Leah✰

“You won’t come for a week.” 

Almost. He laughed. Loud. Nearly choked on his beer, then rolled his eyes and went back to watching the football match on the TV. 

He hasn’t laughed since. 

Not after you kneeled between his legs, took his dick in your mouth, and gave him the best head he’s probably ever had— all messy, drooly, and sloppy, just how he likes— only to stop and walk away right before he was about to finish. 

He was so gobsmacked that he couldn’t even wrap his hand around his dick to finish it himself. 

He didn’t laugh when you bounced on his dick the next night, whining, and moaning his name so loud he was scared the neighbors might hear (again)— only for you to, once again, get up and off of him after you finished, leaving his dick aching and twitching. 

“Please,” he begged, softly, quietly, embarrassed. 

“Nope,” you hummed. “You know the rules.” 

He bit back a whine as you walked away, towards the bathroom, to take a shower. 

He wouldn’t break so easily, no… he wouldn’t… at least, that's what he told himself.

Until you sent an album's worth of photos to him while he was at work. Some with you in his shirt, kneeled in front of the mirror and lifting the hem of it just enough to expose that you definitely weren’t wearing anything under it. Another completely nude, sat on the floor, with your legs spread open and a smirk on your lips. And a third, with three of your fingers dug deep into your drenched cunt, your thighs shining, and the sheets beneath you darkened with the same sticky mess you created. 

He’s not laughing now, as he races to pick up the garage before you get home from another shopping trip (for which he allowed you to use his card), tossing miscellaneous tools and parts into their rightful spots and out of the walkway. He’s soaked in sweat. The balmy, sweltering heat of the England summer has soaked through to his bones. 

The garage is spick and span, probably the cleanest it’s been since you’ve both moved in, by the time you pull into the driveway. He watches as you swing your legs out of the car. You don’t even spare him a second glance as you pull out 3 large shopping bags, one of which he recognizes is from your favorite lingerie shop. He wipes his hands down his jeans, moving forward to help you. 

“I’ve got it.” There’s no smile on your face, but there’s an undertone of amusement in your voice. 

He’s expecting you to say something else. Tell him good job. Reward him. Let him fill your pussy, your throat— whatever. But you just walk by, hips swaying slightly as you enter the house. 

Simon stands there like an idiot. Staring around the garage like maybe he forgot to put something away. Nothing. He did what you wanted, right? His jaw clenches slightly. 

Switch!Simon who is now fed up with your little attitude. As you walk around the house in those short ass silk shorts he bought you, and a crop top that exposes the underside of your boobs every time you reach up into a kitchen cabinet. 

He sits at the couch, watching as you go through the motions of making dinner. Fists clenching and unclenching, dick already half hard under his jeans. 

Just after you’re finished chopping up the vegetables for dinner, he clears his throat. 

“Yes?” You ask, faux innocence in your tone. 

“You gonna help me with this?” He points to his crotch, leaning back into the couch. 

“Ohhh,” you smirk. “I don’t know. Should I?” 

Simon lets out a harsh sigh. 

“I’ll rephrase,” he pauses. “You’re going to get over here, and suck my cock, like a good girl.” 

You laugh. Actually laugh. 

“Or what?” 

“There’s no ‘or what’. I did what you wanted, now it’s your turn.” 

He sees the smile fall from your face at his low tone. He’s not fucking around with you, and you know it.

“Make me.” 

He’s standing before the words even register in his brain. 

“Five.” 

“Simon. You can’t be serious.”

He takes a step towards the kitchen. “Four.” 

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one in charge.” 

He scoffs out a laugh. “Three.” 

“Simon…”

“Two.”

You’re backing away from the counter now, eyeing him from across the room as his foot comes over the threshold of the kitchen. 

“One.”

You spin around quickly, making a break for the other side of the kitchen to run down the hallway. Simon’s too fast. 

You writhe in his arms as he wraps them around your waist and hoists you into the air. Labored breaths fall from your lips as you try, and fail, to break free. Simon’s dick is fully straining in his jeans. 

“Si,” you pant out as he spins you in his grip so you’re facing him, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist. 

He pushes your back into the wall of the hallway, narrowing his eyes at you as you push against his chest. 

“Give up,” he grunts out, pinning your wrists to the wall as he keeps you in place by pushing his hips into yours. “No point in fightin’ back now.” 

You whine at his grasp, still trying to wiggle free. 

“Okay,” you pant, letting your arms fall limp. “Okay. Okay. You win. Happy?” 

Simon smirks, pushing into you harder, grinding his clothed cock into your pussy. You suck in a sharp breath and your eyebrows pinch together. 

“Not quite.” 

Switch!Simon who fucks you brainless against that same wall. Jeans pushed hastily half-way down his thighs, your silk shorts shoved to the side (no surprise, you’re not wearing anything under them) as he ruts into you at an impressive tempo. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” your swears warble with his thrusts, and your nails are digging so hard into his traps he swears you’ll draw blood. 

“This what you wanted? Hm?” he grunts out, palming at your ass cheeks to keep you in place. “Didn’t want me to clean the—fuck—garage… jus’ needed me to fuck you senseless.” 

You whine and arch your back into him. He’s close. So are you. He can tell by the way you don’t answer his question, and how your eyes screw tightly shut. He slows his hips. 

“Look at me.” 

Your mouth hangs open as you pant and blink at him a few times. 

“You’re not coming,” he states. “You don’t get to.” 

You whine, trying to gyrate your hips against his and his agonizingly slow thrusts. 

“Nuh uh, uh,” he pushes his hips fully against yours, pressing you hard into the wall again. “You want me to fill this cunt?” 

You nod. 

“Words, sweetheart.” 

“Yes, Si… please, please… need your cum…” 

He thrusts slowly again. 

“Then you don’t come, got it?”

You whine again, louder this time. 

“Need you to agree, or else I’ll stop.” 

“Fine! Just please fuck me!” You nearly yell. 

Simon groans and picks up his pace again. He can feel you squeezing around him. God, he’s so fucking close. 

“Such a good little cock sleeve for me, hm? Been using me to get off all week, now it’s my turn.” 

Your hands grip at his hair as he peels you from the wall, bouncing you up and down his cock freely as you babble out incoherently. 

“Such a good boy,” you whine. 

Simon’s face twitches. 

“So, so, good f’me,” you praise. 

His knees start to feel weak as his orgasm approaches faster now. He whines, pressing his face into your chest. 

“Stop it,” he whispers out. There’s no truth in the words. He loves it. Loves being praised. Loves being your good boy. Even when he’s in charge. 

“Use me, Si,” you say breathily. “Need your cum… come in me, please.” 

The band in his lower tummy snaps. His dick twitches inside of you as a sense of euphoria fills his entire body. He thrusts a final time, stilling his hips with his cock fully sheathed inside of you as he pants against your chest. 

you swallow.

the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.

it had been nice.

it had been normal.

but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.

“when you’ve been together so long, and with his schedule, it’s hard, y’know, to find those moments—”

another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasn’t going to be an interesting enough story.

“that’s why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets to—”

her voice begins to fade into the background.

you look down at your ring again.

it’s not that you think simon doesn’t love you.

of course he loves you.

he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.

but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.

does he still care?

you had already known what you’d signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didn’t perform affection well. never had.

hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time he’d brought you flowers or planned a proper date.

you shuffle in your seat.

“that’s really sweet,” you sigh.

rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.

his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.

usually, that would be your cue.

you’d toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. he’d grunt like you’d knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.

you’d recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and he’d pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.

instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.

simon notices.

because of course he does.

you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.

the tap sticks.

you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.

simon is behind you before you can even turn around.

“probably clogged,” he says.

you sigh.

“i can call a plumber tomorrow.” then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. “we should do something tonight.”

his head tilts.

“we are,” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “watching that new movie you wanted to see.”

you make a small noise under your breath.

his eyes flicker from the sink to you.

“no, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.” you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. “a real date.”

“why?”

your stomach lurches.

you know him. know he doesn’t mean it with any malice or cruelty.

but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.

why would he need to?

why would he think to?

why would he care to?

why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?

“forget it,” you say quickly, already stepping away. “i have a bit of a headache. ’m going to take a nap.”

simon says your name, but you don’t turn around.

the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.

for a moment, you don’t move.

you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentator’s voice.

another clank.

a muttered curse.

you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.

simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.

“si?”

he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.

“line was damaged,” he says from under the sink. “it’ll need replacing proper, but i’ve got it for now. try it.”

wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.

water rushes out, hot and clear.

for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.

simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.

“i told you i could call a plumber,” you say.

he shrugs.

“got me right here, don’t you? i don’t mind.”

your chest tightens.

because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.

it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because he’s already there.

you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.

you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when you’ve found something you absolutely loved.

“look at this, simon. isn’t it perfect?”

he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.

“absolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?”

simon hadn’t said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.

three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.

then sketches.

then sawdust tracked through the hallway.

then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.

you’d laughed then.

you remember that, too.

you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasn’t that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.

you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.

you remember how pleased he’d looked when you wouldn’t stop touching the grain.

you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he can’t sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.

your eyes move across the room.

towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.

the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.

the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.

the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.

a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.

your heartbeat quickens.

the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.

his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.

“you wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?” he asks.

his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.

your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.

you shake your head at first

then stop.

because no, that isn’t fair either.

he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.

but you still want flowers sometimes.

you still want to be asked to put on a dress.

you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.

“i know you care about me,” you say quietly.

his brow furrows.

“never said you didn’t.”

simon stills.

“i know that,” you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. “I just… I think I need more sometimes.”

something shifts in his face.

“more,” he repeats.

you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. “not more than this.”

your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.

“just more…” You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. “more on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.”

“they’re not stupid.” he immediately corrects you, firm and like he’s already offended on your behalf.

you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.

you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.

you.

“friday,” he says.

you blink. “friday?”

“dinner.” his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. “wear somethin’ nice.”

despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.

simon’s hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.

“are you asking me on a date, riley?”

his mouth twitches.

“seems like i am.”

you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldn’t have it.

then back at him.

“good,” you say, standing slowly. “and since you fixed the sink…”

simon’s eyes darken.

you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.

his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.

your table.

his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.

you smile.

“careful,” you murmur. “you look a little proud of yourself.”

his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.

“built it well, didn’t i?”