŠwhat was three again? The line between forbidden and inevitable keeps blurring as Dean and you, his coachâs off-limits goddaughter give in again and again.
Classification: Smut +18 | Forbidden/secret romance (hockey player + coachâs goddaughter), several detailed and long sex scenes, including oral sex/cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected vaginal penetration, orgasm description and bodily fluids, creampie and nipple play, dirty talk and sexual teasing, sensory deprivation, consensual power play/dominance and submission dynamics, mouth stuffing, possessive language and behavior during sex, risk of being caught/semi-public sex with authority figure nearby, emotional conflict, avoidance and denial around attraction.
Word count: 12,2k
Divider by me ;)
You were having an exceptionally difficult time not thinking about that night.
Three days had passed, which was long enough for embarrassment to settle in and for common sense to reappear, for you to convince yourself that perhaps your memory had exaggerated certain details. Maybe the tension hadnât been quite as intense as you remembered, maybe the look in Deanâs eyes had meant less and maybe the entire thing had only felt significant because it had been built on months of denial.
The problem was that every time you tried to convince yourself of that, reality immediately disagreed.
You didnât regret it and judging by the steady stream of texts sitting unanswered in your phone, Dean didnât either but you couldnât answer himâŠshouldnât.
Every single vibration in your pocket made your stomach tighten before you even looked at the screen. His messages ranged from annoying to shameless to surprisingly genuine, each one making it harder to maintain the distance youâd spent months carefully constructing. So you avoided him, the rink, the locker room and every hallway he regularly occupied.
You had already cut your time around the team nearly in half, showing up long before practice began or lingering hours after everyone else had left. It wasnât sustainable and you knew it, because sooner or later people would notice, the players would definitely notice and your godfather?
Your godfather noticed everything, that thought alone made your eye twitch.
Whenever your personal life became complicated, you always retreated toward certainty, toward things with rules, deadlines and clear answers, meaning you buried yourself beneath coursework. Exam season was approaching fast enough to justify the obsession and soon most of your days were spent hidden in forgotten corners of the library, surrounded by textbooks, highlighters and half-empty coffee cups. It was easier there and safer.
At least it should have been.
Instead, you found yourself staring at pages without absorbing a single sentence as words dissolved into memories and paragraphs transformed into flashes of Dean sitting across from you in his room and the unbearable awareness of each other hanging between you from the second youâd climbed through that window.
You squeezed your pen harder as a line of ink dragged crookedly across your notes.
Some stubborn part of you still admired the restraint the two of you had managed that night. After months of wanting, avoiding and pretending, things could have spiraled much further than they had but another part of you, one you tried very hard not to acknowledge, resented that restraint entirely because taking the edge off hadnât solved anything.Â
It had only confirmed what youâd spent months trying not to admit. This wasnât temporary and it wasnât a simple crush, it was attraction that wouldnât simply go away.
âPsst.â
Your pen continued moving automatically across the page. You focused on the music playing through your headphones and on the sentence in front of youâŠWell, you actually just tried to focus on literally anything except your own thoughts.
âPsst.â
You frowned. The sentence you were copying suddenly looked wrong, very wrong. Your eyes scanned it again and half the words were misspelled while the other half appeared to belong to entirely different paragraphs. You stared at the mess in genuine disbelief because never in your entire life had you been this distracted.
Suddenly, a tiny paper ball landed directly on top of your notebook.
You blinked slowly at it before looking up. The library stretched quietly around you, rows of shelves creating narrow aisles in every direction. Several students nearby were already looking annoyed, though at what exactly you couldnât tell.
You pulled one side of your headphones off and only heard silence, thenâŠâPsst!â
This time you heard it clearly and your head turned toward the source. You watched as two thick books moved apart on a shelf several rows away to reveal a familiar face squeezed between them.
It sported a grin, dimples and far too much confidenceâŠDean. His eyes lit up the second he realized youâd spotted him and his grin somehow grew wider.Â
You stared at him as he stared back but neither of you moved, then Dean lifted a hand and gave you an absurdly enthusiastic little wave through the gap between the books and your stupid heart betrayed you, because after three days of successfully avoiding him everywhere else on campus, the last place youâd expected him to find you was your hiding spot and judging by the victorious look on his face, he knew it.
Reluctantly, you pushed your chair back and stood. The legs scraped softly against the library floor, earning another irritated glance from a nearby student which you ignored. Your notebook remained open on the desk with highlighters scattered around it and headphones abandoned beside a coffee that had long since gone cold. For a second you considered grabbing your things and making a run for it until you looked through the gap in the shelves again.
Dean was still standing there, grinning and entirely too pleased with himselfâŠwhich ultimately made you regret getting up at all.
Weaving through the rows of books, you kept your pace quick and your expression carefully neutral. Dean watched your approach openly, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had just spent several minutes terrorizing an entire section of the library.
The second you reached him, your voice dropped into a furious whisper.
âWhat the hell are you doing?â
âTrying to get your attention.â He nodded as though the answer should have been obvious as the grin remained firmly in place.
You stared at him. âYeah, I think you got everyoneâs attention.â
His smile only widened. âMission accomplished then.â
âDean.â You lowered your voice even further. âWhat do you want?â
âHmm.â He tilted his head thoughtfully, extending his fingers one by one as though consulting a very serious list. âLetâs see. Iâd like you to talk to me. Iâd like you to text me back. Iâd also like you to stop hiding from what we did.â
âShh!â The sound came out much harsher than intended and before he could continue, your hand covered his mouth. You grabbed his sleeve with your free hand and dragged him farther between the shelves, away from the study tables and unsuspecting students trying to finish their assignments.
The last thing you needed was Dean casually announcing your personal business in the middle of the library.
âKeep your voice down,â you hissed.
His eyes danced with amusement above your hand.
âWe didnât do anything.â
His brows shot upward as he started speaking into your palm. You felt the vibration of the words before realizing exactly what position youâd put yourself in and your hand disappeared from his face so quickly it almost looked like youâd been burned.
Dean inhaled dramatically.
âYou demonstrated it just now,â he informed you. âExcept your fingers were sweeter and wet tooâŠyou also forgot the part where you kissed the back of your hand afterward and then vanished off the face of the earth.âÂ
You folded your arms. âIf you need a sequel to the second half, feel free to call action right now.â You tilted your head slightly. âIâm excellent at improvisation.â
You watched every stage of his suffering pass across his face in real time. Disbelief, then annoyanceâŠfollowed by resignation and mild murderous intentâŠbut still, no regret. By the end of it, Dean physically looked like he was restraining himself from rolling his eyes.
âYouâre impossible.â
âThank you.â
âThat wasnât a compliment.â
âSucks, cause it sounded like oneâŠmaybe try smiling a lot less.â
Dean exhaled heavily through his nose before grabbing your forearm and steering you away from the shelves.
You barely had time to protest before he was guiding you toward the nearest side exit.
âWait, Deanââ
âNope.â
âDean.â
âItâs still ânoâ.âÂ
The emergency door opened with a metallic click and cool air rushed in from the stairwell beyond, only then did his hand settle briefly against the small of your back as he ushered you through ahead of him.
âYouâre hilarious, by the way,â he said dryly. âHave you ever considered stand-up comedy?â
There wasnât a single trace of amusement in his voice.
You smiled teasingly. âCould never make a bigger joke than you.â
The door swung shut behind both of you with a heavy thud and silence followed. The stairwell was empty, stone walls echoing faintly with distant footsteps from other floors.
Dean stopped on the landing and stared at you. âYou really are a pain in my ass.â
âThen what are you doing here?â You descended several steps instinctively, creating distance before he could close it.
Dean followed to remain close. Then he continued farther down until he stood a few stairs below your position. For once, the difference in height disappeared, you found yourself looking directly into his eyes without having to crane your neck.
You crossed your arms tightly across your chest, only then did you notice what heâd done. He wasnât standing there accidentally, he had positioned himself between you and the lower exit.
The realization earned him a narrowed look which he promptly ignored completely.
âIâve been thinking.â
You groaned theatrically. âOh, great. The worldâs ending.â His eyes closed briefly so you continued anyway. âI canât spell basic words anymore and Dean Di Laurentis has finally managed to make two brain cells rub together. Truly historic.â
âWell.â A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. âOne of us has to keep the ship from sinking.â
âI think you can stopâŠIâm a great swimmer.â
Dean pointed toward you. âSee? That.â
âWhat?â
âThat thing you do to deflect. Can you stop for five seconds? Jesus.â
You looked entirely too pleased with yourself while Dean looked entirelyâŠtoo tired. The words werenât harsh, if anything, they sounded exhausted. He planted his hands on his hips and looked away briefly before returning his attention to you.
The smile had faded and so had the teasing. For the first time since heâd appeared in the library, he looked genuinely nervous. His jaw shifted once, then again like he was carefully choosing every word before saying them.
âWe fucked up, Dean.â The words came out quieter than you intended, stripped of most of their bite by exhaustion. You tightened your arms across your chest and leaned back slightly against the railing beside you. âIâm trying to go back to normal.â
âWell, itâs not working.â Dean shook his head.
The grin heâd been carrying around since ambushing you in the library was far gone. His hands dropped from his hips, frustration slipping through the cracks of his composure. He looked at you for a long moment before speaking again, searching your face like he was trying to find the version of you that hadnât spent the last three days dodging him.
âYou being mean right now, itâsâŠâ He exhaled heavily through his nose. âItâs not helping, okay?â
His eyes stayed fixed on yours as you forced yourself to hold the gaze. That had to be safer because looking anywhere else felt dangerous while looking lower feltâŠeven worse.
The memory of his bedroom was already doing enough damage without additional help.
âIâm not looking,â you said quietly.
The corner of Deanâs mouth twitched despite himself and the growing tent in his pants. âIâd rather you didnâtâŠitâs getting embarrassing."
His voice softened noticeably but the next sentence only made your face twist further.
âDidnât know it was that hard cleaning cum stains out of dark fabric.â
âDean.â You looked genuinely horrified. âCan we not talk about it?â
His expression changed from amusement to disbelief so quickly it almost gave you whiplash.Â
âI canât!â The words bounced around the stone stairwell loudly. He ran a hand through his hair afterward, visibly frustrated with both the conversation and himself. Three days of unanswered messages, three days of avoidance and three days of pretending nothing had happened had clearly pushed him well past whatever limit heâd been trying to maintain.
Your stomach dropped and your eyes widened. âDid you tell someone?â You stepped down another stair before pointing an accusing finger directly at him. âDean, I swear if youââ
âI didnât tell anyone.â The interruption was calm but immediate. Dean held both hands up briefly before letting them fall again. âI talked to you about it.â His brow lifted slightly. âWhich you wouldâve known if youâd read my texts.â
âI told you texting me would get you blocked.â The reminder sounded weaker than you had meant for it to, mostly because both of you already knew it hadnât happened.
Dean smiled a slow, smug smile that made you regret opening your mouth. âIâm not blocked.â
You blinked as your brain immediately began searching for a response, something clever and perhaps devastatingâŠbut unfortunately Dean moved faster.
âHow can you be so sure?â you asked.
He didnât answer. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled out his phone. Your stomach sank instantly as you watched him unlock it, type something with alarming speed, then hit send.
The silence lasted all of two seconds, then your own phone vibrated inside the back pocket of your jeans and merely a second later came the familiar notification sound.
Dean raised his eyebrows. âDo you wanna get that?â
You glared at him. âProbably my godfather,â you replied, refusing to acknowledge the obvious. âIâm having dinner at his place tonight.â
âMm.â Dean nodded slowly, lips pressed together as though he was physically restraining a comment. Then he reached toward you, the movement was casual until his hand stopped midway when your voice cut through the stairwell.
âI could push you down these stairs.â There wasnât a shred of conviction behind the threat, Dean noticed that much.
âYouâd do anything for an excuse to kiss me better.â His response came just as quiet, just as effortless.
Before you could even formulate a comeback, his fingers slipped into the back pocket of your jeans. The movement was so smooth and familiar that it made your pulse stumble as he pulled your phone free while maintaining unwavering eye contact the entireâŠfuckingâŠtime.
The bastard was smiling and you hated that specific victorious smileâŠor at least you hated that you didnât hate it.
He tapped the screen awake and immediately began scrolling through the notifications crowding it. His grin widened when he noticed the top message was from himâŠand so was the one beneath itâŠand the one beneath that.
Dean tilted the phone slightly toward himself. âWell, look at that.â His eyes flicked upward. âDid they remove the block button?â
âRelocated, I believe.â
âMm.â The hum lingered in his throat as he continued looking at the screen before finally lifting his gaze back to yours. The amusement was still there but beneath it sat something softer. âDidnât try very hard, did you?â
âAnd you would know all about âhard,â wouldnât you?â You tilted your head slightly as you threw the comment back at him. The smile tugging at your mouth made it clear you already knew exactly what reaction it would get.
You didnât need to look anywhere below his face to know youâd landed the hit.
Deanâs eyes narrowed.
You watched him inhale slowly through his nose and let the breath back out with visible restraint, shoulders rising and falling once beneath his sweatshirt. Then, without breaking eye contact, he slipped your phone into the front pocket of his jeans, far away from your reach and so that grabbing it back would require getting entirely too close.
The fact that he looked completely satisfied with himself afterward only made it worse but both of you knew you were stubborn enough to leave it behind and buy another one out of spite if necessary, which meant the gesture had absolutely nothing to do with the phone.
âI have a proposition.â
Your eyebrows lifted. âDo you, now?â The words came out smooth and teasing as you shifted your weight against the stair railing. âIs that what all those texts were about?â
A grin spread across his face, the one that usually meant he was about to say something deeply unnecessary. âI was texting you about how sweet you sound when youâre not making smartass comments every five seconds.â The grin widened.
âWhat can I say?â You shrugged. âBeen spending too much time around you.â
âNot nearly enough.â The answer came too quickly like heâd been thinking it for days.
For a brief second, his eyes dropped to your mouth before returning to your gaze. The movement was small enough that most people wouldâve missed it but you didnât and neither did your pulse.
The silence stretched long enough for him to notice and for your breathing to betray you. Thatâs when Dean smiled to himself, victorious and deeply infuriating to you.
âYou like plans,â he continued. âRulesâŠlists and color-coded schedules. So Iâm here with a plan.â
You groaned dramatically. âDoes this plan include fixing that fuck-awful interview you gave the other day?âÂ
Hope actually crept into your voice, you still couldnât understand how heâd managed to perform so badly. Youâd written the questions and heâd picked the ones that would be asked, then somehow heâd stood in front of the camera and acted like heâd never spoken to another human being before.
Dean looked genuinely offended. âThey usually go better when thereâs someone else behind the camera asking them.â
You stared at him and he stared right back, neither of you budged.
âWhat? Are you hard of hearing? Should I have asked them to speak louder?â you finally asked.
His grin returned. âBeen hearing just fine.â He paused. âIâve just been distracted lately.â
You closed your eyes briefly, he just couldnât help himself. âWhat is your plan, Dean?â
The question came out flatter this time, because every second this conversation continued, your imagination became increasingly unhelpful. The enclosed stairwell wasnât helping either, nor was the fact that Dean had somehow positioned himself close enough to matter while still maintaining enough distance to pretend he wasnât doing it intentionally.
âItâs simple.â His hands slid into his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. The expression on his face said he believed heâd just solved a major international crisis. âOnce is an accident, twice is coincidenceâŠand three times is a pattern.â
You already hated where this was going but Dean continued anyway. âWhich means we can screw up twice and still be fine.â
For a second, you simply stared at him, then you laughed in his face, a sharp sound that bounced off the stone walls around you.
âHave you ever heard the phrase âdonât jump to conclusionsâ?â
His grin remained firmly intact. âMaybe.â
âBecause right now it feels like you backflipped into one.â You pointed at him. âSeveral, actuallyâŠand I thought skating was your thing.â
Dean looked entirely unapologetic, the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth told you he was enjoying this far more than he should have and unfortunately, the fact that you were smiling too made it very difficult to claim otherwise.
Dean nodded reluctantly and the eye roll still came anyway. He knew perfectly well you were right. His argument had several holes in it, most of them large enough to drive a truck through but he wasnât ready to abandon it yet.
âIt still makes sense,â he insisted. âThink about it.â
âNo, you think about it.â You folded your arms tighter across your chest. âWeâve technically already fucked onceâŠremember?â
His entire face twisted and a dramatic sigh left him as he looked away toward the stone walls, blowing out a breath through pursed lips before turning back to you.
âThatâsââ He pointed vaguely between the two of you. âThat was a sample.â
You blinked. âA sample.â
âYes.â The confidence alone nearly made you laugh. âYou donât walk into an ice cream shop and immediately buy a whole cup of some new flavor,â he explained, gesturing with his hands as though this was a perfectly reasonable comparison. âYou sample it first.â
His shoulders lifted in a shrug. âOr at least stare at it through the glass deciding if itâs worth the commitment...which was what we did.â
Your eyes narrowed. âWhoâs the ice cream in this scenario?â
A grin spread across his face so quickly it almost looked painful. âI lick spoons clean when Iâm done.â He nodded once, entirely pleased with himself. âYouâll figure it out soon.â
âDean.â His name came out as a warning.
Dean immediately raised both hands in surrender. âOkay, okay.â But the grin remained. âThe saying applies to penetrative sex.â
You continued staring.
âAnd maybe some of the other stuff too,â he added. âBut then the numbers start adding up really fast andââ
âThatâs just greedy.â
âI thought so too.â He nodded in agreement as the conversation stalled.
The teasing was entirely gone and the stairwell grew quiet again. Somewhere several floors below, a door opened and closed while distant voices echoed briefly before disappearing.
Dean glanced down at his shoes as you watched him. He looked back up a second later and found your eyes already on him.
The sight alone softened something in his expression. âWhat do you say?â The question was quiet and careful.
You exhaled slowly and looked away first, turning toward the window beside the stairs. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the glass, casting pale strips of light across the stone steps.
âThe off-limits thing wasnât my idea.â Your voice was softer now. âAnd itâs fucking ridiculous.â
Dean nodded without hesitation. âI agree.â
âAnd soâs this.â
âI agree with that too.â
That earned the smallest smile from you, when you looked back at him, neither of you spoke for a few seconds. The silence felt different, it was less defensive, the fragile sort that appeared whenever honesty slipped into the conversation by accident.
âBut?â Dean asked it before you could stop yourself from smiling.
âBut,â you echoed, it made his attention sharpen quickly. âI guess I could entertain the thought for a little while.â His grin appeared before youâd even finished speaking and you rolled your eyes. âI mean, I should probably give you credit.â
Dean straightened slightly. âFor?â
âAllegedly using whateverâs underneath all that hair.â
His smile widened instantly as he teasingly tilted his head, lowering his already soft tone. âJust promise you wonât pull too hard.â
You laughed. âOnly if you promise to make it worth my while.â The answer came with a smile neither of you bothered hiding.
Dean nodded firmly as the confidence returned, his brows lifted. âA kiss to seal the deal?â
The hopeful look accompanying the question was almost embarrassingâŠalmost.
You stepped down one stair, then another while Deanâs attention followed every movement and by the time you stopped, barely any distance remained between you.
You were close enough to notice the faint stubble shadowing his jaw and to see the way anticipation had already settled behind his eyes. You held his gaze the entire time as your hand slipped into the front pocket of his jeans.
Deanâs breath caught, the reaction was so clearly involuntary that it made your mouth twitch. Your fingers searched briefly before finding what youâd come for, the phoneâŠand nothing else but still, they grazed the tip of his hardening cock, feeling it twitch in its restrained state before you wrapped your hand around the phone and slowly pulled it free.
âI think,â you said quietly, lifting the device between you both, âyou need to find something better to do.â
His eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to yours. âNothing better than you.â
For a moment neither of you moved but eventually, you carefully stepped back, one stepâŠthen another and one more as the distance returned slowly.
You watched Dean remain exactly where he was, looking up at you with entirely too much confidence and not nearly enough concern for his own well-being.
Shaking your head, you turned toward the library door. âSee you around, Di Laurentis.â
You pushed the library door open without looking back, already stepping into the familiar hush of turning pages and whispered conversations.
Behind you, Dean let out a quiet breathy laugh. âOh, yes you will.â
The confidence in his voice followed you through the doorway and you hated how easily it made you smile.
Once must be an accidentâŠ
The first time happened at the training center, which was undeniably your first real act of rebellion.
The building had mostly emptied hours ago. Practice was over, meetings were done and the endless stream of athletes, trainers and staff had long disappeared into the night. Only a handful of overhead lights remained on, casting warm pools of light across the otherwise dark hallways. The polished floors reflected every movement, every shadow and sound, including yours.
Your laughter echoed loudly through the corridor as you walked beside your godfather, bouncing off the high ceilings and glass office walls. It was the sort of laugh that came easily around him, unfiltered and familiar after decades of shared history.
He shook his head as he laughed too.
âYou were such trouble,â he said. âAnd I knew it would only get worse the second you started walking.â
You shrugged dramatically. âYou still keep me around. Iâd say youâve had plenty of years to fix it and decided not to.â
âThat was my first mistake.â
âProbably.â
He snorted. The smile never left his face as he circled an arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer for a brief side hug. The gesture was automatic, practiced through years of scraped knees, school events, birthdays and every other milestone in between.
âNobody else around here benefits from nepotism quite like you do.â
Your laugh burst out immediately. âWow.â
âHey, you know itâs true.â
âYou actually said it out loud. ThatâsâŠwow.â
That only made him laugh harder. âYouâre good at what you do,â he continued. âYouâre passionate about it. You work harder than most people in this building and half the ideas the department uses come from you.â
âAw.â
âBesides,â he added casually, âI apply a family discount to your paychecks.â
You gasped so dramatically that he nearly stumbled laughing. Pushing him away, you stared at him in mock horror. âAre you serious?â
His head tipped back as the sound of his laughter filled the hallway. âYour college housing is free,â he reminded you. âYou could move in with me and your aunt tomorrow and be a ten minute drive from campusâŠI also paid for your car.â
You opened your mouth to speak but he kept going. âYou have a weekly allowance tooâŠWhat exactly are you struggling with here?â
âHow about that family discount turns into a promotion with benefits?â
His grin widened. âYou mean more money.â
âItâs the only language you speak.â You pointed at him. âDonât act surprised.â
He scoffed. âI speak plenty of languages.â
âNo. You speak hockey and money.â
âThatâs two.â
âBarely.â You continued walking together, your footsteps echoing softly through the corridor. âIf I start calling you Coach Jensen in front of the guys instead of all the ridiculous nicknames I gave you growing up,â you offered, âwould that help my chances?â
âOh, never that.â His response was immediate as genuine horror crossed his face and you laughed. âNo amount of money is worth that.â
âSee? Promotion worthy answer.â
âNot happening.â He shook his head.
The two of you continued down the hall, passing framed team photographs and championship banners hanging behind glass displays. Most of them had been there for years. Some of them included players who were now professional athletes and others included kids heâd coached before youâd even started high school.
Then his expression softened slightly. âThe rest of that moneyâs invested, by the way.â
You glanced over. âWhat money?â
âThe money youâre constantly trying to get out of me.â
âOh.â
âItâs sitting in an account collecting interest.â His shoulder bumped yours lightly. âItâll do you a lot more good when you finally leave the nest.â
You grimaced. âWho says Iâm ever leaving?â His brows lifted in curiosity so you continued. âNepotismâs nice,â you informed him. âItâs comfortableâŠIt offers a very soft life.â
That earned a quiet chuckle as he looked at you for a moment, observing and thinking, though it wasnât difficult to guess where his thoughts had gone. The subject had come up before, of the assumptions and the advantages that came with being connected to him.Â
Youâd spent years hearing variations of the same concerns.
He cleared his throat. âNobody giving you a hard time about that?â The question was casual but the concern underneath wasnât.
You shook your head. âYour boys are good.â A small smile tugged at your lips. âIâd say theyâre nicer than most people give them credit for.â
His expression softened. âAnd outside this building?â
You shrugged. âIâm not sure many people even know.â Then you smiled slightly. âAnd if they do, I donât really care.â
His eyes narrowed with suspicion.
âI mean itâŠIâm a grown woman. I can handle someone being annoying.â
The look he gave you said he wasnât entirely convinced. âYouâre still my kidâŠyouâre still my responsibility.â You looked away first because the sincerity always got to you.
âIf something happens,â he continued, âyou come to me. I donât care who it is.â He pointed down the hallway as if the guilty party might suddenly appear. âAnybody gives you trouble, I deal with it.â His jaw tightened slightly. âEspecially if itâs one of my players.â
Your heartbeat picked up immediately for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the conversation. You focused very hard on the floor as you walked. âRight.â
âYou hear me?â
You nodded slowly. âYeah.â
Unfortunately, all you could think about was Dean, about stairwells, text messages, plans and about how catastrophically this conversation could go if Coach Jensen ever discovered what had been happening.
âYou give really good fake-dad speeches.â
He snorted. âFake?â
âAdoptive.â
âThatâs better.â
You hesitated. âHypotheticallyâŠâ
His eyes narrowed as he looked at you and you instantly regretted the choice of words.
âUh-oh.â
You chuckled. âThereâs no uh-oh.â
âThereâs definitely an uh-oh.â
âI justâŠâ You paused, âYou mean that in a âif someone hurts meâ way, right?â
There was absolutely no hesitation in his voice. âIâll decide when the time comes.â
It did absolutely nothing to ease your concerns but before you could respond, he glanced down at his watch. His expression changed instantly as he stopped walking and patted one pocket, then another and finally his jacket.
âCrap.â
You stopped too as he checked all of his pockets again individually. âWhatâs wrong?â
âI forgot my keys in my office,â he said, already patting down his pockets once more for good measure with a quick, irritated exhale. âWeâre running late and Iâve got to make a call. I wanted to do it in the car.â
âMake your call,â you replied, already stepping backward down the hallway. âIâll go get them.â
He hesitated only a second, eyes still scanning his pockets as if willing the keys into existence.
âIt might take a while. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Should I call you an Uber and just cancel the whole dinner?â
âNo way youâre getting out of it,â you said without slowing down. âIâll wait. Iâll just use your printer to get some work done so I can sleep in tomorrow. Call me when youâre done.â
His brow lifted slightly. âSo youâre the reason Iâm constantly out of ink.â
You shrugged as you kept walking. âThe library charges thirteen cents per color page. Iâm not made of moneyâŠcolor coding saves lives.â
A quiet scoff followed you down the hall. âNo color coding for my favorite goddaughter. Can you imagine?â
âItâs criminal,â you called back.
He finally pulled out his phone, already thumbing through it. âKeep your phone close,â he added without looking up, voice slipping back into that habitual coaching tone. âOr youâre walking home.â
âYes, Coach,â you replied with a lazy salute over your shoulder before turning fully toward his office.
His muttering faded behind you as he scrolled, already pulled into whatever chaos lived on his screen. You kept moving through familiar corridors, passing framed team photos and closed doors, the building quieter now than it had been all day. He had always been like that, always halfway inside something else, phone never truly out of reach, his attention constantly split between ten different responsibilities. Youâd grown used to it long before you ever realized what it meant for you.
You pulled your phone out while walking, scrolling through the documents you needed to print, checking formatting and margins out of habit as you turned the last corner. The office door came into view at the end of the hall, slightly ajar.
You pushed it open enough to slip inside and nearly jolted out of your skin when two hands landed at your hips, pulling you in before your brain even caught up. Your head snapped to the side so fast your hair whipped across your cheek, breath catching hard in your throat before your eyes locked onto Dean standing right behind you.
He lifted a finger to his lips in a quick, silent shush, then guided you further inside with an ease that made your stomach drop for a second, nudging the door shut behind you with his foot.
âYou motherfucker,â you hissed the moment the latch clicked and turned to face him. âI watched you leave.â
Deanâs grin was immediate, infuriatingly relaxed. âI was waiting for you in the parking lot.â
Your eyes narrowed in the dim office light as it settled properly around you. The space smelled like paper, coffee and the faint sterile edge of hockey equipment that never fully left anything he occupied. The desk behind you was cluttered, a laptop still open while folders lied stacked slightly unevenly near the edge.
âOh, fantastic,â you muttered. âThatâs not creepy at all.â
He stepped closer, still smiling. âYou came to practice tonight.â
âWow,â you replied flatly. âAnything else, Sherlock?â
His hands tightened at your hips again as he started guiding you backward without hesitation. The motion was slow, controlled, like he already knew exactly where this was going and had no interest in pretending otherwise.
âYou look beautiful,â he added.
You rolled your eyes, but the words still landed. You were wearing a light summer dress. Youâd kept a blanket wrapped around your shoulders during the game earlier, tucked into the rink seating, ignoring the cold while Dean had spent half the period barely paying attention to the puck.
âYeah,â you said, voice quieter now as your back hit the edge of the desk. âI know.â
The realization of where heâd led you hit a second too late, making your breath catch again.
The desk pressed into your ass as your hands hovered uncertainly near the surface. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself as logic tried to catch up with instinct.
âDean,â you started, firmly. âWe donât have time for thisâŠYou hear me? Thereâs no time to test the waters.â
âGood,â he simply said and with a sudden, decisive movement, he hoisted you up onto the table, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off his body. âI mean to taste them.â
Your eyes widened instantly. âIâm serious. He could walk in.â
âI heard you out there. We both know heâs incapable of walking and holding a professional phone conversation at the same time,â Dean said without hesitation, his tone annoyingly certain as he adjusted your position on the desk. âIâll be fast.â
Your eyes narrowed immediately, hands bracing lightly on the edge of the desk as papers shifted beneath your palms, sliding just enough to remind you how fragile this situation actually was despite the confidence in his voice.
âIâm not walking out of here half-pleasured,â you decided flatly, holding his gaze so he understood you werenât joking, not even slightly.
Dean didnât even blink. âWho said you are?â
That answer only made your expression tighten further.
âOh, so youâre just magically going to figure me out inâŠâ you glanced down briefly at your phone screen, thumb hovering over the time without thinking. âFifteen minutes?â
A slow, confident exhale left him.
âYouâre not the only one good at observing, Hawkeye,â he said, eyes locked on yours as if the rest of the room didnât exist at all. His hands moved again, gathering the fabric of your dress with controlled ease, the motion unhurried but so intentional that it made your breath catch slightly despite yourself.
The desk creaked faintly beneath your weight as he leaned in closer.
âIce isnât the only thing Iâm fast on.â
He stepped closer between your thighs, his presence overwhelming and absolute. He didn't break eye contact for a single second, his gaze heavy and knowing as he reached down. You felt the sudden, firm hook of his fingers into the lace of your panties as he pulled them down slowly, the fabric sliding over your skin with an agonizing pace.
"I want you quiet," he murmured, voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to settle right in your gut. A smirk played on his lips. "I know how hard that is for you, so...try your hardest."
The arrogance of it sparked a flare of defiance in you. Even as your heart hammered against your ribs, you managed to bite back, "I know how to stay quiet."
Deanâs grin widened, sharp and predatory. Without a word, he bunched the fabric of your panties into a tight ball in his fist and in one swift motion, shoved them into your open mouth. The taste of your own scent and the sudden fullness of the fabric gagging you caught you off guard, forcing your jaw open and stifling any further retort.
"Just a precaution," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "I'm keeping those after."
He sank to his knees between your legs, the movement fluid and confident. You stared down at him, chest heaving as the feeling of being gagged for the first time sent a jolt of raw, forbidden electricity through your nerves. It was humiliating and exhilarating all at once, stripping away your voice and leaving you completely vulnerable to whatever he decided to do next.
Dean leaned in, breath hot against your inner thighs before his mouth found you.
The first touch of his tongue was a revelation. He didn't fumble or guess, he hit your clit with a precision that made your entire body jerk while a muffled, desperate sound died in the back of your throat, trapped by the fabric in your mouth. He knew exactly where to go, his tongue swirling in a tight, wet circle that sent a wave of heat crashing through you.
It was toe-curling, an intensity of pleasure you hadn't known was possible. He began to suck, his lips creating a firm, vacuum-like seal around your nub, pulling it deep into his mouth. The sensation of the wet, sliding friction of his tongue combined with the rhythmic pressure of his suction was overwhelming.
You felt your face heat up, your eyes fluttering shut as you lost yourself in the sheer sensory overload. Every flick of his tongue felt like a lightning strike, vibrating through your hips and settling deep in your core. The contrast was maddening, between the silence forced upon you by the gag and the loud, screaming pleasure echoing in your mind.
Driven by a sudden, primal need for more, your hands flew to his head. You gripped his hair, fingers digging into the strands to pull him closer, wanting to fuse your body to his mouth. Dean noticed the second you grabbed him and a low hum of satisfaction vibrated from his throat and directly into your sensitive flesh. He leaned into the pressure, increasing the pace, tongue working with a relentless, expert rhythm.
He was sucking you with a hunger that matched your own, his mouth wet and warm, creating a sloppy, sliding sound that filled the quiet of the room. You could feel the moisture coating you, the slickness of his saliva making every stroke of his tongue feel even more immersive.
As you sat there, gagged and trembling, you hated how right this felt. You hated that the agonizing wait, the teasing and the verbal sparring had all led to this exact moment of surrender. The confidence he radiated and the way he took control without a shred of doubt, was intoxicating. You were trapped in a cycle of intense anticipation and shattering satisfaction, your body humming like a live wire, desperate for a release that he was intentionally, cruelly delaying.
Dean didn't let up for a second, his tongue becoming a weapon of pure pleasure. He shifted his angle, pressing his face deeper into your pussy, nose brushing against your folds as he focused entirely on your clit. He began to use the flat of his tongue, delivering long, slow and wet strokes from the bottom of your opening all the way up to the peak of your nub, coating you in a thick layer of saliva that made every movement slide with effortless, slick friction.
The sensation was agonizingly perfect. You felt your thighs tremble, your muscles twitching involuntarily as he alternated between those broad, sweeping licks and sharp, pinpoint flicks of his tongue. He was playing you like an instrument, knowing exactly how to build the tension without letting you break. Every time you felt yourself tipping toward the edge, he would slow down, swirling his tongue in a teasing, lazy circle that left you whimpering into the fabric of your panties.
The gag in your mouth felt heavier now, the taste of yourself mixing with the heat of your breath, turning your muffled moans into desperate, nasal whines. Your head fell back, eyes rolling back as you focused on the wet, sloppy sounds of his tongue working between your legs.
He suddenly increased the intensity, tongue hardening and darting rapidly against your clit in a blurring rhythm. It was a relentless assault of pleasure, a rhythmic drumming that sent sparks flying behind your eyelids. You gripped his hair even tighter, knuckles lightening, pulling his face harder against your pussy, almost begging him with your body to never stop.
He responded by sucking you back in, lips creating a tighter, powerful seal that pulled your clit between his teeth. He sucked with a rhythmic, pulsing force and it soon felt like it was drawing the very soul out of you. You could feel the constant vibration of his throat as he let out a low, muffled growl against your skin, his confidence radiating through the sheer dominance of his technique.
You were floating in a sea of heat and wetness, your entire world narrowing down to the point where his mouth met your flesh. You were drenched, your own juices mixing with his spit, making the encounter sound wet and filthy.
He teased you, pulling back just a fraction of an inch to let the cool air hit your wet skin before diving back in with a sudden, deep lick that made you gasp into the gag. He was prolonging the torture, savoring the way your body shook under his control. He knew you were desperate, knew you were hovering on the precipice of something shattering and he took a sadistic pleasure in keeping you right there, suspended in a state of pure, unadulterated arousal.
Dean soon felt you trembling, body vibrating with a tension that had become almost unbearable. He knew you were balanced on a razor's edge and with a predatory glint in his eyes, he finally decided to push you over. While his tongue continued to swirl and flick against your swollen clit, he slid two fingers deep into your soaking wet pussy.
The sudden intrusion nearly broke you. The feeling of him filling you, stretching your tight walls while his tongue relentlessly hammered your nub, was an overload of sensation that shattered your composure. Your shoulders began to shake, chest heaving as you fought for air through your nose. Your eyes forced shut, the world disappearing into a haze of white-hot pleasure and you bit down on the fabric of your panties with everything you had, jaw aching as you muffled screams of ecstasy into the gag.
He didn't let you fall yet. He kept you right there, at the agonizing precipice of orgasm, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot with rhythmic, punishing precision while his mouth worked in a wet, sloppy frenzy. You were trapped in a loop of pure erotism, hips bucking wildly against his face, body begging for the release that he stubbornly denied you. For what felt like an eternity, you hovered on the brink while your muscles twitched and your mind screamed for the end.
Then, the sharp, intrusive ring of your phone pierced through the silence of the room.
The sudden shock of the sound, combined with the peak of the stimulation, was the final trigger. Your body snapped. You let out a muffled, guttural shriek into the gag as a violent orgasm ripped through you. Your walls clamped down hard on his fingers, pulsing in rhythmic waves of intense pleasure that made your toes curl and your back arch. Your eyes flew open, wide and glazed, looking down at the vibrating phone on the desk as you shuddered through the climax.
Dean stayed right there, slurping up every drop of your juices, tongue licking the cream from your folds with a greedy, satisfied sound. He continued to suck and lick even as the waves subsided, ensuring he tasted every bit of your release.
Slowly, he pulled back but he left his two fingers buried deep inside you. He stood up tall, looming over you, his expression one of complete enamourment. He watched you breathe heavily, chest heaving as he continued to move his fingers in and out of your dripping hole in a slow, teasing slide that reminded you exactly who was in control.
With shaking fingers and trembling legs, you reached up and pulled the damp fabric of your panties from your mouth, pulling out the gag. You didn't pick up the call. Instead, with a shaky hand, you typed a quick text back. "I'm coming."
Dean leaned over, reading the screen and let out a low, dark chuckle. "Yes you are," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.
He finally withdrew his fingers with a wet pop, maintaining intense eye contact as he lifted them to his mouth and licked them clean, savoring the taste of you one last time.
"You're such an asshole," you breathed, voice raspy and exhausted. You hopped down from the desk, legs feeling like jelly and looked around for your bunched-up panties. You swore you had left them on the desk just a second ago.
Dean opened his opposite palm, revealing the lace fabric gripped in his hand. "Told you I'm keeping them," he said with a smug grin. Then motioned toward the door with his head. "Go, before he comes looking."
You grabbed your phone and found your godfather's keys, turning to leave but just as you reached the door, his voice stopped you, dripping with a mix of mischief and dominance.
He licked his lips, "I made sure to get all of it but don't walk too fast...just in case."
He grinned, knowing exactly how drenched you were. You didn't say a word, face heating up as you opened the door and finally stepped out. Behind you, Dean stood in the center of the room, breath heavy and staring after you with the biggest, hardest erection of his life as the scent of your sex still clung to his skin.
âThere you are.â
Your godfatherâs smile appeared the second you stepped into view, warm and completely unaware as he pushed himself away from the wall heâd been leaning against. The overhead lights cast long shadows across the now-empty lobby, the training center nearly silent around you aside from the distant hum of ventilation and the occasional echo of a door closing somewhere deeper in the building.
âReady for dinner?â
You forced a smile onto your face and tossed the keys toward him before he could look too closely at you. The metal jingled through the air before he caught them one-handed, only then did you trust yourself to speak.
âIs it bad that Iâm craving takeout?â
He laughed and as far as you could tell, he wasnât suspicious but the sound made guilt twist somewhere deep in your stomach.Â
âNot bad at all.â He slipped the keys into his pocket as you finally reached his side. âWeâll save the dinner for next week.â
You nodded quickly. âThat sounds good.â
The two of you headed for the exit together. Your godfather reached the door first, holding it open as cool night air rushed inside, carrying the scent of damp pavement and freshly cut grass from the athletic fields beyond the parking lot.
You stepped outside and the darkness felt refreshing against overheated skin.
The parking lot stretched ahead under pools of yellow light, mostly empty now except for a few scattered vehicles belonging to coaches and staff members working late.
Your eyes immediately found his car.
âCoach!â
The voice hit like a gunshot and your entire body locked before your mind forced it to turn aroundâŠand there he was.
Dean jogged out of the building toward the two of you, sports bag slung across the front of his body in a position so intentional it almost made your eye twitch. His hair looked slightly messy too but the fact that he could still look this comfortable after what youâd done made you want to throw something at him.
âDi Laurentis.â Your godfather stepped aside to lock the doors behind everyone. âFive more minutes and you wouldâve been spending the night with the cleaning crew.â
Dean laughed the same laugh he used with coaches, professors, reporters and strangers. âI fell asleep after practice.â His eyes landed on yours and the smile on his face shifted almost imperceptibly as he reached up and pushed a hand through his hair fixing it.
You nearly choked.
âIt was anâŠaccident,â His gaze lingered on yours, the sweetness in his voice was subtle when he spoke again. âHi, Y/n.â
âHey.â The answer came out remarkably normal considering you suddenly remembered exactly what heâd looked like less than twenty minutes ago.
âAccidents happen.â Your godfather finally finished locking the doors and turned back toward you both. An arm settled comfortably around your shoulders. âYou did good at practice today,â he told Dean. âGo get some real rest.â Then he looked down at you. âWe could drive you.â
âNo need.â You spoke up far too fast, making both men look at you instantly.
Shit.
You forced a smile as you watched Deanâs mouth twitch.
That fucking assholeâŠ
âYeah,â he agreed before anyone could think too hard about it. âIâm good.â His sports bag moved slightly against the front of his jeans and you swore you almost saw him wince. You looked away before things could get worse. âNight.â
He began backing toward his car, slowly, eyes lingering on you every chance he got.
âNight,â your godfather answered. Then his arm tightened around your shoulders as he steered you toward the car.
The conversation immediately changed to something entirely different, his voice filling the space between your thoughts as he launched into yet another debate about ordering pineapple and pepperoni pizza.
You groaned automatically as he laughed.
The parking lot stretched ahead beneath the lights as the two of you walked away and despite your best efforts, you could still feel Deanâs eyes on you from somewhere behind.
That might have been the greatest accident to ever exist but then againâŠ
Coincidences had always been better.
It wasnât often that you skipped parties. As exhausting as college could be, you firmly believed it was supposed to be filled with shared experiences, stupid stories, regrettable decisions and memories people laughed about years later. If your friends were going somewhere, you usually went too, even if you only stayed an hour before disappearing home.
Tonight was the exception.
Jules had handed you the keys to the boysâ house earlier that afternoon. Youâd let yourself in without knocking, music already blasting through your headphones and immediately claimed a stool at the kitchen island.
The house seemed and looked unusually quiet, there was no shouting and no hockey game playing on the television.
You spread your work across the countertop and got comfortable.
Most of your evenings had been spent reviewing PR material for the upcoming week. Social media calendars, engagement reports, interview clips and promotional content. You frequently collaborated with Jules to make sure everything the team posted felt consistent, professional, and aligned with the image Briar Hockey wanted to project, at least, that had been the plan.Â
Instead, you found yourself checking your phone every few minutes because your roommate had a guy over again. The arrangement had seemed like a great idea when youâd first arrived at college. Living with a roommate felt like one of those essential university experiences everyone was supposed to have. It built character and created memories, now it mostly created scheduling conflicts.
If you couldnât go home yet, you might as well be productive. Gathering the notes Jules had asked you to leave in Loganâs room, you pushed yourself off the stool and headed upstairs.
The music in your headphones swelled as you climbed and your body immediately followed the rhythm.
One hand trailed along the railing while your hips swayed unconsciously with the beat. You sang lyrics you couldnât actually hear over the volume, completely off-key and blissfully unaware of it. You made the stack of papers bounce lightly against your thigh as you moved through the hallway, turning the familiar walk into a private concert attended by absolutely nobodyâŠor so you thought.
You stepped into Loganâs room without hesitation and the notes landed neatly on his desk.
You turned toward the door again, still moving with the music, shoulders rolling gently with the rhythm while your fingers slid absentmindedly over your own arms and down your sides as you spun once, completely caught up in the song.
Until you looked upâŠand screamed. The sound tore itself out of your throat before you could stop it.
Your entire body jumped and your soul practically left through your mouth as Dean stood in the doorway, motionless and watching with a towel hung low around his hips, damp skin still glistening from the shower. His hair looked darker wet, strands falling across his forehead as tiny droplets continued disappearing down the side of his neck.
You ripped the headphones off so fast they nearly flew across the room. âWhat the fuck is your problem?!â
Deanâs eyebrows lifted slowly as he pointed at himself. âWhat is my problem?â
âYes!â Your hand pressed against your chest where your heart was still attempting to escape. âWhat are you doing here?â
âI live here.â The reminder came accompanied by an entirely unhelpful grin. âNice moves, by the way.â
Your eyes narrowed while adrenaline still surged through your veins. âFuck you.â
His grin widened. âI might start begging you to.â
You groaned loudly and pushed past him, unfortunately, instead of leaving the house entirely, your feet carried you directly into his room and Dean followed.
âWhat are you even doing here? Thereâs a party tonight,â you asked as you dropped onto the edge of his bed.
âI was studying.â
âNaked and wet?â You questioned.
âI was in the shower.â He added flatly, âWhich you wouldâve heard if you werenât surgically attached to those headphones.â
You rolled your eyes. Then, somehow, the room grew quieter, the two of you looked at each other long enough for your breathing to gradually settle into the same rhythm and for Deanâs attention to drift toward the headphones hanging around your neck.
âWhatâs so special about them?â
You glanced down. âThe headphones?â
âThe obsession.â
A small smile tugged at your mouth. âIt isnât the headphones.â You removed them and turned them over in your hands. âItâs the music.â
Dean remained where he was, listening.
âIf you find the right song,â you continued, âit can completely change where you are.â Your fingers traced absent patterns along them. âIt can take a boring walk and make it feel important. Turn studying into something less miserable and make a random day feel cinematic.â Your smile softened. âIt just makes everything better.â
Dean tilted his head. âBetter?â
You nodded. âSexier.â
His eyebrows rose in surprise. âSexier?â The amusement in his voice made you regret using that wordâŠonly slightly. âDoes it work with everything?â
You swallowed. The question felt harmless but the way he asked it didnât. âWhatâs everything?â you asked carefully.
Dean held your gaze for another second before nodding toward the headphones in your hands. âPut them on.â
His voice was quiet and patient, entirely too interested in whatever reaction he thought he was about to get.
You slid the headphones over your ears and the world instantly shifted. The sudden surge of music drowned out the ambient noise of the room, isolating you in a cinematic cocoon of sound. The bass thrummed through your skull, vibrating in your chest, turning the reality of the room into a silent movie where only the visuals mattered.
Dean stepped directly in front of you, his presence commanding and heavy. Because you couldn't hear him, your entire focus narrowed onto his face. He leaned in, his expression a mixture of hunger and playful dominance. He didn't speak or if he did, the music swallowed it but he carefully mouthed the words, âWatch me...read my lips.â
A shiver raced down your spine. You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs in time with the beat of the song. His hands moved slowly, reaching for the towel wrapped around his waist. Before he moved it, he paused, gaze locking onto yours, silently asking for consent.
You nodded again, breath hitching.
The towel pooled at his feet in one fluid motion. You sat perched on the edge of the bed, your eyes immediately dropping to his cock. It was semi-hard, thick and pulsing slightly, with a neat trim of hair at the base that only made the sight more visceral. You watched, mesmerized, as the blood rushed to it, the shaft thickening and lengthening right before your eyes, straining upward as he sensed your gaze.
Driven by a sudden, desperate need to be bare before him, you began to undress. You kept your eyes locked on his hardening length, the visual of his arousal fueling your own. You kicked off your shoes, the friction of the carpet against your soles a distant sensation compared to the heat radiating from him. You peeled away your pants and slid your shirt over your head, leaving you exposed. Without a bra, your breasts were fully revealed, nipples already peaking from the chill and the anticipation. Finally, you reached for your panties.
As you slid them down your thighs, Dean reached out, his fingers twitching as if to snatch them away, a callback to his possessive streak. You quickly shook your finger ânoâ with a small and defiant smile playing on your lips. He chuckled, though you only saw the vibration of his chest and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes.
He began to crawl toward you, his movements predatory and slow. You retreated, crawling backward into the center of the bed, the soft fabric of the sheets sliding against your skin. He followed, closing the gap until your head hit the pillows. You remained pinned by his gaze, holding intense eye contact as he loomed over you.
Then, his touch arrived.
His fingers began to graze over your naked body in a light, agonizingly slow exploration. He traced the line of your sternum, the sensation sending electric sparks through your nerves. When his hands reached your breasts, he cupped them firmly, thumbs rolling your nipples between his fingers. The friction was exquisite. You gasped, your back arching instinctively but the sound of your own moan was lost to the music, leaving you in a vacuum of pure sensation.
Dean, however, heard it. He saw the way your throat tightened and heard the muffled sound of your pleasure and the sight of your vulnerability made him even harder. He leaned down, capturing one nipple in his mouth. The heat of his tongue and the sharp tug of his suction sent a jolt of lightning straight to your core. He switched to the other side, lips wet and demanding, swirling around the peak of your breast until you were writhing beneath him.
As your back arched off the mattress, you felt your pussy clamp shut around nothing, the internal muscles pulsing with a desperate, empty longing. You were slick, the heat between your thighs becoming an ache that demanded to be filled. Dean must have seen the way your hips tilted, the way your thighs trembled, because he shifted his weight.
He slid two fingers deep inside you in one smooth motion. You let out a sharp whine, your head tossing back against the pillows. The feeling of him filling you, the stretch and the sudden friction, was overwhelming. He began to move his fingers in a rhythmic, curling motion, hooking them upward to hit the sweet spot.
Your focus remained obsessively on his face. You watched his lips, searching for a word, a command, a promiseâŠanything, but he remained teasingly silent, refusing to kiss you, denying you that final point of contact. Your eyes fluttered, the pleasure threatening to pull you under into a blackout of bliss but you fought to keep them open, desperate to read his lips, to stay connected to him through the only channel left.
Your legs twitched open wider, inviting him in, body humming like a live wire. He curled his fingers deeper, increasing the pace, the wet sounds of his intrusion lost to the music but felt vividly in every nerve ending. You were hovering on the precipice, the tension building into a towering wave but he kept you right there, on the edge, breathless and begging, with no release in sight.
Until he leaned closer, his body a heavy, radiating heat between your thighs. His fingers continued their relentless work inside you, curling and sliding in rhythmic friction. You looked up at him, vision slightly blurred from the intensity and your lips parted.
"Fuck me louder," you breathed, the words barely a whisper, lost to the thumping bass of the music in your ears. âI know just how much you like to hear me sing.â
He saw the desperation in your eyes and the way your hips were bucking upward. He moved, pressing the raw, blunt tip of his cock directly against your clit. The sudden, direct pressure made you whine, a high-pitched sound that vibrated in your own throat but remained unheard by you.
In one swift, decisive motion, he withdrew his fingers. For a heartbeat, there was a void, a cold, empty ache and then his lips ghosted over yours, a teasing promise of what was coming as he lunged forward, pushing his thickness into you in one powerful thrust.
The stretch was immense. You felt your pussy walls scream and then surrender as he bottomed out, burying himself to the hilt. A synchronized groan escaped both of you, the sound muffled by the collision of your mouths as you finally, desperately, kissed. The sensation of him filling you completely for the first time was an explosion of tactile data, you could feel every vein, the heat of his shaft and the way your internal muscles clamped tight around him in a shocked, welcoming grip.
The kiss became messy and hungry, tongues clashing and swirling as you fought for air and dominance. Your body struggled to adjust to his size, your pussy walls twitching and pulsing rhythmically around him, trying to mold themselves to his shape. Your nails dug deep into his sides, leaving red crescents in his skin as you anchored yourself to him.
He began to move.
He pulled back nearly all the way, almost slipping out, before slamming back in with a force that rattled your teeth. You couldn't hear the wet, slapping sounds of your pelvises colliding or the guttural groans he was making into your mouth but you felt them. You felt the vibration of his voice in his chest against yours and you knew with absolute certainty that you were both making insane, primal noise that would have filled the room.
The sensory deprivation heightened everything to an unbearable degree. Because you were blind to the sound of the world, the physical sensations became hyper-focused. Every slide of his cock felt like a lightning strike. You didn't know if it was the hypnotic rhythm of the music or the agonizing anticipation of the last hour but the sex was transcendently good.
Dean broke the kiss to dive back down to your breasts, latching onto your nipples and sucking them hard, the sharp tugging sensation mirroring the deep rolling thrusts of his cock. His large hand slid down, gripping your ass cheek with bruising force, lifting and tilting your pelvis to change the angle of penetration.
The change in position allowed him to hit your G-spot with every single plunge. You felt as though you were going to shatter into a thousand pieces. Your face twisted, eyes rolling back in a mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure, your mouth hanging open in a silent scream. The visual of him, his muscles straining, his face tight with lust and the sight of his hips slamming into yours, combined with the feeling of being completely impaled, pushed you further and further toward the edge.
He was relentless, driving into you with a rhythmic, punishing pace that left you breathless. You were a prisoner to the music and the friction, trapped in a loop of exquisite torture where the only thing that existed was the feeling of him stretching you open and the sight of his hunger. You were hovering on the precipice again, the tension building into a towering, unstable wave but the release remained just out of reach, leaving you desperate for more.
Dean stopped the linear slamming and began to employ rolling thrusts, grinding his pelvis in a slow, circular motion that smeared his cock against every sensitive ridge of your vaginal canal. The friction was agonizingly perfect, a swirling pressure that stoked the fire in your gut until it became a roaring blaze.
You were unraveling. Your head thrashed against the pillows, mouth wide and gasping, emitting a torrent of raw, uncontrolled moans and whimpers. You couldn't hear the volume of your own voice but you saw the look of satisfaction on Dean's face. He was drinking in the sight of your undoing, the knowledge that while you were trapped in a silent world of bass and rhythm, your voice was filling the room. To him, your desperate cries were a symphony, a private concert of pleasure that belonged solely to him. He loved that you were oblivious to how loud you were, how completely you had surrendered your dignity to the sensation of him.
The tension reached a critical mass. Your internal muscles began to seize, clamping down on his shaft in involuntary spasms. You felt a sudden, electric snap deep within your core and then the dam broke.
It was the longest, most delicious orgasm of your life. It didn't hit like a wave, it hit like an earthquake, shattering your composure and sending jolts of white-hot electricity radiating from your clit to your fingertips. Your body arched, spine curving off the bed as you locked your legs around his waist, trying to pull him even deeper. Your eyes rolled back into your head, leaving only the whites visible as you drifted into a void of pure, sensory overload.
He sensed the climax gripping you and used it, fucking you right through the peak. He drove into your pulsing walls with a ferocious intensity, his cock sliding through the flood of your release. The combination of your orgasm and his relentless pace pushed him over the edge.Â
With one final, guttural surge, he buried himself to the absolute hilt, pinning you to the mattress as he erupted. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum pulsing deep inside you, filling your womb with a searing warmth that seemed to anchor you back to reality.
The world slowly began to refocus.Â
The two of you remained locked together, chests heaving in a synchronized rhythm as sweat glued your skin together. The noise in your ears was still there, the music continuing its steady beat but the physical intensity had changed into a heavy, languid glow.
Before he let his weight collapse onto you, Dean reached up. His fingers brushed your hair as he carefully slid the headphones off your ears.
The sudden influx of sound was jarring. The room rushed back in, the distant hum of the house, the rustle of the sheets and most prominently, the ragged, heavy sound of your shared breathing. The noise was intimate, raw and echoing.
As the sound of his labored exhales hit your ears, you felt a fresh wave of arousal ripple through you. Your pussy, still tight and sensitive, gave a series of rhythmic, needy throbs around his softening cock, making Dean let out a low, shaky breath against your neck.
It probably took the two of you twenty minutes to finally peel yourselves away from each other and even then neither of you moved very far. You lay side by side beneath tangled sheets, staring up at the ceiling, shoulders barely touching whenever one of you moved. Every muscle in your body felt pleasantly heavy, as though simply sitting up would require far more effort than either of you were willing to spend.
Unfortunately, being comfortable didnât stop either of your brains from working.
If anything, the silence only gave them more room.
You found yourself thinking about how this could possibly happen again eventually. At the same time, another part of you was already trying to figure out how to stop it from happening a third time. The contradiction wouldâve been funny if it wasnât so hopelessly obvious.
You truly believed this was your âtwiceâ, your glorious coincidence.
Beside you, Dean let out a long sigh before finally breaking the silence.
âWould you say it counts if we donât move?â
Your chest shook with tired laughter. âIf you want a positive answer, you might want to ask the Mormons.â
Dean groaned. âSo no.â
The room fell quiet again and for several seconds neither of you spoke.
Then your eyes widened slightly. âWait.â
Dean turned his head toward you as you continued staring at the ceiling while thinking through the idea.
âWhat if we donât orgasm?â
âNo.â The answer came so quickly you almost laughed again. Dean didnât even need time to consider it. After everything heâd experienced over the past hour, the suggestion wasnât remotely tempting. âNo, absolutely notâŠI canât do that. I wonât survive it.â
You smiled toward the ceiling. âItâs good that youâre finally admitting how greedy you are.â
âIâm not that greedy.â
âYou absolutely are.â
Dean scoffed.âYou say that like itâs a bad thing.â
âIt usually is.â
A grin tugged at his mouth despite himself. âMaybe it resets every month.â His voice sounded thoughtful now.
You turned your head toward him. âWhat does?â
âThe count.â He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling as though presenting serious scientific evidence. âMaybe thereâs a monthly reset and every month we get two new chances.â
You stared and Dean shamelessly stared right back. âIâm serious, what day is it?â
You suddenly burst into laughter as you ran both hands down your face, though the sound still echoed softly around the room.
âWe are in so much trouble.â Your voice came out muffled behind your palms.
Dean couldnât keep his eyes away from you and the smile that appeared was lazy, warm and entirely too satisfied for someone supposedly worried about consequences and patterns.
âDoesnât feel like it.â
You peeked at him through your fingers and rolled your eyes as he laughed quietly to himself before settling deeper into the mattress.
âBut sureâŠIâll get back to you on that,â he said. âSometime after my brain starts working again.â
Unfortunately for both of your very optimistic interpretations of statistics, neither of you had started counting at the right place. The truth was that youâd been sampling this relationship for months before the night you climbed through his window.
With every lingering conversation, stolen glance, every excuse to stay five minutes longer and every hallway, stairwell, empty office and late-night text message, the line had been moving long before either of you admitted it existed and those had merely been milestones along a road the two of you had already been traveling for a very long time.
This was your thirdâŠthe very last piece of the pattern, which meant there was no stopping this anymore.Â
The only thing left to do was keep it hidden for as long as possible, hoping the secret survived longer than your self-control had.
After all, mathematics had never really been your forte but public perception certainly was.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! đ€
đđđđđđđ: Staying at work late to impress the new editor-in-chief proves to be something Clark Kent isn't equipped to handle â KENT: Furniture-Breaking Collab
đđđđđđ/đđđđđđđđ: Explicit/F!Reader
đđđđ: pwp, editor-in-chief!reader, public indecency, sexual tension, push & pull dynamics, comedy, pathetic!clark
đ/đ: 2.3k
The Daily Planet had a problem.
A 'copy' room that sat in a converted storage closet. One that had barely enough space for a single machine, lovingly known as Joseph, which Perry White graciously funded. (Stole, from the unoccupied offices on the fifteenth floor.) He quickly became a hot commodity around the office, as the only printer that could cough up a hundred pages a minute. One that would never jam, and actually senses your fear to work faster.
By the end of the evening, Joseph's whines could be felt through the drywalls of the quiet office. The poor guy was on his very last breath, being put to use every waking minute. Thankfully, the bullpen had cleared out by the time the second work hours had come to an end, all except one, Clark Kent.
He stuck around when everyone else had left â wanting to spend their Friday nights anywhere but the pit of doom and despair. On a work ethic level, Clark didn't think it was nice to leave the office with the boss still around.
At least that was the reason that remained much more appropriate than 'he had a big fat crush on the editor that everyone hated the guts of.'
Clark would never admit how much he liked being needed. Being the one person you relied on, and showed sides you hadn't shown to other people. He thrived on that feeling.
And it's also what had him stuffing himself into the sorry space of a closet at eight-thirty in the evening on a little errand you sent him on. Crouched down, eye level with Joseph, his dying breath that came in the form of a little red light had been blinking right at its perpetrator.
"That meansâŠit's all out of juice. Okay."
He lifts the panels. Huh.
There was a sad little stack of paper, more than enough to not have caused the loud noise it had made earlier. Clark remained awkwardly stuffed in the little corner after refilling the tray with more paper as an added measure. "OkayâŠokayâŠ" The rooms echoed with his borderline maniacal mumbles to himself, panic coursing right to his belly.
His jacket came off soon after, left abandoned behind him. Sleeves rolled up and forearms oiled up with printer lube, which he did not know was a thing.
"âŠ.Not the rollers, not paperâŠ" Clark then peeks over to the Reddit thread he had opened, listing off the potential reasons why Joseph was messing with him now, of all times. The machine whines as he carefully peels off the side panels, in an attempt to peek into the insides.
"Clark?"
He stiffens. The sound of your voice pairs with his rather unglamorous bonk against Joseph.
"Y-yes, miss â⊠yes ma'am."
Clark remains on his knees on the tile, submissively poised as you take a drag over his state at present. His stark, white shirt had a darkened, greasy smear across the chest, levelled with an open paper tray.
"I was wondering what was taking so long with the printing." Your heels mockingly click louder on the tiles, stopping short of the printer. Then, with a tilt of your head, "is there a problem?"
"No!" He blurts, rising too quickly, damn near snagging his tie wedged in the shims of the printer.
The ill-timed stumble he takes forces him closer in the already cramped space. You don't flinch, holding your ground instinctively. And you soon regret it.
Clark unfurls to his full height. Your gaze, which once rested on his crooked glasses, is faced with a wide stretch of white. Slowly, you pull it higher, settling right around his collarbone when you feel the strain in your neck just from looking up. His warmth is immediate, stifling the narrow sliver of air you had between him and his chest â that rose and dipped heavily in your eyeline.
Your breath hitches.
"Not to worry! I've got it handled." You note that his voice extends a pitch higher, one that is too quick and obvious, "just uh â ⊠this ol' thing is giving me a little bit ofâŠtrouble."
"Mm." You turn on a heel in seconds, which helps ease the thumping in your heart, rolling your sleeves up to your elbows as you attempt to lift the cartridge door with both hands. Clark flounders behind you to hold it steady as you lift it, his forearms coming to bracket your own.
Your body involuntarily stills at his sudden proximity, a much sturdier chest grazes past your back.
He had to be doing this on purpose.
"âŠRollers?"
"Done. Lubed him up, no dice." He exhales roughly through his nose. Jaw ticking at the stark betrayal from his own namesake. You notice the way Clark trails off, staring hard at the printer as though he could see through the contraption.
"âŠHim? " You mouth, at the apparent pronoun use for the printer.
"Uh âŠ" he clears his throat, gesturing weakly to the printer. "âŠJoseph." He says simply.
"Right." You murmur, biting the insides of your cheeks in an attempt to squash the smirk that threatens to make its way out. "Let me have a look."
Clark backs away, with both palms raised. "I meanâŠyou can. But I've looked at it prettyâŠthoroughly."
"Yeah, it's probably the outlet."
"I doubt it's the outlet." He insists, with that too-eager Superman ego that spilt over sometimes.
You look up at him, stubborn, your fingers squeezing by the hem to inch them higher in a decisive motion. "Wouldn't be an issue if I double-checked, then."
The ID Card attached to your lanyard swings over your shoulder as you get down to your knees, lowering yourself until your forearms lie flush to the ground.
"UhâŠmaybe I should help â"
You don't acknowledge the thick, pained swallow that followed his words.
Defiantly, you stretch further in, hips tilted back in a deeper arch. Your softer, whispered grunts of effort, genuine despite your intentions.Â
"Anything back there?"
Clark sounded absolutely wrecked behind you.
He had no choice but to remain so very still, to focus his sights on that loose thread by the hem of your skirt, that was strainingâŠand tightening around the fat of your thighs â
"Little to your left."
You look over your shoulder for a second, catching sight of Clark's oxfords tapping on the tiles incessantly after he blurts out his gratuitous commentary. "Thanks." Your arms stretch out further, forcing an arch.
Clark gulps audibly, his breath catching when the hem of your button-down rides up. The thicker waistband of your skirt dips just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of your lower back. You make no effort to adjust it back down.
"ChiefâŠ"
"Ah!" You rasp, feeling one of the Ethernet cables disconnected, right where he pointed it out. "Told you. Let me try to get this thing in."
Clark exhales in a short-lived relief.
"C'monâŠJoseph."
His grip tightens as it finds itself on the sides of the machine, plastic creaking beneath his grip. The sound that escapes your throat is a low and satisfied hum, a sound that heads straight to his core.
Your own palm pats the machine in victory when it whirrrs in approval. When you glance up, Clark's hand was held out for you, with an eerie calmness washing his features, a picture of perfect composure.
You frown, pulling yourself up with his help.
"Give it a try again, it should work this time."
Expected that he hadn't taken the bait, you suppose. That move was cheugy, even for you.
It takes you a quick adjustment to your skirt to snap back into your usual persona. "Right. So, bring the copies to me when you'reâŠâ done?!"
Your palms smack down onto Joseph's lid. A surprised gasp at the rough tug toward Clark's chest.
"Whoa! Hey."
His forehead slumps to the back of your shoulders. "You can't beâŠdoing that."
You don't try to argue, not immediately at least. Offering nothing but a stifled laugh when you feel the hard line pressed to your back, "looks like Joseph's up."
"I â that's because you were deliberately egging me!" He tries. Only to be cut off by the actual printers starting screen flashing at him.
Clark pulls back from you. Dragging a hand down his face. "I'm sorry. None of this is you. I misread it."
You turn to face Clark, leaned back against the printer. Before he wallows more in self-pity, your finger curls by the loop of his belt, forcing him a step closer.
"NoâŠ" you hum, thoughtfully, dragging a finger to the metallic buckle, "âŠread it pretty accurately."
Clark lets out a soft whimper, his palms coming to brace beside your hips, "I-I did?"
"Yeah." You breathe, wetting your lips instinctively. "You did."
His eyes shakily shuts, the loud click of his belt being undone resounding loud in the smaller space, his arousal rigid against his slacks. The zipper comes next, and only then does Clark grab your wrist, not to stop you, but to level you.
"ThisâŠI'm not letting you do this becauseâŠyou're Chief. Or anything."
You huff out a laugh at his shaky words, "that's what you're thinking about?"
His lips press taut, gripping harder around the printer tray. Tips of his ears turning pink in embarrassment. Your knuckles drag past his zipper, nudging where his tip would be through his boxers.
You watch as his head slumps low while you tug the navy fabric past his length. Clark shudders softly at the cooled air hitting him. "NotâŠanymore." He manages, his hand tangling itself at the back of your head.
"What are you thinking about now?" You whisper. Squeezing him, teasingly.
The gentle pressure tightens, and in a quick decision, he turns you over swiftly. A steady palm nudges you to bend at the hips, your forearms presses on Joseph.
His idle palm on your lower back slides down to your thighs, pulling your skirt up to your hips. "ThisâŠ" He mumbles, strained. You squeeze your legs together, ankles crossing over one another expectantly at his move.
"ShitâŠClark," your voice drops to a whisper, appreciatively lifting your hips higher for him. He gets the memo, muttering incoherently to himself at the sight you offered.
Oh gosh. This is coconuts. Absolutely coconuts.
Clark thumbs at the fat of your stocking-covered thighs. Gulping. "Can I..?"
"Mâhm." You hum, gasping sharply at the fresh rip. He wets his fingers, gently easing them up your inner thighs, groaning low.
"GoshâŠyou're â warm." He croaks, bringing his digits up to your growing slick. You pulse at his touch, melting into it quickly with the gentle rub parting your folds.
"You don't have to beâŠso â ahâŠsoft. With it."
Clark grits at your words with a hesitant nod, his palm relaxing, cupping the width of your pussy before his strokes turn much more deliberate. Quicker.
The approval to his ministrations come in the form of the loud, satisfied squelches your cunt makes, coating his fingers as he nudges them into your gummy walls, stretching you out generously. He doesn't stop easing you open for him until you're weakly pawing at his wrists.
He exhales, aligning the blunt tip of his cock by the entrance of your worked cunt. "OkayâŠokay. Talk to me. If it's too much."
You nod quickly. Resting your forehead against cool plastic. A stuttered whine rumbles out of your throat as he pushes, his own grunts audible as he eases his cock into you, inch by inch.
"A-Ah. Gosh. That's â yeah. G-Gosh." Clark looks to the ceiling, a full-bodied shudder felt even through you as he bottoms out, holding himself there.
"Clark," you plead, voice coming hoarse. His hot, thick cock grew harder in you as you pulsed pathetically, fingers clinging onto the leather of his undone buckle. Pulling at it.
"In a minute, okay? Don't wanna hurt you, I-If I go too fast it'll â"
"Fucking, move."
His jaw clenches at your rebuttal, grabbing your hand, gently pinning them behind your back.
"Fine." He murmurs. Flexing at your wrist, briefly tightening.
The next thrust rocks you into Joseph. Hard. You gasp in surprise and a flicker of pain. The cooled printer you were resting your forehead on is replaced by the warmth of his palm before Clark's thrusts steadily turns rougher. Meaner.
His forehead drops to the back of your neck. Panting into the sensitive skin of your neck. "Fuck." The curse slips out of him, whispered, his hips snapping into you relentlessly. "This is â what I mean â I-I can'tâŠ"
Every broken word was punctuated with a frenzied thrust, you start to feel him nudge a spot in you that made your toes curl.
"There, yeah â mhm!" You squeak, head tilted. Clark's palm shifts, casing your eyes. "It's good â so â so so good."
Your praise spurts him on further, "yeah?"
"Yes, god â yes."
Clark nods hastily to himself at your assurance. Dragging his palm down to your front, rubbing at your clit just enough for you to clench faintly around him.
The pleasure is heavy and insistent, tipping you right over the edge as you come. This time, your pussy grip his cock. In hard, pulsating waves. Nothing like the slight flutter from earlier.
"Good golly," he chokes, head tipped up, grinding into you shakily, taking in the feeling of the suction you provide. His palm slips from you, fisted as they rest on thick plastic.
"I'm close, oh gosh I'm close, I'm â" His words are futile, somewhere in his throat, and with a loud, deafening crack, he spills in you, pained gasps bathing the sides of your cheeks.
You don't get to bask in the quiet bliss of your combined orgasms when the contraption beneath you both crackles. Electricity sending sparks flying where Clark's fist had gone through. Layers and layers of thick plastic and shattered glass.
He pulls you back in a panic-induced move, the both of you staring at the remnants.
"OhâŠJoseph."
couldn't help but also include my original banner in this fic, which i so adored, but the one on top made by @sparklingsin truly is a show stopper. thank you @tw1sters for this lovely and silly collab. love you freaks loads <3
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â your older neighbor realizes you have a little crush on him Û¶à§
Youâd lived next door for four months, and heâd noticed you almost immediately. You were younger, bright-eyed, always smiling shyly in the hallway. At first he thought it was just neighborly politeness. Then he started catching the way your eyes lingered on him a little too long when he came back from runs, shirt sticking to his chest. The way youâd fumble with your keys whenever he held the elevator for you. He thought it was cute.
He remembered being your age, crushing hard on the older woman who lived upstairs in his first apartment building. The thrill of it. The ache. So he didnât mind it; he found himself looking forward to those hallway moments more than he should. But he was conflicted. He was getting up there in age, and you were⊠definitely not. He told himself it was harmless. Just a silly little crush that would pass.
The walls between your apartments were paper-thin. Some nights he could hear you moving around, the soft hum of music, the occasional laugh. Then one evening he heard you on the phone, voice excited and hushed.
âOh my god, heâs so hot. Like⊠stupid sexy. The way his arms look when heâs carrying groceries? I canât even function when I see him.â
He froze in his kitchen, glass of water halfway to his mouth. You kept going, giggling about how tall he was, how his voice sounded when he said good morning. He wasnât sure if you were talking about him. There were a few other guys in the building. But the thought that it might be⊠it did something to him. He went to bed that night trying not to think about it. Failed.
A few days later, there was a knock on his door. You stood there in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, looking nervous but determined. âHey⊠Iâm really sorry to bother you, but my shower is completely screwed up. The pressure is insane, and it keeps spraying everywhere. I think the head is broken? I donât know who else to ask.â
He didnât even hesitate. âLet me grab my tools.â
Twenty minutes later he was in your bathroom, shirt sleeves rolled up, working on the shower head. You hovered in the doorway watching him. Of course the damn thing sprayed the second he loosened it. Cold water soaked through his shirt instantly, plastering the fabric to his chest and stomach.
You bit your lip, eyes wide. âOh no, Iâm so sorry-â
He chuckled, water dripping from his hair. âOccupational hazard of playing handyman.â
When he finally fixed it, he wiped his hands on his jeans and turned to you. The air felt thicker than it shouldâve in the small, steamy bathroom. âYou got a boyfriend who can help with this stuff next time?â he asked, trying to sound casual.
You shook your head quickly. âNo boyfriend.â
He nodded slowly, something warm and dangerous flickering in his chest. âWell⊠knock on my door anytime you need anything. I mean it.â
After that, the tension between you grew. You started talking more in the hallway. He started leaving his door open when he knew youâd be coming home. Little conversations turned into longer ones, leaning against doorframes, laughing about nothing, eyes catching for seconds too long.
One evening you caught him in the hall after work. He looked tired but handsome in his button-down, sleeves once again rolled up. You talked about your terrible day, and he listened like it actually mattered. The space between you kept shrinking. You couldnât take it anymore.
Standing on your tiptoes, heart hammering, you leaned in to kiss him â close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. He gently caught your shoulders, stopping you. âSweetheartâŠâ His voice was low, rough with restraint. He pulled back just enough, eyes dark and conflicted. âI canât.â
You froze.
âIâm too old for you,â he said softly, almost regretfully. He leaned down and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead instead. The tenderness of it made your chest ache. âYou deserve someone closer to your age.â Then he stepped back, gave you one last long look, and disappeared into his apartment, door clicking shut behind him.
He leaned back against the closed door, heart pounding harder than it had in years. The feeling of your breath so close, the way youâd looked up at him with those hopeful, glossy eyes⊠He couldnât stop thinking about you. Couldnât stop imagining what wouldâve happened if heâd let you kiss him.
He dragged a hand down his face and cursed under his breath. "Fuck."
main masterlist
a/n: if u guys like this ill do a part 2 <3
Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x gf!Reader | 3.75k
Summary: Loving Clark Kent means loving Superman too, even when the city steals him away on the nights you wanted him most.
Tags: 18+, smuuuut, oral (m receiving), deep throat, wet and filthy, saliva as lube, nipple/breast play, tugging on hair, suit stays mostly on, cum swallowing, filthy use of lipstick, lovesick!Clark, needy!reader, established relationship, f!hair mentioned but no style, color, length described, reader wears a dress, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey/hon)
took all day to write this, frantically with one hand. i'm sorry I don't have it in me to edit. you get whatever my lil brain gives. Thank you @honey-on-your-tongue for talking some sense into me to just write
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Youâd been waiting for Clark to come home for two agonizing hours.
Your little black dress miraculously hadnât wrinkled despite your nervous pacing, dramatic sighs, the way you kept sinking onto the couch only to stand again, too restless, too warm, too annoyed to sit still for more than thirty seconds.
Every slow lap from the couch to the tall windows and back again only made the ache between your thighs grow slicker, more insistent, your body winding itself tighter around his absence.
By the millionth trip to the hallway mirror, you dropped all pretenses and admitted you weren't fixing anything, just needed somewhere to channel all that restless heat.
The earrings caught the low light as you tilted your head, and your mind instantly supplied the filthy image of them swaying and tinkling while Clarkâs hands fisted your hair, guiding you as you rode his cock deep and desperate.
Your perfume had warmed against flushed skin, the pulse beneath it fluttering wildly at every elevator groan or passing footstepâimagining his face buried there instead, licking, sucking, nipping marks into your throat while he growled your name.
Even your lipstick, a shade worn with the purpose to make Clark stammer half his sentences and forget all the manners Ma drilled into him, remained exactly where youâd painted it. No matter how many times you licked and pressed your lips together.
You leaned closer to the mirror, pouting, dragging your palms down your waist and over your hips exactly the way you wanted his to: rougher, needier, gripping, squeezing, digging hard enough to leave faint bruises that would heal under his apologetic kisses later. You adjusted one strap, one that hadn't even moved a single inch, imagining his fingers slipping beneath and yanking it down, too.
Pathetic, you thought. Absolutely pathetic. Dressed up and wound this badly for him.
You pictured exactly how he wouldâve gone. Heâd come through the door giddy and grinning, still windblown from the city, broad shoulders filling the entryway, keys clinking into the bowl. One shoe off, hand still on the doorknob, glasses slipping down his nose as a sweet greeting died in his throat: âHoney, Iâm hoâoh gosh,â in that deep, raspy voice.
Or, âSweetheart," in that strained, drawn-out way that somehow sounded like profanity.
Or your name, whispered as if heâd just found nirvana in the hallway of his own apartment.
His eyes wouldâve gone to your face first because he was a good man, but not that good. They would've dropped to your throat. Then your dress, to the inviting plunge of cleavage, the curve of your waist beneath your own restless hands. Then, inevitably, helplessly, back up to your shaded lips that made him so lovesick and stupid.
In two strides, Clark'd pressed you against the wall, hands sliding under your dress to find you already soaked, fingers teasing your clit while he groaned against your lips and you moaned reminders about dinner plans.
Nothing big or expensive.
Just you and him, a candle-lit table, his hand warm at the small of your back, thumb brushing the curve of your hip, fingers pinching the meat of your ass whenever he thought no one was looking. Youâd lean into him, swat his chest playfully, tug him down by the collar to kiss the hinge of his jaw, and feel the sharp catch of breath against your cheek. Let your ankle stroke against his inner thigh under the table. Watch him try to keep his voice steady while you playfully smiled at him over your menu, like you hadnât already decided the night would end with a much sweeter, messier kind of pie for dessert.
But by minute fifty-three, a new scenario had taken over.
A slow turn in the hallway.
A sharp, lifted brow.
Maybe a wounded little, "Oh, baby. You remembered where we live?" if you felt especially cruel enough.
Youâd make Clark work for your smile, let him chase you around the apartment with those apologetic, puppy-dog eyes, scolding him to freshen up. Let him put those big hands on your hips, press up behind you, and murmur apologies against your neck until you believed him. Maybe allow him to press a kiss or two to your shoulder, your wrist, the corner of your mouth.
Maybe youâd even let him drop to his knees and eat you out right there against the wall, your fingers in his thick mess of hair, riding his tongue until you came with his name on your lips.
Maybe allow him to do it over and over, until you finally let him off the hook like always.
Because this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.
It came with the territory of loving Clark Kent, and the heavier territory of loving Superman. Missed reservations, movies paused halfway through, solo showers. Sometimes the whole city seemed to reach for him at the same time you did, and the cruel, noble thing was that you usually stepped back first.
You knew that. You loved that about him. You hated that about him a little tonight.
And because you knew Clark, because you loved him, because you were not interested in building any argument out of a rescue he couldnât ignore, you hadn't checked the news.
Hadnât opened your phone to search "Superman". Hadnât refreshed the Planetâs breaking alerts or texted Lois. Hadnât doom-scrolled shaky footage of smoke or sirens or blue-and-red blurs cutting through the sky.
Youâd left your phone face down next to your purse like that made you mature, responsible, as if ignorance could quiet your wild imagination from filling in every possible reason he wasnât home yet.
If there was a reason, he would tell you.
If there was blood, he would hide it badly.
If there was guilt, God, it'd be written all over his face.
-
You were still leaning toward the mirror, blotting your lipstick again, when the balcony door exploded inward.
Okay, not literally, but the force of Clarkâs landing hit the apartment like a thunderclap. The curtains snapped like a whip. Your lipstick tube jumped clean out of your fingers and struck the floor, rolling beneath the console table as you stifled a yelp.
Then came the frantic scrape of the door, the rush of cold night air, and Clarkâs boots hitting concrete, then hardwood, too fast, too heavy, every step like a hammer striking stone.
Your heart lurched into your throat as you spun around, shocked silent.
Clark was already pacing, one hand dragged through his raven hair hard enough to displace the stubborn curl at his forehead. His chest rose and fell like heâd flown across the edges of the vast universe holding his breath. He looked wired. Furious. Worn down to the bone. Like whatever happened out there sunk its claws into his shoulders and followed him home.
Every thought of playfully guilting Clark vanished clean out of your head.
"âŠClark? Baby?" you breathed, nose crinkling as a burnt aroma curled around your senses. "What's wrong? Are youâ?
At the sound of your voice, he turned so sharply he nearly tripped over his own boots.
It nearly broke your heart, the way his frantic blue eyes settled over you, softening just a touch. The dress. The earrings. The lipstick. The two miserable hours written all over your face. For one suspended second, he looked exactly like the Clark youâd imagined in the hallway, stunned, lovesick, and ruined by the sight of you.
Then guilt struck his features like lightning.
"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out in a breathless rush before you could say another thing. "I know I'm late. I know. There was aâa chemical fire andâand the containment team couldnât get close enough without getting hurt, so I had toâthe whole building was about toâGosh, the entire east wall was ready to buckle, and I tried to be fast, I really did, but if I moved too fast the firefighters would probably turn to mushâand I couldn't do thatâ-"
He gestured helplessly, pacing again, the apologies and explanations spilling out of him like an avalanche burying any hope of organizing his thoughts.
Thatâs when you noticed the scorch marks.
His blue suit stretched tight across his shoulders, dark with sweat and smoke. His cape fluttered behind him in a singed, ragged mess, the bottom edge frayed. Black streaks of soot smeared across his chest, across his family crest, across the strong line of his jaw. It was his abdomen that made your stomach twist.
The fabric had been eaten clean through, the edges curled and blackened like something caustic splashed him. Beneath it, his skin was whole. Thank goodness. Smooth and unbroken under the ruin, still Clark, still impossibly untouched in the ways that should have reassured you.
But it didnât. While the suit was destroyed, your Clark was still shaking.
ââand I knew we had dinner reservations,â he bemoaned, both hands moving now, one pinching the bridge of his nose, the other clenched around something you hadnât got a good look at yet. âI knew, I swear I knew, and I kept thinking I could still make it if I just got everyone out. Then a second tank ruptured, and I thought, "Good Gosh, are there no other heroes out tonight," then I felt horrible thinking that, so I went back in, andââ
You frowned, worried.
Of course you were.
Always, when it came to your Clark.
But standing there with your pulse in your throat and between your thighs, taking in the ruined suit clinging to him like a second skin, the ash on the same cheekbones you kissed this morning, the heat coming off his body in waves, the raw, breathless guilt in his voiceâŠsome low, terrible, needy part of you curled awake and wanted.
Wanted him closer. Wanted your hands on him. Wanted to peel the ruined suit off inch by inch and find out how much of that frantic, superhuman energy he could spend on you.
You bit the inside of your cheek, frowning deeper, looking as grave as Clark felt.
Then his left hand shifted against the moonlight, and you finally saw them: flowers.
A bouquet of deep red roses, crushed almost beyond dignity in his tense fist. The stems were bent. A few petals had scattered across the balcony tiles during his landing, bright as little drops of crimson against the concrete and hardwood.
âClark," you interrupted, lips slightly parted.
He stopped mid-stride.
You pointed. âFlowers?â
He blinked, looking down at his own hand as if heâd never seen it before.
"Flâoh. Yeah." He sighed, shoulders sinking. "Bought them just after clocking out. Called ahead, was supposed to drop them off, have the waiter bring them out before the appetizers, or when you sat down. I hadn't decided. I was going to pretend I had no idea what was happening, which sounds so silly saying it aloudâ becauseâbecause you always know when Iâm lying, but I thought maybe if I did it badly enough, it would be charmingâ"
Endearing, utterly charming, painfully attractive word vomit paired with disheveled hair, ragged breaths, smoke-smudged skin, and the kind of rippling muscles the ruined suit was doing absolutely nothing to hide.
Shit. You wanted him now.
"âI guess weâll never know, because Iâm two hours late and the roses are destroyed and I smell like a poorly managed high school chem labâ"
"Clark, stop!" you called, firmer than you meant to.
The rambling died in his throat.
His eyes lifted to yours, then moved over you slowly this time, not in panic or apology, but with a stunned, helpless heat that landed everywhere his hands desperately wanted to. Your face. Your lips. The line of your throat. The dress hugging your waist, your hips, the soft rise and fall of your breasts as your breathing changed under his attention.
Ah, there he was. Not exactly the fantasy. Arguably better.
Very late, soot-streaked, holding ruined flowers, staring at you like the whole burning city had fallen away and left him with nothing but this apartment, this hallway, and you.
Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.
"Sweetheart,â he swallowed faintly, drawling it out like a curse.
Swallowing a moan, you asked instead. "Did everyone make it out alive? Safe?"
He nodded, still staring.
"Then it's okay, everything is okay, promise." Clearing your throat, you stepped toward him quickly. "What's important is you are home, too. Alive and safe. What you need is to get out of that suit. It's ruined."
"I can fix it,â he countered, still watching your lips with that dazed expression. "The suit, I mean. Gary canâ"
"The Fortress is thousands of miles away."
You stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the smoke and something metallic and sharp tingle in your nostrils. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, to see the soot caught in the laugh lines and dimples beside his mouth, to watch his unmarked skin shift and tense beneath the torn, ruined fabric every time he breathed. "We can deal with it tomorrow."
Clark glanced down at himself, brows pinched. "Right. Tomorrow. I'm sorry, I should probablyâ"
"Clark?" you nearly whimpered.
"Yeah? What is it?"
"Shut up."
You rose onto your toes, caught the back of his neck, and pulled him down, snuffing further protests.
For half a second, he held still, too careful, too Clark, one ruined bouquet hanging limply at his side, and the other hand hovered near your shoulder. Then you kissed him harder, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his nape while the other curled into the collar at the front of his suit, and whatever restraint he had left cracked.
Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your chest.
His free hand found your waist, still trembling with leftover adrenaline, and yanked you flush against him, no longer gentle. You felt every hard inch of him: the solid wall of his chest, the ridges of his abs through the torn suit, and the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock already straining against your belly. He tilted his head, lips parting wider, tongue sliding hot and urgent against yours.
The kiss quickly turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed with his apology, with your impatience, with the two hours youâd spent wanting him and the whole ruined night heâd carried home in his chest.
Soot from his jaw smudged your cheek. Your lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin as he chased the connection, sucking on your tongue before nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make your knees buckle and a fresh wetness to flood your panties.
One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you tighter so you could grind against the rigid length of him.You moaned into his mouth, nipples tightening against his chest, your soaked cunt throbbing with every roll of his hips.
God, you wanted nothing more than for Clark to rip the dress off and fuck you right here, bent over the console table or legs wrapped around his waist with your back pressed against the windows, taking every thick inch until you were dripping down his cock and screaming his name.
You broke the kiss only enough to breathe against his lips, one hand still fisted tight in his hair, tugging just the way you knew made him weak.
âBaby,â you murmured huskily, lips brushing his. âI can help take the suit off.â
Bracing his thighs, you lowered yourself to your knees before he could argue, the movement making your earrings sway and tinkle softly just as you'd imagine.
The position put you at eye level with the scorched gash in his suit. You reached up, fingers hovering over the blakened edges, and began carefully peeling it away from his skin. The material, though thick and clinging stubborn even in pieces, gave way under your persistent hands.
Beneath it, Clark's abdomen was warm. Whole. Trembling when your knuckles grazed along his hip bone.
Above you, Clark made a sharp, strangled groan and immediately looked away, jaw rigid, the ruined bouquet still clutched in his white-knuckled grip as the last thread of his composure.
Pursing your lips to stifle a giggle, you worked the torn section free, exposing more of him: the ladder of his ribs, the hollow of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. You let your gaze follow that trail hungrily, licking your lips.
Sure, the suit was always tight, but now it was impossible to miss the pronounced ridge of his erection, pressing against the red fabric of his briefs, curving and straining upward, the thick head already leaking.
Oh, your poor, guilty, late, soot-streaked Superman, trying so hard to be polite when his body had very clearly remembered what yours had been aching for the last two painstaking hours.
"Hmm, I know you like what you see," you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, pulse fluttering wildly at your throat.
A choked sound tore from his heaving chest.
"Iâyouâit's the dress," he stammered, his free hand hovering near your cheek, fingers twitching. You spared him the pain and leaned into his touch, letting him cup your face.
"The dress?" you blinked up, wide-eyed, mock-innocent, drawing your shoulders forward so your cleavage spilled forward.
"And the earrings. Plus, your smile. Your voice. That lipstick," he finally admitted, almost desperate. "And you. Mostly you. Entirely you, actually. You're so beautiful. I couldnât stop thinking about you. Even during the fire, I kept picturing you waiting for me, and I was late, and the reservations, and the roses, andâ"
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, abdomen tensing. âThe reservations. Can we stillââ
âDinnerâs not happening tonight,â you explained gently, glancing at the wallclock with exaggerated sorrow. âThe restaurant stopped seating twenty minutes ago. Hell, even fifteen minutes after our reservation lapsed.â
His shoulders sank once more, thumb stroking your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness when you glanced up at him. "Yeah, I figured."
"But," you continued, curling your fingers into the waistband of his suit, tugging it down. "I am hungry."
The sound Clark made when his thick, flushed, slick-at-the-tip cock sprang free was half groan, half profanity prayer.
You wrapped a hand around the base, fingers barely meeting. The sight of him, so hard and leaking in your palm made your mouth water with primal anticipation.
Leaning in, you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, tracing every vein from root to tip. He was proportional to everything else about him. Which meant he was a lot, and received a lot of licks. Clarkâs entire body jerked with every drag of your tongue. The hand grasping the flowers eventually let go. Petals scattered as he gripped the back of your neck with that perfect blend of gentleness and desperate strength youâd fantasized about.
"Oh," he begged. "Hon, please."
Drawing a breath, you took him past your plush lips and into your warm mouth.
For a moment, you stayed still to feel the weight of him on your tongue. To savor the taste of salt and skin. You sighed dreamily, eyes rolling back, hollowed your cheeks, and sank down, down, down, until your nose buried into the thatch of dark hair at the base, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you had to pull back just enough, gasping, gagging, drawing more breath.
Your eyes watered, paying no mind to wipe them away. Saliva pooled messily down your chin, over his balls, dripping onto the valley of your breasts. You went right back, messier, wetting, pushing further until your throat fluttered and squeezed around his thickness. Your earrings tinkled with every enthusiastic bob of your head.
âBabyâyou'reâ incredible,â Clark managed, each word bashful and strained between ragged breaths.
The hand cupping your cheek slid down your shoulder with a grunt, thumb tracing your collarbone before tugging the strap of your dress gently until it fell, then the other. The fabric peeled away onto your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. His broad, callused palm groped one immediately as he groaned.
"Your mouth, the way you take meâso deepâthat lipstickâ"
You whimpered around his cock at the praise, the high-pitched vibrations making his hips twitch. Lipstick smeared across his shaft in streaks, marking him exactly the way youâd imagined while waiting. You took him to the root again, throat fluttering around his thickness, swallowing deliberately so the tight muscles milked him. Your pulse raced against his cock with every heartbeat.
"Goshâ" His hips bucked involuntarily harsher that time. He immediately stilled, a flush creeping up his neck. âSorry, sorry, hon, I didnât mean toââ
Clarkâs hand tightened at the back of your neck, the other gripping your shoulder, holding you steady as his thighs trembled beneath your touch, with the willpower not to fuck your face the way he fucked your cunt.
âNoâmoreâsorry's,â you quickly warned when he tried to apologize for another sharper buck, sucking harder in retaliation despite the radiating ache in your cheeks and jaw.
The wet, rhythmic squelching of your mouth working him filled the room. You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue swirling through the leaking fluid, then took him whole again.
His hand on the back of your head, then loosened, then tightened again, like he couldnât decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. He was babbling praises now, sweet praises spilling from his lips between raspy moans.
"Youâre so good to meâso darn goodâhow are you so good at thisâyour mouth, your tongueâ" A guttural sound broke his sentence in half when you swirled your tongue at the base, curving your head. "You look so beautiful like this. W-with that darn lipstick, I said that â alright r-right? I wantedâI want you all night. All day. Every second I was out there. I couldn't stopâ"
Through his ramblings, his generous, callused fingers dragged through the thick strings of saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest, using the messy spit as slick, warm lube to glide over your skin. He spread it across your stiff nipple in slow, meaningful circles, making them glisten.
His palms traded sides, giving attention to the neglected breast, sending sparks straight to your clenching cunt, the perfect counterpoint to the frantic, greedy rhythm of your mouth. The wet heat of your mouth, the cool air on your skin, the rough pad of his thumb made you moan louder and longer than before.
"Yes," Clark hissed. "Yes, jus'âjust like that, hon. I loveâwhen you sound like that. I loveâwhen I can feel it. When youââ
You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue darting out and swirling, then sank back down, taking every inch until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you swallowed around him.
Clarkâs eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped beneath his filthy sweat-slicked skin. "IâmâI canâtâHon, youâre going to make meâI'm gonnaâohh shâshootâ"
His words dissolved into breathless moans. Low. Broken. The kind of sounds you'd happily spend eternity coaxing from him. You felt him familiar throb against your tongue, thick and pulsing. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripping your shoulder hard enough to leave faint bruises that would be soothed under his kisses later.
With a broken cry that rattled through his chest, Clark came.
Hot, thick spurts flooded your throat in heavy waves. You swallowed every drop, throat fluttering and milking him while your lipstick left fresh smears along his length.
You kept sucking gently long after, nursing him through the oversensitivity until his legs shook and soft, whimpers slipped from his lips.
Only then did you pull off with a wet pop, thin gleaming strings of saliva and cum connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his still-twitching cock, dripping meassily onto your breasts.
Clark stared down at you like youâd hung the moon, the stars, and made the sun rise every day just for him, blue eyes dazed, tender, overflowing with love. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears and spit from your cheeks and lipstick-smeared lips as you gasped your breath, all while whispering hushed words of praise and affection.
Suddenly, he lifted you by the waist, pressing your bare back against the cool window. The glass fogged beneath your heat as he dropped to his knees, rucking your dress high up onto your waist. Your legs draped instinctively over his wide shoulders, heels digging between his shoulder blades.
"I needâ" he started, and then stopped, nuzzling against the soaked crotch of your panties, inhaling deeply, lips nipping at your swollen clit through the fabric with silent, pleading permission.
"I know, baby," you cooed, carding your fingers through his thick, messy curls, tugging just right. Your voice was deliciously raspy from how thoroughly youâd taken him. "Youâre hungry. I can help with that, too."
The soot-stained suit still hung off him in tatters.
Scattered rose petals littered the floor around you both like crimson confetti.
SYNOPSIS & WCââąâ„ After winning the biggest football game of his college career, Rafe orchestrates a grand gesture on the fifty-yard line.
WARNING(S) & A/Nââąâ„ swearing, public attention, sports contact
THE locker room smelled of sweat, damp turf, and cheap body spray. It was forty-eight hours before the biggest game of the college football season, and Rafe was pacing.
His jersey was draped over the length of a bench. He was still in his practice sweats, his hair damp from the showers and sticking up in spikes where heâd repeatedly run his hands through it. He looked more stressed than he was around this time last season.
But for completely different reasons.
"I just don't wanna fuck it up. That'd be the most embarrassing," Rafe muttered, his voice tight with an anxiety that none of the guys sitting around had ever heard from him before. "If even one of you messes up, the whole thing falls apart. So, I need you guys to actually lock in for once in your lives. Can you do that?"
Leaning beside his open locker, JJ was balancing a styrofoam cup on the tip of his finger, a grin plastered across his face. Next to him, John B was playing with his curls in a small mirror. Topper and Kelce were leaning against the whiteboard, looking at Rafe with a mixture of amusement and disbelief, while Pope sat, looking like he had been drafted into a military operation against his will.
"Rafe, man, breathe," JJ chuckled, letting the cup drop. "Look at you, dude. Youâre sweating through your shirt." He chuckled. "This is crazy. I can't believe The Rafe Cameron has been completely neutralized by a girl."
"Shut up, Maybank," Rafe snapped, though there was no real venom in itâjust nerves. He stopped pacing and pointed a finger at JJ. "Iâm serious. If you mess up the timing on the hand-off, I'll personally make your ass run until you puke blood."
"Oh, c'mon. Am I not the best wide receiver on this coast?" JJ shot back, winking at John B.
John B let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "Iâve got to admit, seeing you like this is wild. Two months ago, you were swearing up and down that you didnât do relationships. And now look at you. Youâre planning a literal flash-mob."
"Itâs not a flash mob," Rafe muttered defensively, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. "Itâs a...gesture."
"Itâs whipped is what it is," Topper chimed in from the whiteboard, a smirk playing on his lips. "Weâve known you since we were kids, man. I have never, not once, seen you care this much about what a girl thinks. Just admit it."
Rafe stopped, his jaw tightening as he looked at his friends. For a second, but then he sighed, running a hand over his face, letting out a breath that sounded a whole lot like a surrender.
"Yeah, alright, fine," Rafe said, his voice dropping into something softer, something entirely genuine. "But is that so crazy? Weâve been talking for months now, and there's never not a time that I'm not...thinking about her. And, I mean, you guys have seen her, you know her." He starts, shaking his head. "Sheâs got half the campus trying to get her attention, and somehow, sheâs spending her nights sitting, talking to me about nothing. I want this. I want her." He said, not a shred of doubt in his voice. "But I don't want to just ask her over a text or at some random party. It has to be this. Even if it is corny as hell..." He breathes a laugh.
The room went quiet for a moment. The teasing fading from the guys' faces, replaced by something softer and admirable. They had seen Rafe at his worst and his best, but they had never seen him this vulnerable.
JJ cleared his throat. "Okay. We're doing this." He clapped his hands together. "I convinced the cheerleaders to change the post-game formation. They said they can make sure the squad splits into a perimeter line right after the final whistle blows. They'll make a path from the stands to the fifty-yard line."
"Good. Thatâs good," Rafe said, nodding quickly. "And what about the banner?"
"Pope and I got the banner," John B said. "Itâs currently hidden in the back of my van under a tarp. Itâs huge. Itâll take at least four of us to hold it up."
"And the thing?" Rafe looked directly at Topper.
Topper reached down, pulling an insulated cooler bag from beneath a bench. He unzipped it, revealing a pristine parlor glass and a vintage insulated thermos. "Kept perfectly chilled, bro."
Rafe actually smiled, a genuine, relieved expression breaking through his anxiety. "Perfect. Sheâs going to hate this." He tilted his head. "Which means itâs perfect."
"You really made fun of her for drinking a strawberry milkshake on your first date?" Kelce asked, shaking his head. "Smooth, Cameron. Real smooth."
"Hey, artificial strawberry tastes like cough syrup and chemical waste, and I told her that," Rafe defended himself, a spark in his eyes. "She told me mine was sludge. Itâs our thing. Itâs a metaphor, or whatever."
"Look at you, using literary devices," Pope cheered, clapping his hands.
"Our QB is growing up, boys!" JJ teased, ruffling Rafe's hair as the Cameron boy pushed him away, hiding his smile. "Alright, letâs review the play one more time."
THE roar of the stadium was louder than ever, a vibration that rattled through your chest and the soles of your cheer shoes.
Your arms were tired, your throat was raw from leading cheers for the past two hours, and your pom-poms felt like they were glued to your hands. But you couldnât care less. The energy in the air was contagious, the scent of popcorn and grass not the greatest combination, but one that'd grown so familiar that it made it all worth it.
And besides, this wasnât just any game. It was the annual rivalry matchup, an unforgiving competition against the top-ranked team in the state besides your own. The scouts were in the press box, the student section was a sea of painted faces and screaming bodies, and the score had been a back-and-forth dogfight from the very first kickoff.
And at the center of it all was Rafe.
You watched from the sidelines, your heart in your throat. Rafe was playing like a man possessed tonight. He stepped up into the pocket, evaded a diving tackle with a lethal spin move, and rolled out to his right.
His eyes scanned the downfield coverage. With a flick of his wrist, he launched a beautiful spiral that cut through the stadium lights.
And the stadium erupted as Maybank caught the ball, diving into the end zone, and the student section sounded like an unattended zoo.
You leapt into action, leading your squad into a celebration routine, but your eyes kept tracking back to him. Rafe was already jogging down the field, his helmet ripped off, exposing his sweaty, flushed face and the hair stuck to his forehead.
He and the other guys pounded JJ on the shoulder pads, screaming in victory.
He was on fire. They all were. This wasn't just a good game for him, it was a career defining performance. He had already thrown for three touchdowns, rushed for fifty yards, and commanded the offense with a relentless precision that left the opposing defense looking entirely bewildered and shaken.
"He's on one tonight," A blonde girl spoke your way as she took her spot next to you, camera in her hands. Sarah, you think her name was. She said she was here to take pictures for the school paper. Though, something about her face seemed familiar as she threw a knowing glance your way. "Wonder who heâs trying to impress?"
"I think he's just trying to win the game." you smiled, trying to keep your voice steady despite the warmth you could feel creeping up your neck.
"Sure," she teased, looking through the view of her camera as she snapped more pictures. "I'd surely think that too if looked over at me after literally every single pass." She continued teasing, laughing to herself.
You tried to focus on the next cheer, but Sarah wasn't entirely wrong.
And tonight, there were only ten thousand people in the world, and the clock was ticking down.
There were only twelve seconds left in the fourth quarter, score tied 24-24.
The season, the school's repâeverything rested on this single play.
The stadium was so loud you could feel the concrete beneath your feet trembling. You clamped your hands together as you watched the offense break the huddle. Rafe walked up to the line of scrimmage, barking out the signals.
He took the snap, didn't hesitate. He tucked the ball against his ribs and launched himself into the pile. He hit the defensive wall with a sickening thud, his legs churning, his entire body straining for every single inch. Two defenders grabbed his jersey, trying to pull him backward, but Rafe refused to go down. With his final ounce of strength, he threw his weight forward, diving over the goal line just as the clock hit zero.
The refereeâs arms flew into the air.
Touchdown.
And this time, the stadium didn't just cheer, they lost it. The noise was a force of sound that knocked the breath out of you, even as you cheered along. The remainder of the football team emptied off the bench, sprinting onto the field in a mass of helmets and jerseys. The crowd was a blur of jumping bodies, drinks spilling into the air, and ear-ringing screams.
They had won.
Rafe had won it.
He had scored the winning point, capping off the greatest game of his life.
You were jumping up and down with the rest of the cheer squad, screaming until your throat felt completely raw. It was the perfect ending to an unbelievable night. You looked out into the middle of the field, trying to spot his number in the middle of the madness.
But then, the chaos on the field began to take a strange shape.
Usually, after a win like this, the football team would do a lap around the stadium, high-fiving fans over the railings before retreating to the locker room for hours.
But as you stood on the sidelines, waiting for the team to clear out so your squad could perform your last chant, you noticed something weird.
The football players weren't leaving the field.
In fact, they were clearing a circle right at the fifty-yard line.
"Alright, I think that's our cue!" One of your girls suddenly yelled.
You blinked, looking at her in confusion. "Cue? What are you talking about? What's going on?"
"Change of plans! Just trust us!" She shouted from across the grass.
Before you could ask another question, your teammates had formed two long, parallel lines stretching from the edge of the student stands all the way out to the center of the field, creating a green-carpeted walkway. The football team was doing the exact same thing, flanking the cheerleaders.
The crowd has also noticed the sudden and strange organization, even Sarah had an un readable expression on her face, camera clutched in her hands like she knew she'd have to use it soon. The cheers began to die down into a confused buzz, thousands of eyes scanning the field, trying to figure out what was happening.
You stood near the base of the stands, right at the entrance of the corridor, your pom-poms held loosely at your sides, a feeling of anxiety washing over you.
"What is going on?..." you muttered to yourself, looking around wildly.
And then, walking through the gap of the football players at the fifty-yard line, came Rafe.
He had his helmet off, tucked under his left arm. He was breathing heavily, his jersey covered in grass stains and turf marks. He looked battered, exhausted, and, still, absolutely beautiful.
But he wasn't looking at the crowd. And he wasn't looking at the coaches.
His eyes were locked entirely on you.
He raised his right hand, then he gestured with his hand, waving you forward, calling you down. Out onto the field. In front of thousands of people, who were clearly watching.
Your stomach dropped straight into your shoes. Your jaw fell open. You looked to your left, then to your right, desperately hoping he was pointing at someone else. But Sarah just reached out, waving you forward with a strangely excited smile on her face.
"Go!" She squealed, her eyes wide. "Go out there!"
"Are you insane? No!" you hissed, your voice cracking. Being a cheerleader was one thing. Being singled out? In front of all of these people? This was your actual nightmare. "Iâm not going out there!"
But the crowd had caught on, a collective 'oooooh' rippling through the student section.
Rafe didn't lower his hand, still holding it out for you. He just stood there, a confident, slightly crooked smirk playing on his lips, completely unbothered by the fact that the entire university was watching him.
He waved you forward again, his gaze intense, steady, and unwavering.
Realizing you had absolutely no escape, and that staying frozen would only make it a million times worse, you let out a shaky breath, dropping your pom-poms onto the turf.
Your legs felt like jelly as you took your first step forward, every eye in the stadium following you. You walked down the path formed by your friends and his teammates. As you passed them, you could see the all of them grinning like idiots.
As you walked past, they suddenly unrolled a massive hand-painted banner over the front railing of the stands. It didn't say anything about the game. It was a giant, crudely drawn painting of a retro diner with the words: PROPERTY OF DEBBIE'S? written in bold letters.
You let out a breathless, half-panicked laugh, covering your face.
You kept walking, peeking through the spaces of your fingers, your face burning so hot you were certain you could probably glow in the dark. Finally, you reached the fifty-yard line, stopping exactly two feet in front of Rafe.
The stadium was waiting with anticipation, but down on the turf, standing right in front of him, the noise seemed to fade. Up close, you could see the sweat dripping down his neck, the slight scratch near his jawline from a helmet, and the intensity in his blue eyes.
You didn't even let him speak. The second you were in range, your nerves took over, and you started rambling at a mile a minute, your voice not traveling over the noise of the stands.
"Rafe, what on earth are you doing?" You looked around, nervous. "What is happening right now? Why is everyone looking at us?" Your voice dropped, trying to ignore the burning gazes of both of your team mates and squad members. "If this is some kind of prank, I swear I will kill you. I will actually murder you." Your eyes narrowed, the tips of your ears warm. "hate you so much right now, all these people are staring at me, at both of us. Rafe, I am literally going to pass out."
Rafe didn't interrupt you. He just stood there, letting you talk your nerves away. The smirk on his face widened, turning into a soft smile that made his entire face look different. He reached out, his hand gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles against your skin.
The touch immediately cut off your rambling and you let out a shaky breath, looking up at him, your heart hammering against your chest.
There was no microphone. Rafe hadn't asked for one. Whatever he was about to say, it was meant entirely, exclusively, for you.
The crowd could see you, but the words were a secret.
"Are you done?" Rafe asked softly, his voice breathless from the game, but still steady.
"No," you whispered back, though you didn't pull your wrist away from his grip, subconsciously taking a step closer. "Iâm seriously going to kill you. I don't know what this is but I can already tell that they are never, ever going to let me live this down." You motioned towards your cheer squad.
"Let 'em talk," Rafe said, stepping a half-inch closer, completely blocking out the rest of the stadium. He looked down at you, his eyes scanning your face like a painting he wanted to memorize.
"Rafe..."
"Listen," he interrupted gently, his tone turning serious. "Four months ago, I was a completely different person. All I cared about was football, and myself. And then you completely ruined my life."
You let out a startled laugh, your eyes stinging with sudden, unexpected tears. "Wow. Romantic."
"Iâm serious," Rafe smiled, his thumb still tracing circles on your wrist. "You didn't care who I was. You jump at the chance to be with me just because of who I am here. For the first time, I was happy that you didn't know I was." He admitted. "And then, we went to that diner. And you sat across from me in that booth, and you ordered that absolute abomination of a drink."
Right on cue, from the side of the corridor, Topper stepped forward. He was holding a silver catering tray he must have stolen, and sitting squarely in the middle of it was a tall parlor glass filled to the brim with a bright pink strawberry milkshake, complete with a striped straw, a swirl of whipped cream, and a single cherry. Topper was wearing a ridiculous, straight-faced expression, bowing slightly as he presented it.
The student section caught sight of the milkshake and let out a massive, entirely confused cheer. They had no idea what it meant, but they loved it anyway.
You let out a sob-laugh, shaking your head as you looked from the milkshake back to Rafe. "You brought a literal milkshake onto the football field?"
"I had Top drive to the diner twenty minutes ago to get it," Rafe admitted, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks again. "That night, watching you drink that disgusting pink slop and get to know me because you wanted to... that was the exact moment I realized I was completely screwed. I drove myself home that night, after we kissed, and I realized I didn't want to spend a single day without you. But I knew it was too early to admit to you, So, Iâve spent the last two months trying to prove to you that I can be the guy you deserve."
Your chest felt so tight you could barely breathe. The nervousness, the panic about the crowd, the bright lightsâit all disappeared. There was only Rafe. Sweaty, dirt covered, exhausted Rafe, baring his soul on the field.
"I don't want to just be the guy that people think you're 'talking to' anymore," Rafe continued, his voice dropping into an emotional whisper. He took a step closer, his other hand coming up to gently cup the side of your face, his thumb wiping away a stray tear that had escaped down your cheek. "I want to be yours. I want to be the guy who gets to take you out every weekend, the guy who gets to walk you to class, the guy you're cheering for from the sidelines. I want everyone to know youâre mine, and I'm yours. I don't like the confusion. So, I want to take it away. Even if it means I have to watch you drink strawberry milkshakes for the rest of my life."
He paused, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that made your breath catch.
"So... I'm only going to ask this once because I think I'm about to have a heart attack," He took a deep breath, voice rising just enough so that the people around could hear this one, single part. "Will you be my girlfriend?"
For a second, you couldn't even speak.
The magnitude of what he had doneâthe planning, his friends, yoursâoverwhelmed you in the best possible way.
You looked up at him, a radiant smile breaking across your face.
"Yeah," you breathed, nodding.
Rafeâs eyes flared with a sudden light, almost like he wasn't expecting your answer. "Yeah?"
"Yes," you said louder, a laugh bubbling out of your chest. "But I am still going to kill you."
Rafe didn't care about the threat, a grin breaking out across his faceâa look of pure joy that completely eclipsed the look he had carried when scoring the winning touchdown.
He didn't hesitate. He grabbed you by the waist, lifting you entirely off your feet, and spun you around right there in front of everyone.
The stadium erupted, people realizing exactly what had just happened, and the noise was deafening, a thunderous wave of cheers and whistles as confetti from the post-game celebration seemed to rain down harder around you.
From the sidelines, your cheer squad started jumping up and down, screaming and waving their pom-poms, while the football team began violently pounding each other on the shoulder pads, Topper nearly dropping the silver tray in his excitement as he cheered at the top of his lungs.
When Rafe finally set you back down on your feet, he didn't let you go. His arms stayed securely wrapped around your waist, holding you flush against his sweaty, warm frame. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily, entirely wrapped up in each other.
"My teammates are never going to let me live this down," you mumbled against his chest, your hands resting on his shoulders. "Half of them are probably filming this right now."
"Good. Tell them to send it to you," Rafe murmured, his lips brushing against your temple as he pressed a soft kiss there.
"Sure." You rolled your eyes, peeking around when the sound of a camera clicking when off continuously. Your eyes shifted to the blonde girl. "I guess she was right, too." You looked up at Rafe, throwing your head out in her direction. "She said you were trying to impress me."
Rafe chuckled, ducking his head. "Yeah," he breathed. "My sister cannot keep her mouth shut for shit."
Your eyes went wide, almost breaking your neck to look up at him fully. "Your sister?" You asked, suddenly shocked and mildly embarrassed. "I thought you said she wasn't in college! She told me was taking pictures for the newsletter!"
Rafe just laughed, hugging you closer. "She isn't. I told her what I wanted to do for you and she said she just 'couldn't miss it'. She's been trying to meet you for a while, now." He groaned, rolling his eyes. "The camera is so she can torment me for this for the rest of my life."
âWell, that's one way to meet your family, I guess,â You shrugged, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. âI know Iâm not exactly dressed for the occasion, eitherâŠâ you added, gesturing down to your cheer uniform, which left little to the imagination.
Rafe didn't answer right away, his gaze lingering on you with a softness that always made your chest tighten. He reached for your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze, and when he spoke, his voice was low and reassuring. "You look perfect, trust me."
"I feel like I should go introduce myself to her."
The camera clicked once more and Rafe shot a playful glare in his sisterâs direction, pulling you into an embrace, resting his chin comfortably atop your head. âLetâs just enjoy this, yeah? My sister can wait.â
the first thing she noticed when rafe came home was that he looked exhausted.
the second thing she noticed was that he looked exactly the same.
same broad shoulders. same stupidly handsome face. same serious expression that always cracked whenever he looked at her for longer than a few seconds.
she launched herself into his arms before he even made it fully through the front door.
âmiss me?â she asked.
rafe let out a rough laugh and wrapped both arms around her immediately. âevery damn day.â
his face disappeared into her hair.
for a second neither of them spoke.
months.
months of video calls that froze halfway through conversations. months of texting whenever he could. months of sleeping alone.
now she was finally here.
warm and real.
âyou got smaller.â
her heart immediately dropped.
damn it.
sheâd spent weeks trying to make sure he wouldnât notice.
she pulled away slightly.
âwhat?â
his brow furrowed.
âyou got smaller.â
she forced a laugh.
âi didnât get smaller.â
âyeah, you did.â
she rolled her eyes and grabbed one of his duffel bags.
âwell maybe youâre just bigger.â
rafe stared at her.
she walked past him before he could say anything else.
the truth was that she had lost weight.
not a dangerous amount.
not enough for anyone to panic.
but enough.
enough that her clothes fit differently.
enough that her jeans were loose around the waist.
enough that sheâd started checking mirrors every time she passed one.
she told herself she was doing it for confidence.
for health.
for discipline.
but deep down she knew the real reason.
she wanted to look nice when he got home.
she wanted him to see her and think wow.
which was ridiculous because rafe had looked at her like she hung the moon since the day theyâd met.
still.
the insecurity had sunk its claws in while he was gone.
and now here they were.
back together.
and somehow she felt more nervous than excited.
the first few days passed quickly.
rafe was glued to her side.
he followed her around the house.
she stole his hoodies.
complained every time she left a room.
she complained right back.
everything felt normal until saturday night.
they were stretched across the couch watching some movie neither of them was paying attention to.
she was practically lying on top of him.
one of his arms rested around her waist while the other held the remote.
comfortable.
easy.
normal.
then his hand shifted.
just slightly.
his palm slid across her side and stopped.
rafe froze.
she felt it immediately.
his entire body went still.
uh oh.
slowly she turned her head.
âwhat?â
his jaw tightened.
ânothing.â
ârafe.â
ânothing.â
he was lying.
terribly.
she sat up.
âwhat?â
his eyes flickered downward toward her waist, toward where his hand had been.
then back up again.
she knew instantly. she crossed her arms.
âdonât.â
âdonât what?â
âsay whatever youâre about to say.â
rafe rubbed a hand across his face, a sign that he was already losing patience.
âbaby.â
âno.â
âbaby.â
âno.â
he sighed.
âyou lost more weight than you told me.â
there it was.
she rolled her eyes immediately.
âiâm fine.â
âi know youâre fine.â
âthen whatâs the issue?â
his mouth opened.
closed.
opened again.
like he was trying very hard not to say the wrong thing.
which honestly should have scared her.
because rafe never had a problem saying exactly what he thought.
âthereâs no issue.â
âclearly there is.â
âthere isnât.â
ârafe.â
he groaned.
actually groaned.
then pointed toward her hip.
âthere used to be more right there.â
she stared at him.
ââŠwhat?â
his ears turned red.
she almost laughed.
lieutenant rafe.
big scary soldier.
terrified of discussing her body.
âthere used to be more there,â he repeated.
âthatâs your complaint?â
âitâs not a complaint.â
âyou sound like youâre filing a formal report.â
âiâm serious.â
she blinked.
then blinked again.
âyou liked my hip fat?â
rafe looked personally offended by the way she said it.
âdonât call it that.â
âthatâs literally what it is.â
âi liked it.â
she stared.
he stared right back.
completely serious.
âyou liked my hip fat.â
âyes.â
she started laughing.
immediately.
hard enough that she nearly fell sideways.
rafe looked unimpressed.
âiâm glad this is funny.â
âbecause youâre ridiculous.â
âiâm not ridiculous.â
âyou came home from deployment and your biggest concern is that my hips are slightly less squishy.â
âthatâs not my biggest concern.â
âit sounds like it.â
he grabbed her ankle before she could scoot away.
âiâm serious.â
his voice softened, instantly making her smile fade.
âyou donât need to do stuff like that for me.â
she looked away.
and unfortunately that was answer enough.
because rafeâs expression changed immediately.
his eyes softened.
âbaby.â
she hated when he used that voice.
the gentle one.
the one that always made her emotional.
âi just wanted to look nice.â
the words came out quieter than sheâd intended.
rafe stared at her for a moment
then reached for her hand.
âyou always look nice.â
she snorted.
âthatâs such a boyfriend answer.â
âitâs the truth.â
âmhm.â
âlook at me.â
she didnât.
so he reached over and tilted her chin up himself.
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pairing â garrett graham x reader
summary â a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well.
warnings â 18+, smut, alcohol, jealousy, secret hookups, hockey violence/injuries, swearing.
notes from me â thank u for the request, anon!! this was so cute i got carried away lol <3
word count â 9.4k
navigation â masterlist
The thing about keeping Garrett Graham a secret was that Garrett Graham was, in almost every available category, a terrible secret.
He was too tall for it, for one. Too broad. Too recognisable from the back, from the shoulders, from the mess of dark curls and the stupid confident way he moved through a room like gravity had signed some private agreement to make him look good from every angle.Â
He was also, tragically, friendly. Friendly in that Garrett-specific way that meant everybody on campus felt like they knew him well enough to yell his name across a party, slap his shoulder at Maloneâs, stop him in the hall to talk about last nightâs game or next weekâs line-up or whatever else men said to one another when they wanted to bask briefly in proximity to a local legend and pretend it was a conversation.
And she wasn't exactly anonymous either. Not anymore. Not after Dean.
Dean Di Laurentis, who had never been her boyfriend, which was a legal technicality he clung to with the same lazy confidence he seemed to apply to everything else in his life.
Dean had been a mistake with good hair and a trust fund. A mistake with a grin. A mistake that had lasted a few times longer than it should have because he was pretty and shameless and very good at looking at a girl like he had personally invented bad decisions and would be thrilled to walk her through the beginner course.
But Dean wasn't a girlfriend kind of guy. Dean was Six Flags. You rode the ride, screamed once or twice, maybe bought the photo after, and then got off.
She knew that. She had known that then, technically.
Dean had a way of appearing in her life at the least dignified possible moments looking pleased with himself, and she had a way of refusing to let him be pleased without penalty.
Like the time she found him coming out of a womenâs bathroom stall at Maloneâs with a girl in a denim skirt. She had been washing her hands at the sink, glanced up in the mirror, taken in his flushed face, his rumpled shirt, the girl fixing her hair behind him, and said, âHi, whore,â with the flat calm of someone greeting a neighbour at the mailbox.
Dean, because shame had never successfully attached itself to his nervous system, had only chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the stall door. âHey.â
That was the whole thing. Mostly joking. Mostly old bruised pride dressed up in insults because that was easier than admitting he had maybe gotten under her skin for a minute and then left muddy footprints on his way back out.
Garrett wasn't supposed to be part of that. Garrett had happened after a party, which was already a bad sign because nothing good ever began at two in the morning in a hockey house kitchen with tequila and Dean singing the wrong words to a song everybody else knew.Â
It had been loud and hot and stupid, the whole house sticky with beer and laughter and bodies pressed into doorways. She had ended up outside on the back steps because the kitchen had started spinning, and Garrett had come out five minutes later with two waters and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to ask whether she was going to puke on his sneakers.
He had sat down beside her instead.
Garrett had looked at her sideways when she laughed at one of his jokes, and something in his face had changed. Garrettâs face was a practiced thing, mostly grin and charm and captain-boy confidence, but this had slipped underneath it. A quiet little interest. A flicker. Like he had found something he wanted to pay attention to and was already annoyed about it.
Then, later, in the upstairs hallway, she had been trying to find the bathroom and he had been trying to find Logan, because Logan had stolen his phone to send a voice note to Coach that began with âhypothetically, if a man loved hockey but hated cardio,â and somehow Garrettâs hand had ended up on her waist. Warm through her shirt. Steadying her when someone shoved past in the hall.
âCareful,â he had said, close to her ear.
She had turned her head, too drunk to be clever and too annoyed by how good he smelled to be normal. âIâm always careful.â
Garrettâs eyes had dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again with that awful amused heat. âUh huh.â
The first kiss had been an accident. His room had been closer than the bathroom. His door had shut behind them. His mouth had been warm and confident and so immediately, horribly good that she had pulled back after ten seconds just to stare at him like that might make the situation less offensive.
Garrett had grinned down at her, lips a little swollen already, one hand still at her waist. âWhat?â
âYou kiss like you know youâre good at it.â
Heâd shrugged. âI am good at it.â
âThatâs a disgusting thing to say.â
âWasnât really a denial, though.â
She had meant to hate that. Truly. She had tried.Â
The first time they almost got caught, she was riding him with her hands braced on his chest and Garrettâs mouth at her throat, and the only thought in her head was a soft, stunned, repeated oh that seemed to have lost all connection to language.
His room was too warm despite the window cracked open behind the desk, the cold night air barely managing to move through the heat they had made under the sheets. The lamp was off. Some blue-white spill from the streetlight outside cut through the blinds in thin, broken lines over the wall and across Garrettâs shoulder.Â
His chain had slipped sideways against his collarbone. His hair was a wreck from her fingers. His mouth was open against her neck, kissing up under her jaw with the kind of lazy, devastating precision that made her thighs shake around him before she could stop them.
âGarrett,â she breathed, and then immediately louder, because his hands had shifted to her hips and guided her down harder. âOh my God.â
His hand flew up before the sound had fully escaped, palm covering her mouth, his other hand tightening at her waist. âJesus, baby,â he said, voice low and rough and entirely too amused for a man currently participating in the same crime. âYou trying to get me murdered?â
She made a muffled noise against his hand that was meant to be a curse and came out humiliatingly close to a whimper. Garrettâs grin flashed in the dark, teeth catching briefly, eyes bright and smug and so pleased with himself she nearly hated him. Nearly.Â
It was hard to maintain moral outrage when his thumb was pressed lightly against her cheek and his hips were still moving, slow and deep and mean in the way only a man with a scoreboard in his soul could be mean.
âThere we go,â he murmured, kissing the side of her jaw while his palm stayed over her mouth. âCanât be announcing it to the whole house, right?â
She glared down at him, or tried to. It probably lost some effect when her eyes fluttered halfway shut because he lifted his hips again and hit exactly the wrong place, which was to say exactly the right one.
Garrett laughed under his breath, quiet and filthy with satisfaction. âYeah. Thatâs what I thought.â
She bit the inside of his palm.
His brows shot up. âOh, weâre biting now?â
She nodded against his hand with as much dignity as a girl could manage while naked on top of him and very actively losing a fight against her own volume.
âCool,â he whispered. âVery healthy. Super mature.â
She would have laughed if she had any air left. Instead her body gave her away again, a soft, trapped sound catching under his palm as he sat up suddenly, changing the angle and dragging her with him until she was pressed chest-to-chest with him, knees bracketing his hips, his mouth at her ear.
âShh,â he said, but the edge of laughter in it ruined the authority.Â
He was enjoying this too much. Enjoying her like this, messy and desperate and trying very hard to be quiet because if anybody found out she was in Garrett Grahamâs room, in Garrett Grahamâs bed, after Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of the semester behaving like her eventual return to his mattress was a scheduling issue rather than a question, the whole house would become unbearable overnight.
Then the hallway floor creaked. Both of them froze. Him still inside her, both still overheated, still breathing too hard into the tiny space between them. Garrettâs hand stayed clamped gently over her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His eyes lifted toward the door, and in the blue-dark she watched every cocky line in his face vanish into immediate, sharp focus.
Outside, Loganâs voice drifted close enough to curdle the air. âYoâ Dean. Is that who I think it is in there?â
Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. Garrettâs eyes snapped back to hers.
For one suspended, insane second, they only stared at each other. She could feel his heartbeat hard against her chest. Could feel where they were still joined, which her body had the absolutely perverse audacity to notice in detail despite the fact that John Logan was currently holding a one-man investigation outside the door. Garrettâs hand loosened slightly over her mouth. Her lips parted against his palm. He held his finger up to his own lips, and she had nodded quickly.
He reached blindly toward the bedside table with one hand, the motion chaotic and deeply unathletic for a man who made a living looking graceful under pressure.
His fingers knocked something over. A bottle cap, maybe. His watch. A textbook hit the floor with a soft thud. She bit down on a laugh before it could get out, which was dangerous because laughter at that moment felt like shaking a soda bottle with the cap still on.
Garrett found his phone at last, thumb flying over the screen. For half a second there was nothing. Then the speaker on his dresser exploded to life with Cherry Pie so loud the whole room seemed to jump.
She slapped both hands over her own mouth now, eyes wide, shoulders shaking immediately with silent laughter. Garrett stared at the ceiling like he could not believe this was the solution his brain had selected and was, worse, proud of himself anyway.
In the hallway, Logan went silent. Then he burst out laughing. âOh shitâ sorry, G! Guess not!â
A second later Deanâs voice, farther away and deeply suspicious, called, âWhat?â
âNothinâ, man,â Logan said, still laughing. âKeep walking.â
Footsteps retreated. The music kept blaring. Garrett turned it down with the ferocious speed of a man who had made his point and no longer wanted Warrant narrating his sex life. The second the volume dropped, she folded forward into Garrettâs shoulder and started laughing for real, breathless and helpless, her whole body shaking against his.
Garrettâs arms closed around her automatically. Then he started laughing too, quiet and disbelieving into her hair. âFuck.â
She lifted her head, face hot, eyes watering, and whispered, âCherry Pie?â
âIt was the first thing that came up.â
âYou panic-played Cherry Pie?â
He huffed out a laugh. âIt worked.â
âThatâs not the same as being good.â
âIt worked,â he repeated, grinning now, smugness returning by the inch because survival had restored him. His hands slid to her hips again, warm and possessive and much too confident. âAnd for the record, if Logan thinks youâre in Deanâs room right now, I might throw myself out the window.â
She pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to smile. âJealous?â
Garrettâs eyes narrowed. âCareful.â
The word landed low in her stomach. Warm and bright and stupid. She leaned down and kissed him before he could see too much of it on her face, and he kissed her back still smiling, still breathing laughter into her mouth, both of them a little shaky now for a different reason.
âToo close,â she murmured against him.
âYeah,â Garrett said, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, holding her there. âMaybe stop trying to wake the neighbours.â
âYouâre the one playing stripper music at full volume.â
âBecause youâre loud.â
âBecause youâre annoying.â
His grin was all teeth in the dark. âBaby, just before? That wasn't an annoyed sound.â
She shoved at his chest, and he fell back on the mattress easily, gesturing for her to come closer with two fingers. The stupid warmth of it made her go quiet in a way that was much more dangerous than the moaning had been.
The second time they almost got caught, she was drunk enough that focusing on standing upright had become a full-body project.
The house belonged to some guy from one of Deanâs classes, or maybe one of Loganâs, or maybe no one knew and they had all simply agreed to occupy it until dawn. It smelled like beer, perfume, damp coats, and the kind of carpet that had seen too much and forgiven nothing.
She stood in the upstairs hallway with one shoulder against the wall, phone in hand, trying to read the same text from Garrett for the third time.
Garrett: You good?
It was a simple question. Easy. Very Garrett, actually. Casual on the surface, but sent because he had been watching her across the room ten minutes ago with that narrowed captain look he got whenever she reached the stage of drunk where her smile became too slow and her balance became hypothetical.
She typed, yes.
Then deleted it because the letters looked suspicious.
Then typed, yed.
Then stared at that for a long time.
Beside her, a cluster of girls in tiny tops and hockey-adjacent enthusiasm had been having one of those conversations that floated around the party like perfume: who was hot, who was overrated, who was secretly huge, who had commitment issues so severe they should probably be peer-reviewed.Â
She ignored it for as long as she could because she had bigger concerns, namely that if the bathroom door did not open in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to start making decisions about where else she could throw up.
Then one of them said Garrettâs name. Her eyes lifted off her phone before she could stop them.
The girl speaking was blonde, glossy in a way that seemed expensive even if nothing she was wearing necessarily was, with a little white top and the high, pleased expression of someone enjoying the sound of her own anecdote.Â
âNo, Iâm serious,â she was saying, one hand pressed to her chest like she was giving testimony. âLast night was the best night ever. Like, Garrett knows what heâs doing. He made me come, like, three times.â
The hallway did a small, drunken tilt.
The problem wasn't even jealousy at first, not properly. The problem was logistics. Garrett had been in her room last night. Garrett had been in her bed last night, sprawled diagonally like he owned both the mattress and several surrounding counties, one arm hooked around her waist while she tried to sleep and he mumbled something into her hair about setting an alarm for practice.Â
Garrett had stolen half her blanket and then looked offended when she kicked him in the shin. Garrett had kissed the back of her shoulder at five in the morning before climbing out of bed, half-dressed in the dark, whispering, âGo back to sleep, baby,â like he had any right to sound that soft before sunrise.
So unless Garrett had discovered cloning between midnight and breakfast, the blonde girl was lying.
The girl noticed her staring, because drunken staring was rarely subtle and this particular stare had been delivered with the blank intensity of a haunted doll.
The blondeâs smile faltered into something confused but still sweet, which was somehow worse. âUm⊠hi, babe. You okay?â
Another girl beside her leaned in slightly, brows lifting. âDid you need some water?â
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her phone was still in her hand, Garrettâs unanswered text glowing uselessly against her palm.
âYou werenât with Garrett last night,â she said.
The sentence came out too clear. Too certain. Sober-sounding, even, which was deeply unfair given the fact that her inner ear was currently behaving like a loose shopping trolley.
The blonde blinked. âWhat?â
âYou werenât with Garrett last night.â She frowned, genuinely trying to make the pieces fit and failing so hard that social caution had gone missing in the wreckage. âWhy are you lying?â
The air around the bathroom line shifted. A couple of girls looked over. Someoneâs mouth dropped open a tiny bit. The blondeâs face did that quick, ugly thing peopleâs faces did when embarrassment arrived and pride immediately tried to tackle it before it spread.
âAnd how would you know?â she asked, voice sharpening with a laugh around the edges. âAre you, like, his secretary?â
Her drunk brain, slow but not entirely dead, caught up with the fact that she was standing in a hallway full of girls, defending Garrett Grahamâs whereabouts during the exact hours he had spent in her bed, while actively participating in a secret that depended on not doing that.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. The blondeâs brows rose.
âIâ uh.â She looked down at her phone like it might offer legal counsel. Garrettâs text still sat there, accusatory and simple. âNever mind. Actually.â
Then she stepped out of the bathroom line. There was a slight shoulder bump with the wall and a near-collision with a guy carrying two beers, but she made it away from the girls and around the corner with most of her dignity still technically attached.Â
Her heart was thudding stupidly hard for a hallway interaction, heat crawling up her throat and into her cheeks. Not jealousy, she told herself. She was just offended by misinformation. Academically. On principle. People should not be allowed to lie.
Her phone buzzed again as she reached the top of the stairs.
Garrett: Seriously. Where are you?
She stared at it for a second, then typed, need bathroom.
Then, after a pause, added, girls are liars.
His response came almost immediately.
Garrett: What
She squinted at the screen.
Garrett: Baby where are you
The baby landed warm even through the alcohol, which was annoying. She looked back over her shoulder toward the hallway, where the bathroom line and the blonde and the whole stupid conversation still existed. Then she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the phone clutched in the other, already scanning the crowd below for Garrettâs dark curls and the broad, familiar shape of him.
She found him near the kitchen archway, and he was already looking for her. He caught sight of her halfway down the stairs, and his face shifted at once, amusement and concern colliding so fast that neither won cleanly. He moved through the crowd before she even reached the bottom, one hand lifting to her elbow as she stepped off the last stair.
âHey,â he said, ducking close so she could hear him. âYou okay?â
She looked up at him very seriously. âYou were in my room last night.â
Garrett paused. His eyes moved over her face, then over the stairs behind her, then back down. âYeah.â
âLike the whole night.â
His mouth twitched. âMost of it, yeah.â
âSo that girl is a liar.â
A slow understanding dawned across his face. Then, because he was Garrett and therefore terrible, he started to smile. âWhat girl?â
She jabbed a finger somewhere upward. âThe blonde. She said you made her come three times.â
His brows jumped. âDid I?â
âGarrett.â
âWhat? I feel like Iâd remember.â
She crossed her arms. âShe was lying.â
âSounds like it.â
âShe looked me in the face and lied.â
Garrettâs hand slid from her elbow to her waist, steadying her when she swayed half an inch in outrage. âYou say anything?â
She stared at him.
His eyes narrowed, still smiling but sharper now. âWhat did you say?â
âNothing.â
âBaby,â he whispered.
âI said she wasnât with you last night.â
Garrett closed his eyes for one second. Just one. When he opened them again, he looked like he was fighting for his life against laughter. âRight.â
âShe asked how I knew.â
âOkay.â
âAnd then I left.â
âGood call.â
âI almost said because you were with me.â
His grin did something helpless then, softer under the smugness, like the idea pleased him before he had time to make it a joke. âYeah?â
She frowned at him. âDonât look happy. I nearly compromised the mission.â
âThe mission?â
âOur secrecy mission.â
âOur secrecy mission isnât going great if youâre interrogating women in bathroom lines about my location.â
âShe started it.â
âSure.â
âShe did,â she whined, dragging the second word out.
âI believe you.â He didnât, not entirely. Or maybe he did and was simply enjoying himself too much to be decent about it. His hand squeezed once at her waist, warm and grounding. âYou still need to pee?â
Her face fell. âYes.â
Garrettâs mouth twitched again. âCome on. Thereâs a bathroom downstairs.â
âYou know that?â
âIâm observant.â
âYouâre a slut.â
âIâm helpful.â He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, voice dropping into that low teasing register that made her stomach flip despite the fact that she was seconds away from becoming a medical emergency. âAnd for the record, next time I make you come three times, Iâm expecting a better cover story than that.â
She turned her head slowly to glare at him. Garrett looked deeply pleased with himself.
The third time they almost got caught, she was in the hockey house kitchen at three in the morning wearing Garrettâs t-shirt with absolutely no plan.
It was after a loss, which meant the whole house had gone strange and heavy by midnight. The kind of subdued where the TV stayed on without anyone really watching it and the boys drank beer not to party but to have something to do with their hands.
Garrett had barely spoken when he came out of the locker room earlier, jaw tight, lip split, a bruise already blooming near his cheekbone, that restless, furious energy still moving under his skin like the game had not fully let go of him.
She hadnât been supposed to come over. That was the rule. One of the rules. There were several now, apparently, all of them made by two people with a strong shared interest in pretending they had control over anything.Â
No arriving together. No leaving together. No obvious texts when the guys were around. No sitting too close at parties. No looking at each other for too long in kitchens, which was quickly becoming the hardest one because Garrett Graham had a deeply inconvenient face and an even more inconvenient habit of watching her mouth when she was trying to speak.
And definitely no sneaking into his room after midnight through the window like a raccoon because heâd lost a hockey game and she wanted to crawl into bed with him.
So, naturally, she had done exactly that. Garrettâs window wasn't as easy to access as she had expected it to be.Â
She had nearly died twice, scraped her knee on the siding, and whispered, âThis is so stupid,â to herself with feeling before finally pushing the window up and tumbling into his room with all the grace of a bag of laundry.
Garrett had been lying on his bed in the dark, shirtless, one arm over his face. He hadnât even startled properly. He had just shifted the arm enough to look at her, eyes bleary and bruised with exhaustion, and said, âBaby, what the fuck.â
âIâm being supportive.â
âYou broke into my room.â
âI prefer⊠entered creatively.â
He had stared at her for another second, then lifted the edge of the blanket.
For all the jokes, all the swagger, all the please-donât-call-this-what-it-is of him, he made room for her too easily. Like his body knew before the rest of him had finished filing objections. She crawled in beside him, careful of his ribs and the angry bruise darkening along one side of his stomach, and he rolled toward her with a wince he tried to hide and a hand that found her hip immediately under the blanket.
âHi,â he had murmured after a while, lips brushing her hair.
She had smiled into his chest. âHi.â
Now, hours later, she woke up with her mouth dry enough to qualify as an emergency and Garrettâs arm heavy across her middle.
The room was dark and cold around the edges, the cracked window letting in a thin stream of winter air that made the discarded clothes on the floor look like shadows. Garrett was dead asleep behind her, breathing rough through his nose, body warm and heavy and completely gone in the way only athletes after a bad game seemed capable of being.Â
One of his hands was tucked under the hem of the shirt sheâd stolen off his floor. She swallowed once. Painfully. Then again. Still bad.
She shifted carefully. Garrett grunted and tightened his arm, which would have been sweet if it had not also trapped her in a dehydrated prison.
âBaby,â she whispered.
Nothing.
âGarrett.â
A deeper grunt this time. His face pressed into the back of her neck.
âBaby,â she tried again, softer. âCan you get me water?â
Garrettâs answer was a long, sleep-mangled sound that might have been English in a previous life. She waited.Â
âGarrett. Please. Iâm really thirsty.â
âNo,â he mumbled into her hair.
She turned her head as much as she could. âNo?â
âMâsleep.â
âYouâre talking.â
âSleep talking.â
She groaned softly. âYouâre the worst.â
âMm.â
She lay there for another thirty seconds, hoping thirst might pass. It did not. Eventually she eased his arm off her waist inch by inch, freezing every time he made a noise, and rolled over to look at him properly.
The sight softened her irritation before she could defend against it. His face was turned toward her on the pillow, hair falling messily over his forehead, lashes low against his cheek. The split in his lip had dried dark at one corner. The bruise near his ribs looked ugly, even in the low light. Another mark curved along his stomach where heâd been slammed into the boards hard enough that the crowd had made a single collective ooooh.
He wasn't getting up. She sighed and climbed out of bed.
The floorboards were cold under her bare feet. Garrettâs t-shirt hit high on her thighs, soft and oversized and smelling like detergent and him. She paused at the door, listening. The house had finally gone mostly quiet. No TV. No shouting. No Dean wandering around half-drunk asking philosophical questions about hot girls and mortality. Only the hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional tick of the heating.
She slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the wall because the dark made everything look unfamiliar. The kitchen waited at the bottom, dim and blue with moonlight through the window over the sink. Someone had left a pizza box open on the counter. There were three empty beer bottles near the stove and a hoodie slung over one of the chairs. The house smelled like stale chips, laundry, and the faint metallic cold of nighttime.
She found a glass in the cabinet after opening the wrong one twice, filled it at the sink, and drank half of it in one go with her eyes closed.
Then the light snapped on. She spun around so fast water sloshed over her hand.
Tucker stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, one hand still on the light switch, hair flattened on one side from sleep. He blinked at her. She blinked back.
For one full second, neither of them moved.
Then Tucker looked at the oversized shirt. Her bare legs. The glass in her hand. The stairs behind her.
âWell,â he said slowly. âShit.â
Her stomach dropped.
âNo,â she said immediately. âPlease donâtââ
Tucker rubbed one hand over his face, looking more tired than scandalised. âDamn. I owe Logan ten bucks.â
That derailed her panic so thoroughly that she stared at him. âWhat?â
He gave her a sympathetic look that somehow made everything worse. âI canât believe you slept with him again.â
Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence that followed wasn't her best work.
Tuckerâs brows lifted. âDean? Obviously?â
Oh.
The relief arrived so hard it nearly made her dizzy, followed immediately by the horrible understanding that she now had to let Tucker think she had climbed out of Deanâs bed at three in the morning. Her brain, which had been half-asleep and mostly water-focused three minutes ago, scrambled for purchase.
âRight,â she said, too quickly. âYeah. Dean. Obviously.â
Tuckerâs expression softened in a way that made guilt stab straight through the middle of her chest. âOh. Uh. Sorry. I didnât mean to make it weird.â
âNo, itâsââ She swallowed, clutching the glass with both hands. God bless darkness. God bless Tucker being half-asleep. God bless the fact that Deanâs entire personality was plausible cover for almost any bad decision within a thirty-foot radius. âPlease donât say anything.â
Tucker frowned. âI wonât.â
âNo, seriously. Please.â She made her eyes wide because she could, because she had been underestimated by men before and did occasionally enjoy the practical benefits. âItâs so embarrassing. I wasnât going to. I donât even know why Iâ God.â She looked down, shook her head, and gave a small, miserable laugh that deserved an award from whatever committee evaluated female deception in shared kitchens. âPlease donât tell Logan. Or anyone. Especially Dean. Actually, fuck, especially Dean.â
Tucker, who possessed the inconvenient decency of a man who hated watching people feel bad, visibly faltered. âHey. No, yeah. Totally. Your secretâs safe with me.â
She nodded, still performing devastated shame with one hand wrapped around a stolen water glass. âThank you.â
âDo you⊠need anything?â
The kindness almost killed her. âNo. Iâm good. Just water.â
âOkay.â
Another awkward beat passed. Then Tucker stepped aside from the doorway with the solemn discomfort of someone allowing a ghost to pass through. âNight.â
âNight,â she whispered, and scurried toward the stairs with the glass held carefully against her chest.
She didnât breathe properly until Garrettâs door shut behind her.
He was still asleep when she climbed back into bed. Useless. Beautiful, bruised, useless man. She set the glass on his nightstand and stared at him for a second in the dark, still buzzing with adrenaline. Then she smacked his shoulder.
Garrett flinched awake with a strangled noise, eyes half-opening. âWhatâ fuckâ what?â
âTucker caught me downstairs.â
That woke him a little more. âWhat?â
âHe thinks I slept with Dean.â
Garrett went very still. Then his face did something fascinating in the dark. Sleep disappeared. Pain disappeared. Every exhausted, post-game softness sharpened into offended disbelief. âHe thinks you what?â
âI had to go with it!â
âYou had to?â
âYes, Garrett, because the alternative was saying actually Iâm sneaking out of Garrettâs room after cuddling with him because weâre both very normal and secretive and weird.â
He pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately winced, then tried to pretend he hadnât. âWhy the fuck would he think Dean?â
âBecause of Dean!â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs kind of the whole answer.â She climbed back under the blanket, still whispering harshly. âYou wouldnât get me water.â
âI was asleep.â
âSo I went downstairs and got caught and had to improvise.â
Garrett stared at her, jaw working. Even bruised and half-dead, he managed to look jealous in a way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe shove him a little. âTucker thinks you left Deanâs room wearing my shirt?â
âI donât think he was doing t-shirt analysis at three in the morning.â
Garrett dropped back against the pillow with a quiet, pained groan, one hand dragging over his face. âGreat.â
She settled beside him, taking a long, triumphant sip of water. âYour fault.â
âMy fault?â
âYes.â
âFor being asleep after getting hit, like, forty times tonight,â he said, eyes wide in the dark. Then he groaned. âFuckinââ Dean?â
She smiled despite herself. âYouâre jealous.â
âIâm not jealous.â He was very obviously jealous. His arm came around her waist and tugged her closer with enough care not to hurt himself but enough insistence to make the point. âI just donât love Tucker thinking youâre sneaking out of Deanâs bed.â
âTechnically, he thinks Iâm sneaking out of Deanâs bed and deeply ashamed.â
Garrett made a noise of disgust. âJesus.â
She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. âPoor Tucker was very sweet.â
âI donât want to hear about sweet Tucker right now.â
âYouâre so easy.â
âIâm injured.â
âYouâre possessive.â
He was quiet for half a second. Then, low against her hair, âMaybe donât make me hear Deanâs name when youâre in my bed.â
She lifted her head. In the dark, Garrettâs expression was harder to read, but she could feel him looking at her. Could feel the tension under the joke, under the jealousy, under the secret they kept pretending was only fun because fun was easier than looking directly at whatever else had started living between them.
âOkay,â she whispered.
His hand moved under the shirt, warm at her back. âOkay?â
âYeah.â She nudged her nose against his jaw, soft. âNo Dean.â
His breath left him slowly. âGood.â
âYou still shouldâve gotten me water.â
âGo to sleep.â
âYouâre mean.â
âYou broke into my room.â
âYou let me in.â
âMm,â Garrett murmured, already pulling her closer, careful around his ribs, his mouth brushing her forehead. âI know.â
The fourth time they almost got caught, Garrett took her on a date three towns over and still somehow managed to know someone there.
It was a cute restaurant. Cute in a way that made both of them a little awkward for the first ten minutes because hooking up in secret at parties and sneaking through windows had not prepared either of them for menus with seasonal specials and candles in little glass holders.Â
The place sat on a narrow street with string lights outside and fogged windows and a hostess who smiled at Garrett for two seconds too long before noticing the girl beside him and recalibrating. Garrett noticed the recalibration. His mouth twitched as they followed the hostess toward a booth in the back.
âDonât,â she muttered.
âI didnât say anything.â
She crossed her arms. âYou were about to.â
âI was gonna say the soup smells good.â
âYou were not.â
Garrett laughed, warm and low, and slid into the booth beside her instead of across from her without asking. They were far enough from Briar that no one should have known them, tucked into the back corner of a restaurant full of older couples and small groups and a table of women laughing over wine near the bar.
It made the whole thing feel suspended, like theyâd stepped out of the rules for a few hours and could sit too close without having to perform distance for anyone.
His thigh pressed against hers under the table. Their shoulders brushed every time one of them moved. Garrett kept stealing fries off her plate even though heâd ordered his own, and she kept pretending to be offended while pushing the plate half an inch closer because dignity had left with the appetizer.
At some point his hand found hers on the booth seat between them. His fingers sliding over hers, playing with them idly while he told her about a freshman on the team who had tried to tape his stick with what Logan called the confidence of a man raised by wolves.
She laughed into her drink, and Garrett looked at her in a way that made the restaurant feel suddenly much smaller.
âWhat?â she asked.
âNothing.â
âNo, youâre doing the face.â
His thumb moved over her knuckles. âJust like hearing you laugh.â
That shut her up immediately. Garrettâs eyes flickered over her face, and she hated him for noticing the way the words landed. Hated him more for softening instead of making a joke out of it. For a second they just sat there, fingers tangled on the seat between them, candlelight catching along the edge of his jaw and the chain at his throat, his knee warm against hers.
Then she looked down at the table because she had limits. âThat was gross.â
âYeah?â
âYou should be embarrassed.â
He sucked at his teeth gently. âIâm not.â
âNo. I know. Thatâs one of your worst qualities.â
He grinned and lifted her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. âTop five, maybe.â
She was smiling despite herself, leaning in closer, when a voice came from the side of the booth.
âGraham?â
Garrettâs hand froze around hers. A tiny, immediate stillness that went through him faster than any expression on his face could catch. His smile stayed in place when he looked up, but she felt the change in his body first. The slight tightening at his shoulder. The way his hand shifted off hers and came to rest on his own thigh. The casual posture assembling itself a second too late to be real.
A guy stood at the end of the booth, tall and broad, with the unmistakable haircut of a hockey player and a jacket with Eastwood stitched over the chest. Recognition hit Garrettâs face, then something flatter underneath it.
âParker,â Garrett said, easy enough if you werenât pressed against him and listening to the mechanics of the lie. âWhatâs up, man?â
The Eastwood player grinned and held out a hand. Garrett slid out of the booth halfway to shake it, and she sank approximately two inches lower in the seat.
Which was stupid. Very stupid. If she wanted to avoid notice, shrinking into the booth like a child hiding from a substitute teacher wasn't a subtle approach. But the whole night had gone bright and hot behind her ears. She took an intense interest in the remaining fries on her plate and prayed for invisibility.
No such luck. Parkerâs eyes flicked to her with polite curiosity. The interest of someone who had stumbled into a scene and wanted to know the category. Date? Hookup? Cousin? Hostage?
Garrett, because his life was apparently a sport in all directions, stood in front of the booth with one hand settling briefly on his hip before moving up to scratch along his jaw.
Nervous.
She noticed it instantly. Garrett Graham didnât usually look nervous. He looked cocky, amused, focused, pissed off, hungry, occasionally concussed, but not nervous. Yet there he was, smiling and doing all the tiny, useless things his body did when he wanted to seem casual too badly: thumb brushing under his nose, hand dragging through his curls, weight shifting onto one foot and then back again.
âWhat are you doing out here?â Parker asked.
Garrett shrugged. âDinner.â
âYeah, no shit.â Parker laughed, looking around. âDidnât expect to see you this far out.â
âHad to get off campus for a minute.â
The sentence was true enough to pass. It made something soft and stupid open in her chest, because Garrett had wanted to get off campus with her. Not to hook up quickly before someone knocked. Not to drag her upstairs at a party. Dinner. A booth. His fingers playing with hers beside the cushion. The whole quiet normal shape of it.
Parkerâs gaze flicked to her again. Garrett saw it and shifted half a step, not blocking her, but angling himself between the attention and her face in a way that made her want to press her forehead to the table.
âThis isââ Garrett started, and then stopped.
Her heart gave one hard kick, because there was no good ending there. This is my friend sounded insane. This is the girl Iâm sleeping with sounded worse. This is the girl Dean hooked up with and now I am secretly, catastrophically gone for sounded accurate but logistically challenging.
So Garrett, genius athlete, captain of the Briar menâs hockey team, man with a GPA that proved his brain did occasionally participate, did the only thing available. He smiled wider and said, âWeâre just eating.â
She closed her eyes.
Parker blinked once, then, mercifully, either understood enough to leave it alone or decided he didnât care. âCool, cool. Good to see you, bro.â He clapped Garrett once on the shoulder. âSee you on the ice.â
Garrettâs grin sharpened into something more familiar. âLooking forward to it.â
âYeah, I bet.â
They did the aggressive male handshake thing again, all knuckles and shoulder tension and mutual threat disguised as friendliness, then Parker left toward the bar.
Garrett stood for one second after he was gone, watching him go. Then he slid back into the booth beside her, and both of them sat completely still.
She stared at the table. Garrett stared straight ahead. Then, at exactly the same time, they both exhaled.
âJesus Christ,â she whispered.
âYeah,â Garrett said. âThat wasâ yeah.â
She turned her head slowly. âWeâre just eating?â
His jaw tightened. âI panicked. What was I supposed to say?â
âI donât know, Garrett. Fuck.â
His hand found hers again, but this time under the table, fingers lacing through hers with a little more urgency than before. âToo close?â
She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was moving over hers, once, twice, like he was calming himself as much as her. âWay too close.â
âYeah.â
âAnd you were nervous.â
He scoffed and shook his head once. âI wasn't nervous.â
âYou scratched your jaw like nine times.â
âMy jaw itched.â
Her eyebrows raised. âAnd your nose?â
âItched too,â he shrugged.Â
âAnd your hair?â
âWhole bodyâs falling apart, apparently.â
She huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened around hers. When she looked up, he was watching her with that softer thing again. The thing that kept sneaking in around the edges of their jokes and making them both go quiet.
âHey,â he said, lower. âIâm sorry.â
âFor what?â
âFor making it weird.â
âIt is weird.â
âYeah.â His mouth pulled at one corner. âBut I like this weird.â
The warmth hit so hard she had to look away toward the candle. âYou canât say stuff like that after calling me an eating companion.â
âI didnât call you that.â
âYou kinda did.â
Garrett laughed, then leaned in and kissed her temple because out of town meant he could do that. Could sit beside her in a booth and kiss her hair and hold her hand under the table and look at her like the secret was starting to bother him not because he wanted out of it, but because he wanted out of the hiding part.
She let herself lean into him for half a second. Just half.Â
The fifth time, the time they were finally caught, she didnât think at all, and that was probably why it happened.
Afterward, she would be able to admit there had been options. Reasonable options. Normal options. She could have waited outside the locker room like other people did. She could have texted him. She could have asked Logan if Garrett was okay, which would have been embarrassing but survivable.Â
She could have done any number of things that didnât involve slipping past the edge of the crowd after the game and walking straight into the tunnel like she had a right to be there.
But Garrett had been wrong all night. He had played well in flashes because Garrett Graham could probably play well during a natural disaster if someone gave him skates and a reason. But there had been something jagged in him from the first period.Â
Too sharp on the checks. Too quick to shove back. Mouthguard hanging between his teeth while he stared down some Eastwood winger with a look on his face that made her hands go cold around the railing.
He got sent off twice. Once for roughing, once for a fight that started so fast the crowd seemed to notice it only after Garrett already had a fist tangled in someoneâs jersey. The second time, even Coach looked furious in that controlled way that made grown men behave like children caught setting fires.
She watched Garrett in the box with his jaw clenched and blood bright at the corner of his mouth, his chest rising hard under the pads, eyes fixed somewhere across the ice but not really on it.
Logan skated by once and said something. Garrett didnât smile. Didnât chirp back. Didnât do any of the things he usually did to make violence look like part of the game and not something older moving through him.
So after the final buzzer, after Briar won, despite Garrett trying to personally fistfight the entire opposing roster, after the crowd started spilling into the aisles and everyone around her buzzed with post-game noise, she moved.
The tunnel was colder than the stands, all concrete and rubber matting and the damp, metallic smell of hockey gear. Voices echoed from the locker room ahead, overlapping male noise and equipment hitting benches and someone laughing too loudly in that exhausted post-adrenaline way.
She slipped past a staff member who was too busy looking at a clipboard to care, turned the corner, and found Garrett standing alone near the wall.
He was still in most of his gear. Helmet off. Gloves gone. Hair damp and flattened at the sides, curls sticking up where he had run his hands through them. His head hung forward, both palms braced on his knees like he was trying to breathe the game out of himself and failing. Blood had dried at his lip again. His jaw worked once. Twice. The tendons in his neck stood out under the harsh tunnel light.
Her chest tightened so fast it hurt. âGarrett.â
His head snapped up. The second he saw her, everything in his face changed. He came back by inches, like her voice had reached into whatever ugly room he was in and opened a door.
âHi,â he said, breathless, already straightening. Then again, rougher, like the first one had not been enough. âHey.â
She closed the space before either of them had time to remember they werenât supposed to do this where people could walk by.Â
âHey.â Her hands went to his face immediately, careful around the split lip, thumbs brushing at the damp edges of his cheeks. âYou good? What happened?â
Garrett let out a breath, eyes closing. His hands came up to cover hers for one second, pressing them harder to his face like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. âMâfine.â
âNo, youâre not.â
His chest was still moving hard, the pads making him look even bigger, all post-game heat and sweat and the raw leftover violence of whatever had been eating at him on the ice. She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers pushing through the damp curls at his temple. His exhale shook.
âYou alright?â she asked again, softer now.
He nodded, but it was a bad nod. A nod made out of stubbornness and breath and the fact that he had no idea what to do with her looking at him like this in a tunnel. His jaw shifted. His eyes opened, finding hers, and whatever he saw there made his whole face pull tight for half a second.
âBaby,â he murmured.
That did it. Here, in the tunnel, with the locker room noise around the corner and blood on his mouth and his breathing still rough from whatever fight he had nearly brought home from the ice, the word hit somewhere deeper.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was meant to be small, it really was. A check-in. A reassurance. A brief press of her mouth to his.
Garrett made a low sound the second her lips touched his, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her in properly, pads and all, crushing the space between them like heâd been waiting the whole night for something solid enough to hold.
The kiss turned immediately. His mouth opened under hers, hungry and rough and not careful enough at first, then careful all at once when she brushed his split lip and he hissed softly into her mouth.
She pulled back half an inch. âSorry.â
âDonât care,â he said, and kissed her again.
Everything from the game poured into it. The hits. The fights. The awful, tight look in his eyes from the penalty box. Her hands cold on the railing. The secret theyâd been carrying around like something light when it had gotten heavier every time he looked at her across a room and didnât come closer. Garrettâs fingers dug into her waist. Hers stayed in his hair, tugging lightly. He kissed like he was trying to get back into his own body through her mouth. And she let him.
Then someone behind them said, âOhhhh shit.â
They broke apart so fast it was almost violent. Logan stood ten feet away with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, mouth open in the kind of delighted grin usually reserved for a successful prank or Tucker injuring himself in a deeply avoidable way.Â
His eyes moved from Garrettâs arms around her waist, to her hands still caught in Garrettâs hair, to Garrettâs swollen mouth, and then back again. For one second, no one spoke.
Garrettâs arms didnât leave her waist. She noticed that through the panic, through the sudden rush of heat to her face, through the knowledge that the entire delicate architecture of their secrecy had just been bodychecked into open air by John Logan and his shit-eating grin.
Garrett kept holding her.
Loganâs grin widened. âWas cominâ to check on the captain, but⊠shit.â He lifted both hands, backing away already, eyes bright with the kind of joy that meant the locker room was about to become a crime scene. âGuess heâs alright.â
âLogan,â Garrett said, low warning.
Logan only pointed at him, walking backward. âNope. No. Donât Logan me. You have been weird as fuck for weeks, man.â
Her stomach dropped and flipped at the same time.
Garrettâs jaw tightened. âDonâtââ
But Logan had already turned toward the locker room, voice rising with unholy glee. âYouâll never fucking guess what I just saw!â
The sound that came from the locker room was immediate. A burst of voices. Deanâs laugh cutting through first, bright and vicious. Tucker saying something too low to catch. Someone yelling, âWhat?â and Logan answering with, âGraham!â in the tone of a man unveiling evidence at trial.
She closed her eyes. Garrett dropped his forehead to hers.
For a second, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her mouth, still uneven. Her hands had slipped from his hair to the sides of his neck. His gear pressed awkwardly against her chest.Â
Somewhere around the corner, the locker room erupted again, Deanâs voice now unmistakable. âNo fucking way!â
Garrett exhaled, eyes closing. âFuck.â
She huffed, because there was nothing else to do. A laugh, almost. A sigh. The sound of a girl watching the secret blow up and realising, somewhere under the horror, that she wasn't as upset as she should be.
âYeah,â she whispered. âFuck.â
His hands flexed at her waist. He didnât move back.
This was the moment he could step away. Where he could put space between them and run a hand through his hair and say something easy, something Garrett-shaped and evasive, something that made the kiss look smaller than it was.Â
He could make it a joke before anyone else did. He could hide behind Loganâs big mouth and Deanâs inevitable commentary and the whole familiar machinery of the hockey house turning one private thing into public entertainment.
Instead he stayed with his forehead against hers, breathing hard, thumbs pressing into her waist through her coat.
Then Dean appeared around the corner, because the universe couldnât let them have more than three seconds without sending in a rich boy with terrible timing.Â
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, grinning like Christmas had come early and wearing only half his gear. Logan popped up behind him, still delighted. Tucker stood a few steps back with his arms folded, looking resigned and not remotely surprised.
Deanâs eyes flicked over the two of them, still pressed together, Garrettâs hands still on her waist. His grin turned wicked. âWell, well, well.â
She groaned. âDonât.â
âOh, sweetheart,â Dean said, hand over his heart. âI would never.â
âYou absolutely would.â
âI absolutely will,â he corrected. His eyes slid to Garrett, bright with evil. âGraham. Buddy. Pal. Teammate. Youâve been sneaking around with my ex?â
âSheâs not your ex,â Garrett said immediately.
Deanâs grin widened. âOh, interesting. Strong feelings from the captain.â
She shouldnât have enjoyed that. She did anyway.
Deanâs gaze moved to her, faux-wounded. âI thought we had something beautiful.â
âYou were sleeping with six other girls while sleeping with me. Youâre a pig.â
Logan made a strangled sound. Tuckerâs mouth twitched.
Dean pointed at her. âSee? This is why I missed you.â
Garrettâs hand tightened at her waist. âDean.â
âOh, relax.â Dean lifted both hands, but he was still grinning. âIâm not poaching. I have respect.â
Logan leaned around Dean, eyes shining. âSo how long?â
âNope,â Garrett said.
âHow long?â Logan repeated, louder.
She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at her. For one brief, stupid second they both seemed to consider lying. It was a beautiful instinct, really. Loyal to the end. Completely useless now that Garrettâs mouth was visibly swollen from kissing her and his hands had still not left her body.
âThree weeks,â she said.
Garrettâs head snapped toward her.
âWhat?â she said. âHe was going to keep asking.â
Loganâs mouth dropped open. Dean shouted, âThree weeks?â Tucker just closed his eyes, nodding once to himself.
âI knew something was up,â Tucker said.
Garrett looked at him sharply. âYou did not.â
Tucker opened his eyes. âShe came downstairs for water in your shirt and let me think sheâd slept with Dean.â
Dean turned slowly. âIâm sorry, what?â
She winced. âThat was strategic.â
âYou were in my house,â Dean said, pointing at himself, âusing me as a slutty decoy?â
âYes.â
Dean looked moved. âHonoured.â
Garrett made a sound under his breath. âJesus Christ.â
Logan clapped Dean on the shoulder. âCome on. Let the lovebirds emotionally process before Coach catches Garrett making out in a tunnel like a freshman.â
Garrett finally looked over. âDude.â
âWhat? That was supportive.â
Dean pointed at her as Logan started dragging him backward. âWeâre talking later. I have questions. Boundary-respecting questions, but questions.â
âNo, weâre not,â she called back.
âWe absolutely are.â
Tucker gave her a small, sympathetic nod as he turned. âCongratulations. And good luck.â
âThanks,â she said, because honestly that seemed appropriate.
The three of them disappeared back toward the locker room, taking the noise with them in pieces. Logan already yelling something that sounded like, âThree weeks, boys!â Dean making wounded noises. Tucker telling someone to put on pants.
Garrett laughed, low and real, and the sound loosened the last tight thing still sitting under her ribs. She looked up at him, at the bruise on his cheek and the split in his mouth and the ridiculous, beautiful, inconvenient boy who had somehow gone from secret bad idea to the person she walked into tunnels for without thinking.
âSo,â she said, brushing her thumb carefully under the cut at his lip. âGuess weâre blown.â
His grin came back slowly, cocky at the edges and warm all the way through. âYeah.â
âAnd you still have to explain why you were trying to fight half of Eastwood tonight.â
The grin faded by a fraction, but he didnât look away. âLater?â
She studied him for a second, then nodded. âLater.â
His arms tightened. âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Then Garrett kissed her again, because being exposed to the entire hockey house hadnât cured him of bad timing. She kissed him back anyway, smiling into it when the locker room erupted once more at whatever Logan had just announced.
This time, when Garrettâs hand slid openly to the small of her back and held her there, neither of them moved away.