not just hunting season

It is in this that Tessa, perhaps more than anything else, has to ask for Pero’s trust. He may not be able to understand the mountain of knowledge that underpins why and how, for example, vaccines work and are safe. Tessa and Henry do their best to explain, but in the end, Pero’s consent to get a flu shot relies on trusting that the Walshes are telling him the truth.

That trust gets easier to give over time, not only because Pero comes to trust Tessa in all things as he grows to love her, but also because his experiences with modern medicine start to accumulate.

He slowly comes to realize he doesn’t have to suffer through aches and ailments like he used to. The first time Tessa notices he has a headache, she offers him two white tablets and a glass of water. And it works. His pain eases. He didn’t even know he could ask for something to treat it.

He cuts his hand helping Tessa make dinner one night. (He may or may not have been distracted by how attractive he found Tessa deftly wielding her own knife against an array of vegetables.) Tessa calmly walks him through cleaning the wound (modern hygiene has been its own set of important lessons for Pero), then places some ointment and a bandage on it. In his time, he would have worried about the cut festering. At the very least, he would expect to add a new pink scar to the collection that already covers his body. But instead, the cut heals far faster than he’d have anticipated, and his skin heals without a permanent mark.

As for illness, Pero has muscled his way through a fair number of them in his life. He didn’t have much of a choice. He’s not afraid of dying from illness; death was a daily possibility in his time, and he’d learned to live with that. The risk of his being sick is not that he’d fall to pieces, but rather that he’d be the silent suffering type who wouldn’t ask for help.

So what truly scares him isn’t the first time he gets sick. It’s the first time Tessa gets sick.

It happens not terribly long after he decides to stay. Winter is, after all, cold and flu season. And while Tessa no longer works in an office environment or has to take public transportation to downtown Chicago every day or interact much with other people on a daily basis, she does interact quite often with her niece and nephews.

Kids are germ magnets. It’s just the way it is. And when one of them gets sick, they all get sick. And when Molly, Toby, and Finn have to stay home from school, and neither Amie nor Thom can take a day off from work, and Uncle Henry is busy with his own patients, guess who comes over to take care of them?

Aunt Tessa.

And she’s happy to do it, don’t get her wrong! And she does her absolute best not to catch the nasty flu that’s currently going around their school and that they’ve brought home. But there’s really only so much one can do.

It’s a bad one this year. Despite getting her flu shot (and making sure Pero gets his), after three days of helping to look after three extremely contagious kids she wakes up the next morning feeling like she got hit by a truck. Fever, chills, aches, the whole shebang. It sucks, but hey, that’s how it goes. She’ll take her meds, consume a steady diet of soup and Gatorade, and watch daytime tv for a few days.

Pero, on the other hand, panics.

Fevers are not things that are easy to fight off in his time. Imagine what seeing the woman he loves struck down with what he only knows as plague would do to him. It doesn’t matter what Tessa and Henry have explained to him about modern understandings of illness and how to treat them. This is not an unfortunate but routine occurrence in his eyes. This is something that could kill Tessa.

She spends most of the first day asleep, her fever lowered but not broken by the leftover meds she had from the last time she’d gotten sick the previous winter. Despite trying to both reassure Pero and convince him to stay away lest he catch this bug too, Pero refuses to leave her side.

He steps out of their bedroom only once, to make his very first phone call.

Tessa had shown him how to use her phone to contact her family in case of an emergency, but he’s never felt a reason to use it until now. Every aspect of it is completely strange, each time the screen responds to his touch making him flinch the tiniest bit in surprise. But he manages to call Henry.

“Tess?” her brother says when he picks up.

“Henry. I - it’s - hello.” Pero stumbles over the greeting, remembering at the last second that he needs to hold the phone against his cheek to hear and be heard.

“Pero?” Henry’s voice turns sharp, concerned. “What’s wrong? Tessa okay?”

“She’s ill. The same pestilence as the children.”

“Ah. Same symptoms? Fever, chills, all that?”

“Yes. She’s been sleeping for a while. Tried to tell me she was alright, but she’s…Henry, she’s burning up.”

“She will be alright, Pero,” Henry says gently. “She just needs to take some medicine and stay hydrated, and she’ll-”

“You don’t know that!” Pero barks, fear making it come out harsher than he intends. “Henry, please, just - will you come? She’s your sister, and she is…she’s my…”

He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Please. I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know what to do. But you do. I need you to make sure she’s okay.”

Henry is silent for a moment, and seems to grasp the larger context of Pero’s fear.

“Of course I’ll come to check on her. And I’ll bring over some things that will help. Give me an hour or so.”

“Thank you.” Relief laces Pero’s voice. Henry snorts.

“Please, she hasn’t let anyone properly take care of her while she’s been sick in years. Now I have an excuse to baby my stubborn baby sister. I should be the one thanking you.”

Henry arrives with his arms laden with soups, sports drinks, ice cream, and several boxes of meds. Tessa grumbles first at being roused from her nap, then at the sight of her brother.

“Fuck’s sake, Hank,” she groans into her pillow. “It’s just the flu.”

“Good afternoon to you too, dear sister. What a pleasure it always is to see your lovely face.”

Tessa rolls over just enough to glare at him with one glassy, fever-glazed eye.

“It’s just. The. Flu. Courtesy of those little gremlins we’re related to. It’s gonna suck for a few days but then I’ll be fine. You should be taking care of your actual patients who really do need your help.”

Henry cajoles her into sitting up a bit, then slips both his stethoscope and a thermometer from a coat pocket.

“Really, Hank, there’s no need – ”

“Tessa,” he says lowly, and the serious note in his voice makes her pay attention. “I’m here because Pero called me. He’s worried, Tee. I think you’re scaring your boyfriend a little.”

Tessa’s gaze jumps to Pero, who’s lingering in the doorway. The way her expression completely softens would make Henry roll his eyes if he weren’t so damn happy his sister had finally found someone who loved her the way Pero did.

“I’m sorry, Pero,” she croaks. He shakes his head vigorously and comes to sit on the other side of the bed.

“Do not apologize, mi amor.” He tenderly pushes her hair back from her sweaty forehead. “Just please let your brother do what he must. I will not take chances when it comes to you.”

The fight instantly goes out of her. Henry checks her vitals and makes her take another dose of medicine, letting his healing Gift soothe the worst of the body aches and calming her chills. Once she’s drifting off to sleep again he briefs Pero in the kitchen.

“Meds every four hours, check her temperature as often as she’ll allow you. Make sure she keeps drinking, and try to get her to eat something when she wakes up. If her fever doesn’t break in the next 36 hours, or suddenly spikes, call me.”

Pero nods, looking more serious than Henry has ever seen him, which is saying quite a lot about a man who essentially invented resting bitch face a thousand years before anyone else.

Henry gives the other man’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“I appreciate you calling me, Pero. But I promise Tessa is not in any danger. We just live with these things now; we don’t die from them.”

Pero shifts his weight from one foot to another.

“It is…difficult. After a lifetime of seeing people die from what starts as the smallest wound or barest cough…but I trust in your knowledge.”

“As I trust that you would do anything to keep my sister safe,” Henry returns warmly, gathering his things. “You better just hope that those protective instincts don’t drive you completely insane once you two have kids.”

Henry is out the door before Pero can think of a response.

Tessa sleeps fitfully that night, but Pero is even more restless, hyper aware of every time his love tosses and turns. Her fever breaks sometime in the early morning, and she wakes completely drenched in sweat. He helps her into the shower, settling her onto the bench on the far end of the glass-enclosed stall. She’s still paler than she should be, but her eyes when she looks up at him are clear.

A smile tugs at her lips as he gently washes her hair, then her body. His large hands remove evidence of her sickness from her skin, and the tight knot of anxiety in his chest loosens as he rubs a soapy cloth along each part of her.

“You know,” she says wryly, “under slightly different circumstances I’d be two seconds away from jumping your bones right now.”

Pero huffs at the unfamiliar phrase.

“If that means what I think it means, you have a few days at least before you are up for such things again, mi amor.”

He coaxes her to lean forward against his chest so he can wash her back.

“Pero?”

“Mm?”

She loops her arms around his neck, stilling his movements.

“I love you.”

The knot in his chest unravels.

“As I love you, angel.”

“Thanks for taking care of me.”

He pulls back to look at her.

“You do not have to thank me for such a thing, Tessa. I will always take care of you.”

She nuzzles back into his chest, fatigue starting to wear at her again.

“I’ll always take care of you too, Pero,” she mumbles sleepily into his skin. He feels it sink into his bones like a vow. He resumes his task, mindful of finishing before the water runs cold.

Not even after the swing states had started to fall, one by one, like red dominoes. But at some point the hands she’d pressed tightly over her mouth had begun to shake, tears spilling down her face, breath catching in her throat with each shallow inhale.

Frankie had finally turned off the tv, slipped her phone into his pocket, and carried her to bed. They’d pressed in tight against her as she sobbed, soaking the front of Jack’s tshirt as he held her against his chest, crying so hard she nearly made herself sick.

I don’t understand, she’d said, over and over. I don’t understand. This can’t be happening again. I can’t do it, I can’t face another four years of this…

In that moment the worst thing is how helpless they feel. The three of them are smart, strong, capable men, men who are trained to protect, to figure out how to get out of impossible situations. And if they could they’d burn the world down if anyone or anything caused their girl to hurt like this. But there’s nothing they can do to fix it.

She’s scared for herself, yes, but they know she’s far more worried about the three of them. The horizon of possibility stretches terrifyingly wide before them.

Pero has his green card, but will that matter? How careless and indiscriminate will the promised deportations be? At the end of the day, being a tan-skinned, Spanish-speaking immigrant may be more than enough to put a target on his back. Frankie and Jack are citizens, but neither has to branch out terribly far in their respective family trees to find relatives who are undocumented.

To say nothing of the fact that the four of them live together in a queer, polyamorous relationship. Where even now they have to be vigilant in public, wary of how obvious they are, always aware that simply being who they are out loud could result in unexpected attack. How much worse will it get? How much harm will be caused?

And as they do their best to soothe the woman they love, they know this reaction isn’t just about fear, or frustration, or anger.

It’s grief.

It feels like suffering through a death because that’s what it is. The death of a hope, of a dream, of what could have been and what should be if there was any justice or common sense or decency in the world. And even though this grief inwardly pummels them black and blue too, they know they will never truly feel it the way their girl does. The unique pain of women, who hope so much for so little, for even just the opportunity to be equal, and to be denied so resoundingly. To have gotten so close to a woman president and to have that chance ripped away by a man as odious as he is dangerous not once, but twice? It’s just cruel.

They do what they can for her, holding her close, letting her cry it out, murmuring soft words of reassurance.

It’ll be okay, sweetheart. Just let it out.

We’re here. We’ve got you. We’ve always got you.

I’m sorry, darlin’. I’m so sorry.

Tears roll down their cheeks and they try to muffle their sniffles for her sake, but the looks they share with each other are pained and haunted.

At last their girl quiets, having cried herself into a fitful doze. The clock on the bedside table reads 1:37am.

Jack, Pero, and Frankie all lie awake, ingrained military instincts refusing to let them sleep when they have something precious to keep watch over.

Jack breaks the silence.

I’ll call our lawyer later today, he half-whispers. Make sure we have all our paperwork in order. Wills, power of attorney, that sort of thing. So we’re as protected as possible, legally speakin’, should anything happen to one of us.

Frankie and Pero nod in silent agreement.

We should sit down with Robert soon, Frankie adds, mentioning their financial advisor. Reassess where we’re at, have a contingency plan in case we decide we need to move.

She’ll want to increase where and how much we donate, Jack adds, looking down at their girl with her head on his chest, one first curled into his shirt.

This is good. This is a plan. This is what they need.

We should go away for a bit. Pero’s voice is low and deep in the dark. Take some time somewhere remote, just the four of us.

I can think of a long weekend in January when I wouldn’t mind be disconnected from the rest of the world, Frankie quips humorlessly.

There’s an old Daniels family cabin in the U.P., near Mackinac, Jack says. Snow-covered trees, big roaring fireplace, little to no cell service…

Their girl shifts to blink sleepily up at him, just awake enough now to interject.

What about someplace warm, Jack?

Oh you’d be kept plenty warm, sugar. Don’t you worry about that.

He softly brushes her hair back from her tear-stained face, placing a delicate kiss to her forehead.

How are you feeling, querida?

She reaches for Pero’s hand to anchor herself before she answers him.

Sad. Scared. Angry.

That is how you should feel, Frankie murmurs, and the validation is strangely reassuring.

And tired, she says, tears starting to clog up her throat again. Fuck, I’m so damn tired. Tired of fighting, of resisting, of feeling like I’m screaming at the top of my lungs to have my and others’ basic humanity recognized by people too devoid of empathy to care. I’m so, so tired.

I know, querida, I know you are. And it seems overwhelming right now. But the alternative is giving up. And that is the only thing that truly feels impossible to do, no?

Her hand squeezes Pero’s as she nods, reluctantly conceding that he’s right.

But not at this moment, Frankie says. We should rest. There’s nothing else we can do at this moment.

Their girl turns to face him, making sure she’s still touching all three of them before closing her eyes and snuffling down into the pillow.

Should call our lawyer, she mumbles, starting to slip away into sleep again. And Robert…make sure we protect ourselves…as much as possible…

The three men share an amused look.

Those are great ideas, baby, Frankie praises her quietly, pulling a blanket up to her chin. We’ll do that.

And maybe…find a place to go…a beach somewhere?

Muffled chuckles break out around her.

Whatever you want, darlin’, says Jack.

Frankie, the pilot, is the falcon. Precise, controlled, deadly. Vigilant. Protective.

Jack, the cowboy, is the horse. Proud, independent, wild. Confident. Courageous.

And Pero, of course, is the bull. Strong, stubborn, fierce. Masculine. Powerful.

There’s evidence of his work elsewhere in the house the three of them now share. Their kitchen cabinets are full of mismatched glasses, bowls, and plates, many of them early versions of new techniques or designs Pero worked to master before offering them as options to clients. The base of an end table in the den is a cresting glass wave nearly three feet tall. Brilliantly colored vases that sell for thousands at the workshop line either side of the back deck steps, filled with impatiens and begonias carefully tended by Frankie.

Pero asks her to come to the workshop with him one day, and she can sense without being told that such an offer is significant. It’s still early on in…whatever this is between her and the three of them. Early enough that it hasn’t solidified yet, it hasn’t settled. She wants them, all of them, and they want her (all of her), but whether the fantasy can manifest as reality is uncertain. Can they all rearrange their lives enough to build something lasting, something real?

Pero has been the hardest to figure out. He is the quietest of the men, the least quick to laugh, the last one to betray what he’s thinking. He fucks like he wants to consume her, devour her, and yet he can be as gentle as Frankie or Jack when he’s done, silently cradling her to his chest as long as she wants as they come down from their highs. He’s much less forthcoming about himself than the other two are, and she’s far less sure about what he wants.

It’s a chilly Sunday morning when she meets him at the workshop. It’s the first time she’s spent any real time with him alone, her stomach full of an odd combination of excitement and nerves.

He takes her in through the gallery of finished works at the front of the building. Bright lights and mirror-backed shelves show off the many pieces, from large imposing sculptures to tiny coupe cocktail glasses that sparkle and glimmer. The middle of the space is dominated by a sculpture of a dragon-like creature larger than she is, its many-fanged mouth open in a roar and its skin a rich rippling green.

Pero doesn’t give her time to linger, however, leading her quickly into the back where the workshop itself is housed. A tension in his shoulders loosens when they enter, and she gets the sense that he isn’t interested in showing off his finished pieces. It’s the process of creating that he likes, that he needs.

If the gallery is bright and shiny and polished, the workshop is a dark, gritty warehouse-like space. Multiple forges line one wall, and it is clear each artist has their own space set up here. Pero’s space is near the back, tucked into a corner. Various tools and implements hang from the walls and rest on tables: blowpipes of every length, tweezers, pliers, clamps, paddles, torches, molds. It looks a little like a medieval torture chamber.

Despite the cavernous feel of the space, it’s warm inside; the forge nearest Pero’s corner is already lit and glowing. She sheds her jacket, leaving her in a soft chambray button-down shirt and black leggings. Pero gives her a gruff explanation of safety basics and insists that she wear a pair of enormous clear safety glasses.

Really, Pero?

Do not argue with me, querida.

The endearment is new, and makes her shiver.

You make all the girls you bring here wear these, hm? She says it playfully, but there’s curiosity behind it.

I have only brought two others here, and Jack and Francisco wore the glasses without complaint.

That pulls her up short, but Pero merely hands her the glasses and busies himself with his tools.

She’d assumed at first that this would be entirely a demonstration on Pero’s part, with her as mere spectator. Normally the idea of a date spent watching a man show off some skill to try and impress her as a one-woman audience would make her roll her eyes. But Pero isn’t boastful about any of this. This isn’t about his ego. He’s letting her in, showing her things that are important to him rather than telling her.

And, she quickly discovers, she’s hardly expected to sit idly by and observe.

Pero loads the tip of a pipe nearly as tall as she is with a glowing lump of molten glass the size of a softball.

Glasswork is rarely a solo endeavor, he tells her. Large pieces often require an entire team of people working in sync. Even small pieces necessitate a partner. It takes not only speed and skill, but also constant communication and trust to successfully bring a piece to life.

As he speaks, he rests his pipe against the edge of a table and rolls it back and forth, helping the glass to keep its roughly oval shape.

Give it a try, querida. He offers the end of the pipe to her.

It’s heavier than she’d anticipated, the heat of the glass sinking through her clothes like the rays of a tiny sun. Her first few rolls of the pipe are too fast, but after a minute she begins to get the hang of how to keep the glass from bending and morphing under its own weight.

Good, Pero says, and suddenly there’s a flare of heat in her stomach. Keep that steady turn all the while, and bring it over here.

There’s a large tray set out on the end of the table, filled with tiny squares of glass in shades of blue and green and milky white. Pero instructs her to roll the glass on the pipe through the squares like a lint roller until there’s a rough coating covering it. It’s an oddly satisfying sensation, the molten glass acting like putty or taffy that grows steadily less pliant as it cools.

Now we take it back into the forge, Pero says, and she gives him room to take the pipe from her, but he merely gives her an encouraging nod of his head toward the forge.

The opening into the heart of the furnace isn’t terribly large, maybe a foot or so in diameter. But the heat roars from it with a power she can feel, rather than hear. It throbs and beats at her like a warning.

She hesitates, but then Pero’s arms are around her, gently but firmly grasping the pipe on either side of her hands.

Like this, he murmurs in her ear as he guides the ball of glass into the belly of the forge. She’s intently aware of every inch of him pressed up behind her, the firm wall of his chest and his slightly softer belly, so close she can feel him breathe.

He likes to fuck her from behind, she’s found.

Every time they’ve had each other, in the handful of times they’ve been intimate thus far, Pero’s put her on her hands and knees, his impossibly big hands holding her down as he fucks her with his impossibly big cock. He likes to wait until Frankie and Jack are done and spent, their cum dribbling out of her or dripping down her skin, before rolling her over and sinking deep into her heat. His grip is firm and possessive, his fingers insistent at her clit. He never fails to make her come with a pace just the right side of too much, the other men soothing her with soft praises of good girl and you take it so well for him, sweetheart.

It’s an automatic response now, the fire that blooms in her belly when she feels him at her back that has nothing to do with the flames licking the molten glass in front of her.

————-

She somehow manages to concentrate on the tasks at hand enough to safely move through the rest of the process.

Fire the glass, roll it, shape it, fire it again, push, pull, fire, roll, shape, fire…

How did you learn to do this? She asks Pero, holding the pipe steady for him while he plucks at the glass with a massive pair of pliers.

My father, is all he says at first. She lets the ensuing silence be, lets him decide if he wants to elaborate. He does.

My father was a glassmaker. When I was a boy in Spain, I would spend every spare minute in his workshop. He taught me everything he knew. I would watch him craft beautiful things out of nothing, shaping and coaxing the glass to his will in an act of creation. He was like a god in my eyes.

She tries to square this information with the little she already knows about Pero’s life.

Why did you leave Spain?

He plucks the pipe from her hands and returns to the forge. His grip is so sure, his movements so fluid. When he returns to her, he passes her the rod and picks up the pliers.

My father died. I was fourteen. My mother moved us to America, and I was full of grief and teenage rage. A combination I was all too happy to let the US Army exploit.

This part she’s heard. Twenty years in the Field Artillery, operating mobile rocket systems and infantry support guns, leading men and their weapons into combat zones across multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. A life lived under fire.

But you found your way back to this, she says.

He looks up at her from where he crouches over the glass, now taking shape as a small vase.

It is the only other thing I know how to do.

She frowns at his modesty, but before she can respond he beckons her around the other side of the table they’re working at. He’s rolled and pulled the glass until no more than a slim column connects the bottom of the base to the pipe. He puts on thick heat-resistant gloves and cradles the vase, instructing her to tap ever-so-gently at the connecting sliver of glass with a small mallet.

With a barely perceptible chink the column breaks, freeing the vase. Pero then fires the bottom of the vase with a handheld blowtorch to smooth it out, and settles the vase into the bowl of a large round kiln for the final cooling process.

The vase stands maybe ten inches high, vaguely v-shaped with a flat bottom. The once bright orange ball of molten glass is now a brilliant turquoise, speckled with the tiny green and blue and white fragments she’d rolled it in. The rim is uneven, pulled and twisted by Pero’s pliers and it makes her think of the edges of a crashing wave.

She stands next to him and looks down at it before he closes the lid to the kiln. It’s small and simple and doubtless less polished than what Pero could have made with a more experienced partner, but it’s theirs.

We made that, she says, turning and giving him a shy smile.

His lips quirk up - not quite a smile, but there’s a softness to his expression that makes her breath catch.

A satisfying process, no? He asks. She nods. The moment stretches between them, the silence not awkward, but instead full of a warm, quiet intimacy.

Come on, pretty girl, Pero murmurs, reaching up to gently remove the safety glasses from her face. Let’s clean up.

Somehow she finds even the sight of him returning every tool back to its proper place, knowing exactly where each piece goes so that it’s ready for the next time he needs it, terribly attractive.

She catches his hand after everything’s put away, pulling his focus.

Thank you, she says, for this. Thank you for letting me in, for revealing this part of you, she doesn’t say, but hopes he knows that’s what she means. I’d…I’d love to do this again sometime.

He brushes his other hand across her cheek.

Anytime you like, querida.

She moves in to kiss him and it’s soft in a way she hasn’t felt from Pero before. He pulls her flush against him and simply holds her there, lazily exploring her mouth. He smells like sweat and heated metal, and she turns her head to lick the salt from the skin of his neck. A sound rumbles from deep in his chest, and the moment goes white-hot in an instant.

Touch me, Pero, she whispers. Put your hands on me.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He slides one hand to the back of her neck to yank her lips back up to his, the other disappearing into her leggings to grab a fistful of her ass. He swallows the pleased little gasp she makes, greedy for more.

He backs her up against the side of his workbench, moving to unbutton her top. Once he has access he pulls down the cups of her bra and turns his full attention to her breasts, kneading the soft flesh with his hands and laving his tongue over her nipples.

Her fingers run through his hair, longer than Jack’s but with curls less unruly than Frankie’s. His hips press against hers and she squirms against the bulge in his jeans, searching for friction.

Need more, baby? He coos up at her, a wicked glint in his eye.

Need you, Pero, she whines.

He straightens and turns her around to bend her over the workbench, curling his fingers in the waistband of her leggings to yank them down and expose her gorgeous ass to him…

Wait.

He freezes.

Could we…I want…

He runs a soothing palm over her hip.

What do you want, pretty girl?

She twists back around to face him. He lets himself be nudged backward until he feels the edge of a nearby chair behind him and sits. She towers over him now, and he looks up at her with one brow raised.

I want to see you, she says shyly, and his blood heats. He slowly spreads his legs in invitation.

She slips out of her shoes and shimmies her leggings and panties off, then similarly loses her shirt and bra. He reaches for her with a growl and hauls her into his lap. She goes willingly, wrapping herself around him as his hands rove over every inch of her skin. This time their kiss is messy and desperate, and when Pero trails a hand down her stomach and finds the soft hair of her mound to pet at her clit, she whimpers into his mouth.

You want it? He rasps. She nods frantically, their noses brushing.

Then take it out, pretty girl.

She undoes his jeans and frees the stiff length of his cock, pumping him slowly, drawing bead after bead of precum from the tip.

But then her grip falters.

This is okay, right?

Pero frowns at her, confused.

What I mean is…I know we talked about it, and you all said it was okay, that we don’t always all have to be together, but…

Ah, so that’s her concern. Something wild and beastly claws at his ribcage in triumph at the realization that he’ll be the first of them to have her all to himself.

It is more than okay, he reassures her, smoothing a thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. We told you we can each take our pleasure from the others whenever we wish, and none of us is a man who says things he does not mean. Least of all to those we care for.

He can feel her body relax at that, and he tilts her chin and draws her in for another kiss. Her hand starts to move up and down his cock again, the tip of him grazing the pillowy skin of her inner thigh with each pass, and a hiss leaves his mouth at the sensation.

This will not go the way you intend if you keep that up, he warns her. A newfound deviousness unfurls itself in her grin.

Maybe this is what I intend, she says. Maybe I want you just like this, hard and aching in my hands until I make you come all over yourself -

He cuts her off by crashing his lips to hers, stilling her movements on his cock and hooking one hand under her ass to push her up until his length prods against her entrance.

Perhaps, he murmurs, perhaps one day if you’re a very, very good girl, I’ll let you have such a way with me. But for now - he notches himself just inside the slick rim of her pussy - put me inside you.

She obeys, working herself down on him inch by inch. When he’s fully seated inside her she sighs as if in relief, a dazed look in her eyes. There’s a distant thought in the back of her head that despite the workshop being closed today, one of the artists could still walk in unexpectedly at any moment, but she can’t bring herself to care.

They make twin sounds of pleasure at the first swirl of her hips. As her body adjusts to his size she finds her rhythm, bracing her hands on his shoulders as she rides him.

And god, what a sight.

She knows what sex with Pero feels like. She knows what it sounds like, smells like, tastes like. But none of those things has prepared her for what it looks like. What he looks like, as they move together, face-to-face for the first time.

The clench of his jaw, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. The tendons that pop and strain in his neck. The dewy sheen of sweat across his brow. And his eyes…

She could fall forever into the endless black abyss of his eyes, she could lose herself entirely in their depths and never look away and would be thankful for it. How could she not be, when he looks at her with such unrestrained want that she feels it like a physical thing…

She brushes a thumb over the scar that bisects his left eye, as if she could soothe the long-ago wound with present tenderness. She knows it’s far from the only scar he carries, and would that she could heal them all through sheer force of will.

Pero swirls his thumb around her clit, bracing his feet as he begins to meet her hips with thrusts of his own. Her movements stutter as her control over her body wavers. She becomes nothing more than molten desire in his hands, to be molded and shaped and consumed by flame as he sees fit. The pressure he puts on her clit is unrelenting, and this is familiar, the way he doesn’t coax an orgasm from her, but demands it. It builds and builds in between her legs and when she would close her eyes and tip her head back to welcome it he grabs her chin to stop her.

Look at me, he pants. Look at me when I make you come, querida. Look…

It starts as a command, but ends as a plea.

The tension bursts inside her, and her cry of his name and the way her climax tightens her pussy around him like a vice pulls him headlong over the edge with her. He cums with a roar, pulling her down on his cock as he empties himself as deep as he can inside her.

It’s a long minute before they both fully come back to themselves, breathing hard as their bodies milk every last drop of pleasure from each other. She collapses into his chest, and he’s content to hold her there for as long as she wishes.

We can do that again anytime you like too, he says quietly in her ear, and she smiles into his neck.

——————

There’s no big reveal, no fanfare or presentation when it happens. She simply comes home one day (and funny, how she’s started to think of it as home, how her apartment has become merely a place where most of her things are, including the vase she’d made with Pero, but not where she lives) and there it sits on the shelf, catching her eye immediately.

The falcon, the horse, and the bull, now clustered around a fourth statue.

A lioness.

She moves towards it as if pulled by gravity. The beauty of it steals her breath. The great cat is posed sitting, tall and elegant, her body at a three-quarters position but her head turned to look straight out at the viewer. Her tail is wrapped neatly around her, and her tiny delicate ears are alert.

What do you think? says a soft voice behind her. It carries an uncharacteristic hint of uncertainty.

She doesn’t turn, doesn’t need to look to know the man behind her is the one who made this.

She’s gorgeous, she murmurs.

Pero hums low in his throat, and comes to stand over her shoulder.

You can ask, he says. I want to tell you.

Why a lioness? she whispers.

Pero is silent for a moment.

She is strong, and graceful. Clever, and brave. Loyal. Beautiful.

A tingling warmth floods her chest. It feels like too much, the implied praise too high.

They’re remarkable creatures, she replies.

They ain’t the only ones, darlin’, Jack drawls from the doorway. He’s flanked by Frankie, who has one arm wrapped casually around Jack’s waist.

I don’t know what to say. Tears prick her eyes as she turns to face them.

You don’t have to say anything, Frankie tells her.

Just be ours. Pero says it so softly she almost doesn’t hear him. As we are yours.

She pulls Pero in for a kiss, her answer whispered like a vow against his lips:

I already am.

———

Fun fact I learned about glassblowing equipment during my research for this fic that I wasn’t able to work into the story but absolutely need to share with you anyway:

Tens of thousands of people at the conference had necessitated a larger team of agents than usual.

A team that was headed by a certain senior agent you’ve been harboring a pathetic little crush on for a while now.

All at a conference at a giant hotel in Orlando.

Which meant that when you’d busted a meeting of the arms dealers and wrapped the entire mission up in a nice tidy bow a full day before you’d been expected back at headquarters, your team had found themselves with some extra time on their hands. And, at Tequila’s suggestion, they had gotten it into their heads that the perfect post-mission, team-bonding exercise was an evening at Halloween Horror Nights.

Which poses a bit of a problem for you.

It isn’t that you don’t like theme parks, or that you can’t handle roller coasters.

It’s that you absolutely, utterly hate horror movies.

You can’t watch them, you can’t wrap your head around how people could actually enjoy them. Anytime you’ve attempted to watch one in the past, it has affected you for days, as though your mind and body can’t help but internalize what the characters had experienced. They leave you sullen and moody at best, queasy and anxious at worst. You’d once read just the Wikipedia plot summary of Paranormal Activity and hadn’t been able to sleep a single wink that night. And where others may crave the rush of a jump scare, the jolt of adrenaline makes you feel nothing but panic. You can keep your head in a firefight, maintain your composure in all sorts of tense situations while on a mission, but there is just something about the purposeful depravity of horror, and about the unexplainable nature of the supernatural, that you just can not handle.

In short, an evening of haunted houses and scare zones is, no pun intended, your worst nightmare.

But what can you do? You’ve barely been with the agency a year. You’re the junior-most agent. You’re the only woman currently out in the field. You’d had to fight twice as hard to be taken half as seriously by most of the other agents. And in a work environment positively dripping with over-the-top machismo, you feel like you’ve finally started to gain a little respect with your coworkers on this last mission.

If you chicken out now over some fake blood and a few scare actors, they will never let you live it down.

And while you hate to admit it to yourself, you don’t want to seem weak in front of Jack.

Jack, who’s never been anything but kind to you. Who’s charming and a little flirty, but, during the handful of missions you’ve worked with him on thus far, has always treated you like the strong, capable agent you know you are. Who is Whiskey to just about everyone else, but insists you call him by the name his mother gave him.

Jack, who you might, just possibly, be a tiny bit in love with, even though you’ll never, ever tell him.

The only thing worse than agreeing to go to Horror Nights would be not agreeing to go, and risk having Jack think less of you for it.

———

The moment you walk into the park, you’re on edge. There aren’t any houses or scare zones near the entrance, so you’re safe for the moment, but the lighting and music being pumped in set the mood all too well, a far cry from the friendly, welcoming atmosphere you’d normally expect at a theme park. It’s early enough that the last rays of the sun still cling to the horizon, but you know even that small comfort will be gone soon.

Tequila, Rum, Vodka, Brandy, and Vermouth stride confidently ahead of you, already arguing amongst themselves about which house they want to try first. You hope it’s whatever one has the longest line so you can delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

“You alright there, darlin?” Outside of missions, Jack rarely calls you by your code name (Bourbon). You hadn’t even noticed him hanging back to walk beside you. You think you contort your expression into a passable poker face quickly enough.

“Of course, Jack,” you reassure him. “Just don’t want to get dragged into the middle of that testosterone-fest.” You gesture to your fellow agents in front of you.

Jack nods, and you don’t notice the way the look of concern lingers on his face.

———

The boys eventually decide to do the house based around “The Haunting of Hill House” first, most of them being fans of the show. To your relief, it’s a crowded night and a popular house, and there’s a fairly long line to get in.

While you wait, your coworkers laugh and talk and joke amongst themselves, already ribbing each other over who they think is going to scream the loudest.

They occasionally try to draw you and Jack into the conversation, but for the most part, you end up talking with each other.

It’s an unexpected silver lining, you realize, being stuck in this situation with him. You’ve never spent this kind of time with him outside of work. And you can’t talk about work either, not with so many people within earshot, so your conversation wanders from topic to topic. With every minute you learn more about Jack: he tells you about things like growing up in Texas along the border, working at his family’s ranch. You know that the cowboy persona isn’t entirely an act, but you’re pleasantly surprised to learn the degree to which it’s genuine.

You tell him about the time last year when you went with your sister and her family to Disney World, and how much fun you’d had. He admits he hasn’t been to Disney since he was a kid.

“Maybe you’re due for another visit then, Jack,” you say. “You’ve got to be drowning in unused PTO.” In the year you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him take so much as a day off, let alone go on an entire vacation.

“I’d pay good money for a picture of you on it’s a small world,” you tease. He laughs, and you love the way his face scrunches up in amusement.

“Maybe I’ll have to take you with me, sugar,” he replies. “I reckon I’ll need an expert to show me around.”

Heat rises in your cheeks at the idea. It’s odd - if it weren’t for the fact that you’re here with a bunch of your rowdy coworkers and about to do something you know you’re going to hate, this almost feels like a date. Jack’s barely paid attention to anything or anyone besides you for the past hour, and you’ve completely forgotten how much you’re dreading what’s about to happen.

Before you can come up with some witty response to his suggestion, though, your group reaches the front of the line, and the attendant controlling the flow of people allows you all into the house.

For all you’ve managed to temporarily push aside your fears, they surge back with a vengeance the second you’re swallowed up by the darkness of the maze. Dread settles itself in your bones like silt, thick and murky. Anxiety gathers along your spine and spreads outward, infecting every muscle in your body.

Tequila and the others forge ahead, eager to see what the house has in store for them. You follow along without a choice, not wanting to be left behind.

Something brushes against your lower back and you jump, just barely biting back a shriek.

“Easy, darlin,” comes Jack’s drawl from behind you. “I got your six, don’t worry.”

You take an immense comfort in knowing Jack is there, but even so, making your way through the house is far worse than you’d imagined. It’s an immersive, overwhelming experience, assaulting every one of your senses. The worst moments are the quiet ones, where you know there’s something lying in wait to scare you, but you can’t tell when or from where it will strike in the silence. You feel like prey, like a little mouse who has wandered willingly into a viper’s den for the perverse pleasure of letting the serpents strike at you.

The other agents are far too preoccupied to take any notice of how you’re faring, but Jack is a constant presence over your shoulder, keeping anything from coming at you from behind. You find yourself sticking closer and closer to him the further you go, wanting to turn and outright cling to him, to hold his hand or have him put his arm around you, but not wanting to overstep that boundary. He is, technically speaking, still your boss on this trip.

You know in a different context you’d be enjoying the privilege of seeing Jack get the occasional good scare too. He doesn’t scream, but you do hear him give a few shouts of surprise. You even see him reach for his empty belt a few times, like he can’t turn off the instinct to go for his whip or his lasso in response to a threat.

The Bent-Neck Lady is the worst. You’ve heard of this particular character from the show, but nothing prepares you for how she appears at the very end of the maze, coming out of nowhere with her head hanging grotesquely from her body before vanishing again. It turns your stomach and your adrenal glands feel pushed to their limit, your fight-or-flight response completely maxed out.

You stumble out of the house with the rest of your group, all of them laughing and hollering at each other now that it’s over and they start to come down from the adrenaline high.

Jack pulls up to walk beside you, a hand on his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

“Hot damn, darlin,” he says, a slight chuckle in his tone, “that last one there got me good!”

You try to smile at him, but can’t quite manage it. You feel woozy and light-headed, somehow both hot and cold at the same time. Every time you so much as blink you can see the Bent-Neck Lady behind your eyes, and there’s an increasing chance you’re going to lose your lunch all over Jack’s boots.

Jack’s demeanor flips in an instant as he notices your distress.

“Hey, darlin, you alright? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” He runs his hands up and down your arms and you feel like you can’t breathe, panic rising in your throat and threatening to choke you.

“I’m f-fine, Jack, really,” you try to say, to make one last effort at not completely humiliating yourself, but oh god now there are tears in your eyes and you’re seconds away from crying in front of him-

Jack’s eyes are so warm and kind as he tries to comfort you, and you see his jaw set as he comes to some kind of a decision.

“Fellas!” He calls to the rest of the team. “Hold up there a second!”

“No,” you try to protest, not wanting to draw their attention to yourself, “wait, Jack-“

But something odd happens then. Jack slumps his shoulders and leans over to rest his hands on his knees, suddenly breathing much harder than he had been a moment ago.

“What is it, boss?” shouts Rum.

“Jack?” You say, putting a slightly shaky hand on his shoulder.

“Whiskey?” Tequila jogs over, looking concerned.

Jack tilts his head ever so slightly in your direction and winks at you. “Y’all are gonna have to forgive me,” Jack says. “I think somethin’ about all this just isn’t sittin’ right with me.”

“A little too much for your fragile constitution, old man?” Tequila teases.

“Watch it, pup,” Jack growls, but there’s no bite to it. “Y’all go on and have fun, I think I’ll head back to the hotel. Call it an early night.”

“You gonna be okay getting back alone?” Tequila asks, unsure. “You seem a little unsteady on your feet.”

“I’ll go with him, Tequila,” you say, your heart overflowing with gratitude as you catch on. “Make sure he’s alright.”

Tequila looks back and forth between the two of you, then nods. “Alright, then. Guess we’ll see you tomorrow mornin’.”

The second the other agents are out of sight Jack straightens and reaches for you, cupping your face in his enormous hands.

“Let’s get you out of here, okay darlin?”

You’re too tired and grateful to argue with him, or to try and express how thankful you are for what he’s just done. You just nod, and Jack does put his arm around you then, the warm, musky scent of his cologne and his leather jacket making you feel better already.

———

The adrenaline crash hits you with full force in the cab ride back to the hotel and you fall asleep on Jack’s shoulder, then follow him bleary-eyed and slightly out of it back up to your room.

But it’s not until you’re standing at the window, looking out at the balcony and the view beyond, that you realize Jack hasn’t brought you back to your room.

He’s brought you back to his.

“I don’t mean anything untoward by it, sugar,” he says, noting your confused expression. “You just seemed so shaken up back there, I want to keep an eye on you for a bit. If that would be amenable to you?”

Relieved, you tell him that it is, not wanting to be left alone in your dark, unfamiliar hotel room after all this.

“Something to drink, darlin?” He asks, reaching for the bottle of whiskey that seems to accompany him on every trip.

“Just water?” you say, inadvertently phrasing it like a question. He instantly moves to obey.

You slide open the glass door and step out onto the balcony, which is large enough to hold two loungers on either side of a little table. You perch on the edge of one and Jack joins you, handing you a glass and draping a blanket around your shoulders. You’d assumed he’d pour two fingers of Stateman’s finest for himself, but you notice he’s drinking water, too.

He sits down across from you and sets his glass on the table.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You down half your glass, the cool water and fresh air helping to clear your head.

“I’m not a big horror fan,” you say quietly, and Jack huffs out a laugh at what is very clearly an understatement.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” he replies. Then his expression turns somber, his mustache turning downward as he frowns at you. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

You set your glass next to his and have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

“Because if I did and I stayed behind, Tequila, Vodka, all of them would never let me hear the end of it, and you know it, Jack. You know it, that’s why you pretended you were the one who wanted to leave. It’s been hard enough getting them to take me seriously as their peer, I didn’t want this to make them see me as a coward. And I especially didn’t want-” your breath hitches, and you have to pause and try again. “I especially didn’t want you to see me that way.”

Jack cocks his head to the side, looking for all the world like a chocolate lab confused by a police siren.

“I would never. Darlin, I promise you I would never think of you that way. You think I don’t know you’re one of the finest agents we have? That I don’t know how smart, how brave, how beaut-”

He cuts himself off, looking away out at the view, at the pool and palm trees several stories below you, before turning back to face you again.

“I have to tell you, sugar, when Tequila first suggested this little outing, I was pretty excited about it.”

Guilt rises in your stomach in an instant. You knew it, you can’t help but think, you’ve ruined his evening, who even knows how often he gets the chance to go out and blow off steam like this, and you ruined it-

“No, darlin, let me explain,” he hurries to say, correctly interpreting the look on your face. He sighs.

“I was excited at the prospect that this adventure might allow us to spend a little more time together, you know, outside of a mission.”

You blink. Jack had been excited at the idea of spending time with you?

“And I even thought, well, that is to say, I may have hoped-” he sounds bashful and this has to be the first time you’ve ever heard Jack Daniels seem embarrassed about something, “-that if you happened to have a bit of a fright in one of those houses, that you might find some comfort in my arms.”

A slow wave of warmth rolls over you and you’re stunned to realize that your little crush hasn’t been as one-sided as you’d thought.

“Well Jack,” you say, lips quirking up in a lazy, playful grin, “I think you’ll agree that I did, in fact, have a bit of a fright in that house tonight. And I think a little comfort in your arms may be exactly what I need to recover.”

You expect him to smirk back at you, to offer you some shameless, flirty line before having you crawl onto his lap, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at you, his gaze soft and serious, and uncurls his body in the chair to beckon you over with a quiet, “c’mere.”

You go, settling yourself between his legs and turning so you’re half on your side against his chest. He wraps his arms around you and you relax into the strange new sensation of being this close to him, of being surrounded by him.

It’s the safest you’ve felt all evening. It might be the safest you’ve felt in your whole life.

“Thank you, Jack,” you murmur, trying to put all of your feelings into those three words and failing miserably.

You lean your head back to look up at him and reach up to place your hand on the back of his neck. For the first time tonight, you’re faced with something that could be incredibly scary but feel no fear at all, as you gently pull him down to kiss him.

He goes willingly, his lips soft and full and gentle against your own. He cradles your jaw in one warm palm, his kiss chaste but full of promise.

When you break apart, he tucks you beneath his chin, pressing one extra kiss against your temple. His heart beats strong and quick in your ear.

“No thanks necessary, darlin. Though if you insist, I can think of one way you can pay me back.”

“What’s that?”

“You can let me take you out on a proper date when we get home.”

You turn your face into his chest to hide your grin, happiness and excitement and disbelief all duking it out for dominance in your expression. This ridiculous man. This wonderful, ridiculous man.

“Is that a yes, darlin?”

You nod your head before tilting your face up to his, the giddy wave of hope that you feel reflected clearly in his own eyes.

“I just have one date-related request, Jack.”

“Anything you want, baby.”

“Absolutely no horror movies.”

[fin.]

———

“Are you sure this is how it works?”

Frankie leans over to peer at the iPad propped up on the table next to you, which only tips you back into giggles as he squints with his mouth half-open.

“Your glasses are…”

“I can see it.”

You swallow back another laugh as Frankie helps scoot you a little closer to the edge of the dining room table, the only available surface that lines you and your husband up just right. He’s already snug inside your welcoming cunt, stomach twitching against the back of your thighs every time you feel another giggle threaten to take over. 

“Okay, then we do this…” he murmurs, bringing your legs up against his chest so your ankles frame his flushed face. 

“And it’s called the mermaid?” you ask, flat on your back in a way that pulls your hamstrings taught. It’s a little bit of a strain on your calves, nothing you can’t handle. Frankie’s attention comes back to you, broad shoulders firm under your heels. He strokes those big hands you love up your legs, a steady pull out and press back in testing the position. 

“Maybe this is your tail?” he says, a boyish smile crinkling his eyes.

“Best fish you ever caught,” you shoot back, arching your back a little to look more alluring.

“Only one in the sea for me,” he replies, pressing a kiss to your ankle. The playful groan changes to a real one as Frankie begins a firm pace, the creak of the kitchen table growing louder as he rocks into you. 

It’s…not bad. There were other positions you liked better in your quest to knock out the kama sutra. It’s just sort of…dull. Your mind wanders, admiring your husband’s dewy skin, the line of a farmer’s tan faint along his bicep. The way his curls bounce as he pants, eyes roaming your curves before making it back to your face. When your eyes meet his gaze sharpens.

“Not doing much for you?” he asks, slowing to a stop and stroking long paths up and down your thighs. You chew the inside of your cheek, contemplating.

“If I knew I was going to be looking at my feet so much, I would have gotten a pedicure.”

Frankie’s eyebrows shoot right up into those gorgeous curls, then his whole face scrunches up as he snorts and laughs into your calf. You tumble over with him, egging each other on until the laughter is uncontrollable and you’re both out of breath and half-crying. 

“My god, woman, you’re going to kill me with that mouth of yours,” Frankie gasps, leaning back to catch his breath.

“But really, come on, why would you put the least attractive part of my body right next to my favorite part of yours?” you say, your heart fluttering when Frankie’s smile softens. 

“I like your feet, they’re cute,” he rebuts, placing a too-ticklish kiss right in the arch to makes you squeal.

“I like you, you’re cute,” you reply, and the laughter smooths and melts into the glow of love that always seems to surround Frankie when he looks at you. You could live in his adoration for the rest of your life. 

“Okay, I saw another version, let’s try that,” Frankie finally says, shifting your legs so both are pressed against the same shoulder. Pressing your thighs together, Frankie’s hand splays across your stomach, thumb sliding into the slick folds of your pussy. Caressing your clit, he plants his other hand and bends forward just enough to start bringing your knees to your chest. Another circle of his thumb and your body zings with arousal.

“Oh,” you gasp, hands scrabbling to clutch at his bulging biceps.

“There?” 

“Yeah, there.”

“That’s good?”

“Fuck, yes, Frankie.”

Frankie’s pace speeds up, rocking his hips into the spot he’s mapped in every way you’ll let him take you. His thumb presses firmer in, rough pad dipping into the slick and smearing your clit into greater and greater pleasure. Tossing your head back, you let every noise spill from your chest, Frankie’s half-growls and panted praise your reward. The kitchen table protests but neither of you pay it mind, especially when a gush of your arousal drives Frankie to pound into you, the perfect roughness and power to topple you over the edge with his name tearing from your lips. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful,” he groans, pulling out once your aftershocks subside. He rounds the other side of the table, cock and fingers milky with your cum. You tilt your chin to accept the ravenous kiss, limbs splayed and weak against the hardwood. 

“Gonna give this mermaid a pearl necklace?” you ask, his thumb rubbing along your swollen lips.

“God, I love you, baby,” he husks. You smile up at him.

“Love you too.”

END

Breathe for me, Birdie

In and out

In and out

Let everything start to drift away

All the tension in your body

All the thoughts in your mind

In and out

In and out

Let them all go

Let them all go

Let your body go soft

Let your mind go blank

Until there are no worries

Until there are no thoughts

Until there is

Only

Me

It’s an exercise in control - controlling her, yes, her body, her mind, her pleasure, but also in controlling himself. The lips of her cunt glisten with slick, a delicious honeyed treat with which he aches to slake his thirst. His cock is diamond-hard, straining against the material of his pants. It would be the work of mere moments to be buried inside her in any number of ways, with her taste on his tongue or her walls clamped tight and hot around his fingers or his cock.

But he resists, because as they’ve both discovered, playing with her this way is so much sweeter in the end.

In and out, Birdie

In and out

Feel yourself letting go

Sinking down

Down, down, down

Into a warm, blank place

Feel your body grow heavy

As it sinks, sinks, sinks

Into that warm, blank place for me

He watches her naked body slacken on the bed, her arms over her head, her legs falling open. He holds her gaze from where he sits near the bed, not close enough to touch her, enjoying watching her struggle to keep looking at him.

I know you want to drop for me, Birdie

It’s so hard to keep your eyes open, isn’t it?

It would be so easy to let them fall closed

To give in

To succumb

You want to, Birdie

I know you do

Sink just a little deeper

Fall just a little further

In and out

In and out

To drop and be completely under my control

Won’t that be so nice?

To just sink, sink, sink

All the way down

To drop in

Three

Two

One

He snaps his fingers and her eyes roll back, lids fluttering closed. It had taken them so long, so long to build this trust, to find and push and expand the limits of how they could play like this. And still, every time it fills him with a perverse mixture of awe and pride to watch her fall under his spell.

That’s it, Birdie

Sinking all the way down now

Down, down, down

As you breathe

In and out

In and out

Now feel that warmth start to grow between your legs

Let that slow, warm pleasure roll down your spine

Let it all

Sink, sink, sink

Down into your most special place

Feel how it already drips for me, Birdie

Feel it grow swollen and needy

Feel how it aches to be touched

And how much better it feels

The further down you drop

All the way

Down, down, down

Knowing that if you sink just a little further

Drop just a little deeper

The more pleasure you’ll find

A bead of wetness falls from the lips of her cunt onto the bed. Ezra is sure there’s a matching dark patch near his waistband where the head of his cock is now steadily leaking. He could keep her here like this for hours, flushed and docile with arousal without letting her cum, guiding her right to the edge before backing her away, as many times as he wants. But he decides to fall on the side of the merciful today.

Now feel the pleasure start to grow

More, more, more

Let it keep building

Up, up, up

The more you sink

Down, down, down

Feel how much you want to cum

How your little pussy gets

Closer, closer, closer

And wants to cum for me

He watches her chest rise and fall as her breathing picks up, a subtle tremor in her leg and the ever-growing wet spot beneath her the only other signs that her body is following his every command.

I think you’re ready, Birdie

Your body is so, so ready to cum

No thoughts in your head

Just pleasure

Pure pleasure

It’s going to feel so good, isn’t it?

Here we go

Let the pleasure swell

More, more, more

Ready

And

Cum

He snaps his fingers again and her body arches off the bed. Her drooly pussy pulses and clenches around nothing as she cums completely untouched, compelled to do so by his words alone. The only sound she makes is a soft little moan, but Ezra feels it in every bone and sinew in his body. Kevva be damned, he thinks, for surely this is the power of gods.

My sweet, good girl

My soft little pet

Breathe through it

In and out

In and out

That was such a good first one

Let’s see how many more we can find

Keep sinking down into the pleasure, Birdie

Down, down, down…

The Green took so much from him, but it did not take his voice.

He speaks, and she listens.

“You know, just because I may have been a little quiet lately doesn’t mean it’s automatically about a woman,” he huffs. “Not everything with me is always about a woman. I’m capable of caring deeply about lots of things. Maybe I’ve been mulling over what I wanna say at the NASA hearing this week. Or wondering whether Jackie Evers is gonna agree to co-lead our economic development bill. Or wrestling with the fact that San Antonio remains the most impoverished major city in the nation.”

“Marcus…”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand people below the poverty line, Linda,” he continues, working himself up. “And what are we doing to make it better? Children going hungry, undocumented families scared for their lives, lead pipes in the walls and guns on the streets, money for fighter jets but none for child care, and you think just because I’ve been a little moody lately that it’s about a woman? You’re really gonna just walk into my office and assume that any change in my mood has to be about a woman?”

Linda waits until he’s gotten it all out of his system, watching him rise from his seat and gesture more and more broadly with his hands the more indignant he becomes. When he finally stops, breathing like he’s just run a hundred-meter dash, she simply raises one eyebrow and says:

“So what is it about, then?”

Marcus meets her stare with his own for a few seconds, then deflates entirely, flopping back into his chair.

“It’s about a woman.”

Linda has the good grace not to lord her correct assumption over him. She merely hums at the satisfaction of being right and wanders over to stand in front of Marcus’s desk. She tosses a small envelope at him, which he catches with a start.

“What is this?”

“A distraction.”

With a small frown Marcus opens it, pulling out a slip of official-looking card stock.

“The White House Easter Egg Roll?”

“Rebecca was supposed to go with me and Olivia, but she has to work. So now I have an extra ticket.”

“I suppose that I should be flattered that I’m your second choice right after your wife.”

Linda rolls her eyes.

“Oh please. You need to snap out of this funk you’re in, and perhaps getting outside and touching some grass will help. And if that grass so happens to be on the South Lawn at a wholesome family event where President Ramirez will also be in attendance, along with a certain senator whose support you need to get the drug treatment court money included in the omnibus…”

Marcus looks up, suddenly interested.

“Jones will be there? How do you know?”

“Because I know everything.”

Marcus has yet to find that to be untrue.

“He’s been dodging my calls for weeks.”

“I know.”

Linda can see the wheels turning in Marcus’s brain based on this new information, and knows that he’s probably already jumping ahead to formulating what he’d say to make his pitch for the money to the senator.

This is what Marcus needs: a cause and a plan.

“I’m gonna need updated stats on — ”

“Yeah.”

“And I’d like to look over the list of organizations that have come out in support again, too.”

“Yup.”

Marcus stares hard at the base of the lamp on his desk without really seeing it as he thinks things through.

“If I could just talk to him about it, if I could just lay out the case for this funding, I know I could convince him to do it. I know I could.”

Nearly twenty-five years in politics has made Linda nothing if not a realist. But to see the fervor with which Marcus clings to his convictions, to his belief in people and in their ability to do the right thing, threatens to chip away at her more jaded edges. She can’t bring herself to try and rein in his optimism, so she gently changes the subject.

“Olivia will love to see you too. It’s been too long since she’s gotten to hang out with her Uncle Marcus. And maybe you could try and have some fun while we’re there? You know, relax a little bit? There’s usually a few celebrities who show up to this thing. There’s a rumor going around that Bad Bunny might make an appearance this year.”

Marcus lets out a bark of laughter.

“That’s funny,” he says.

The look on Linda’s face remains unamused.

“Y’know, cause it’s the Easter — ”

“Shut up, and don’t be late.”

The sounds of Marcus chuckling follow her all the way to her office.

———

The White House Easter Egg Roll dates back to 1878. Egg rolling had become a popular Easter Monday event for Washington, DC’s children in the 1870s, who would race their eggs down the west grounds of the United States Capitol. In 1876, Congress outlawed the practice out of concern for the impact on the Capitol grounds. Two years later, President Rutherford B. Hayes initiated the first White House Easter Egg Roll as a new alternative venue for the tradition.

In its present form, thousands of families descend upon the South Lawn every Easter Monday for an event that has become essentially the world’s most tightly secured garden party. The titular egg roll is still the main event, but the vast grounds that stretch from the White House’s Truman Balcony down to the edge of the Ellipse also boast all manner of food stations, educational activities for kids, a proper Easter egg hunt, a petting zoo, various costumed characters, and a performance stage.

The United States Marine Corps Band is halfway through a rendition of “Easter Parade” when Marcus, Linda, and Olivia enter the grounds. It’s a beautiful day for the event; April weather in DC can range from sleet to blazing sun, but today is downright idyllic. Fluffy clouds float across the clear blue sky over the nearby Washington Monument. The South Lawn gleams emerald green, covered in a sea of people in mostly pastel outfits.

Dressing for an event at the White House is usually a formal affair, but per Linda’s advice Marcus has foregone a tie and opted for the most springtime-like shirt in his closet: a button-down in crisp periwinkle under a suit a shade too bright to be considered navy. A Congressman’s business casual.

Olivia is, as predicted, overjoyed to see the man she’s called Uncle Marcus since she learned to talk. She remains glued to Marcus’s side as they wander the grounds, stopping to load up on sugary snacks and feed handfuls of grain pellets to the baby goats at the petting zoo. Her long black curls and boundless energy mirror Linda’s, and before long she has grass stains and dirt streaks on her pink Easter dress but neither of her chaperones is concerned. Stains will wash out, Linda had told Marcus once, the fun she had getting them is far more important.

It’s more fun than Marcus has had in a long time. It’s a beautiful day with people he considers family, but there’s a twinge of something he feels deep in his gut that threatens to spoil it for him.

Envy.

He would be hard-pressed to find a situation that makes more clear than this one that which he lacks: a family of his own. He’s surrounded by the shrieks and laughter of children, the sight of moms and dads cheering their kids on as they race eggs down the steepest part of the South Lawn’s slope. He’s spotted many of his colleagues here, other members of Congress with their families, happy and together and full of love for each other. There is no doubt in Marcus’s mind that he loves Olivia, but nothing can ever change that fact that she isn’t his.

After the painful saga of his divorce and the whole mess with Theresa, Marcus had thrown himself not long after into the drastic career change of running for office. That had consumed eighteen months of his life and had worked wonders in keeping him so busy and exhausted that the idea of venturing out into the dating world again had been pushed from his mind. His singleness had even become something of an object of fascination to the public. Politico had dubbed him “Congress’s Most Eligible Bachelor” not long ago on what must have been a particularly slow news day. But now…

He’s starting to think he’ll never stop yearning for it, of finding that someone, that connection, that partner. Of having what everyone else does: a happily ever after. And he’s also starting to fear that it might never happen.

“I don’t see Jones yet,” Linda murmurs to him as they clean their hands after the baby goat encounter. Oh right, he remembers. This is also technically a work event.

“Somehow I can’t picture him willingly spending much time near farm animals,” Marcus replies.

Linda makes a noise of amused agreement before Olivia suddenly lets out a squeal of excitement.

“Mom, mom, look! It’s Bluey!”

Sure enough, the cartoon’s titular dog has made an appearance near the performance stage to the audible delight of seemingly every kid here. Olivia grabs Linda’s hand and starts trying to drag her over.

“You know I’d hoped when she turned five she’d move beyond her Bluey obsession, but it hasn’t happened yet,” Linda mutters to Marcus.

“The trials of parenthood,” Marcus grins.

“I’ll take her over there, why don’t you go do a lap and see if you can’t run into a certain senator?”

Marcus nods.

“And you looked at the latest stats on recidivism?” Linda calls over her shoulder as Olivia impatiently leads her away.

“Yes! Now go get your kid a picture with that dog!”

———

Marcus wanders. He stops to say hello to some of the other Members he knows and is friendly with. Several times it’s other people who stop him. He’s a more recognizable face than most other elected officials, despite his short tenure on the job, and every few minutes someone comes up and asks for a selfie.

There are also professional photographers mingling about from the ever-present White House Press Corps, the gaggle of reporters from all manner of news outlets assigned to cover the White House. Marcus runs into a journalist he’s spoken with a few times from CBS News and grants him a quick interview for the outlet’s TikTok about what his first Easter Egg Roll has been like so far. But there’s no sign yet of the senator he’s hoping to speak with.

He’s wandering past the section of the lawn where Jorge Ramirez, the First Gentleman, is reading from a picture book to a group of children when he notices a camera pointed in his direction out of the corner of his eye. He turns in the photographer’s direction and before she even lowers her camera recognition hits him like lightning.

The woman from the botanical gardens.

The surprise is written all over his face and he knows it, but he can’t muster the wherewithal to school his expression into anything more neutral before he hears the click of the camera’s shutter. But when she lowers the device, she’s smiling at him, and the unexpected delight at seeing her again has him grinning back.

She walks over to him, inspecting the photo she’d just taken on the camera’s display. She’s dressed in black trousers, a white blouse, and comfy-looking sneakers, a black camera bag slung over one shoulder.

“Hello again, Congressman,” she says.

“Hi,” is all Marcus manages.

Something from their first meeting occurs to him then that throws cold water over his excitement.

“I thought you said you weren’t press.” He tries to keep his tone as light as possible.

She fishes an ID badge on a lanyard out from around her neck and holds it out for him to see. It’s not the standard press badge all credentialed reports are required to wear when on White House grounds. It’s a staff badge.

“You work for the President?”

“I do.” She tucks the badge away. “I used to be press, but I’ve since come over to the other side.”

“Ah.”

The chatter of a thousand people surrounds them. Not far away the band finishes a medley of Disney songs to a round of applause. But to Marcus it all feels very far away. Instead he’s hyper-aware of every detail about her: her fingers fidgeting a bit nervously with the camera she still holds, the white flash of her teeth between pretty pink lips, the mismatched earrings she wears (one a carrot, the other a bunny).

“I didn’t get a chance to get your name, before,” he says.

She gives it to him, and the knot he’s carried around in his chest for weeks wondering who this woman is loosens.

“Marcus Pike,” he returns, holding out his hand.

“Oh, I know,” she replies teasingly. Her grip is firm and sends a little shiver of electricity up Marcus’s spine.

Being an FBI agent meant that Marcus was used to projecting an air of authority, to having people sit up and take notice of when he spoke. But being an elected official deferred upon him even more authority whether he felt it was earned or not, it made his time, his attention, be in great demand. If you knew who he was, you probably wanted something from him. And people were so impressed by him, so deferential to him, so flattering and accommodating. Many of his colleagues let it go right to their heads. But all it did was make Marcus constantly second-guess who he could trust.

There’s nothing of that here with this woman. What he sees is the curve of her lip and the quirk of her eyebrow and what he hears is her Oh, I know but what he feels is that she fails to find his status impressive or intimidating and how refreshing that is. How rare, these days, for him to have a conversation feeling like someone is talking to him instead of his title.

“I’m so happy to see you again,” he tells her. “I…regret that our conversation in the gardens got cut short.” He hopes she doesn’t take that to mean he’s blaming her.

She shrugs, attempting to look nonchalant, her bag shifting at the movement.

“I know how it is with Members. I didn’t want to impose on too much of your time.”

“You could have,” Marcus blurts out before he can stop himself.

“You could have,” he repeats more quietly. “Talking with you…it was the best part of my day. Of my whole week. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” About you, he adds silently, but doesn’t say aloud.

The teasing edge to her smile fades, replaced by something shyer, more genuine.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it either,” she admits.

Warmth blooms in Marcus’s chest that has nothing to do with the bright April sunshine.

“Could I — could we talk more, sometime?”

“Are you asking me out, Congressman?”

“It’s Marcus, actually,” he says with a coy grin, finally finding the ability to flirt again that usually comes so naturally to him.

Something in her face falters, a flash of disappointment.

“Not here, it’s not,” she murmurs, “not right now.”

Her eyes slide past his to glance about at the crowds of people around them. Guilt clenches in his gut as reality floods back in, the bubble around them bursting and the sounds of the crowds around them suddenly returning to full volume in his ear. How could he be so careless? He’s a Member of Congress, she’s a White House staffer, and right now, she’s working. There are still power dynamics here that he’s completely forgotten about until this moment.

“Oh, fuck, you’re right. I’m so sorry, forget I said anything—”

“Don’t be.” She shakes her head at him, eyes wide. “What I meant by ‘not right now,’ is that—it’s not that I’m not inter—” She blows a raspberry with her lips and swipes a hand over her face.

“What I mean to say is, I should be done with work today by seven. If, if you’d like to talk more. Which I would very much like, for the record.”

She reaches into her camera bag and pulls out a crisp white business card and a pen, scribbling a phone number down on the back. He takes it from her when she holds it out to him, their fingertips just barely brushing.

“Hey boss!” The sound of Linda calling for him from over his shoulder is a rough yank back to reality. He turns to find her walking towards them, a giddy Olivia in tow.

“Senator Jones, three o’clock.” And sure enough, off to Marcus’s right, he spots the man in question, sun gleaming off both his bald spot and his veneers, talking with several other men in stuffy suits and ties.

Linda looks past Marcus at his no-longer-a-mystery woman, then back at him, the look on her face telling him that she’s immediately figured out who it is he’s been talking to.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says, “I can’t believe I’m doing this again, but I gotta—”

“It’s okay,” she reassures him. “Looks like we both have to get back to work.”

Marcus sighs, fingers tightening on the little card he still holds.

“Happy Easter, Congressman,” she says.

“Happy Easter,” he replies with a murmur of her name, and finds he likes the way it feels on his lips.

———

The rest of the day passes in a blur.

He has a good talk with Senator Jones (he thinks, he hopes), he gives three more impromptu interviews, he eats too much chocolate with Olivia before carrying her back to her mother’s car. He grabs Chinese takeout on the way back to his apartment, a sparsely furnished one-bedroom in Navy Yard, and fights the urge every step of the way to google the gorgeous White House photographer whose number is burning a hole in his pocket.

There’s so much he wants to know about her. And he could so easily find out so much if he wanted to right this moment, her whole career likely just a quick google search away, but he resists. Don’t dive in so quick, he tells himself. Don’t rush. Besides, he wants to hear it all from her herself.

He punches in the number at 7:02.

It rings only once before she answers.

“Alright, who is she?”

Marcus flinches, startled at the sound of Linda’s voice. He turns towards the door of his office where his chief of staff is standing, one hip resting against the door jam.

“What are you talking about?”

Linda shakes her head, wild black curls swishing back and forth over her shoulders.

“Don’t play dumb, Marcus. It doesn’t suit you. You’ve been moping around the office for three weeks, staring off into the middle distance, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because you’re daydreaming about the defense budget or campaign finance reform. So who is she?”

Linda is astonishingly good at reading people. It’s part of what makes her such an effective chief. But Marcus is also astonishingly easy to read, and Linda knows about his history with women better than most.

It’s especially embarrassing that he can’t actually answer her question. And the shame at being caught out makes him raise his hackles in defense.

“You know, just because I may have been a little quiet lately doesn’t mean it’s automatically about a woman,” he huffs. “Not everything with me is always about a woman. I’m capable of caring deeply about lots of things. Maybe I’ve been mulling over what I wanna say at the NASA hearing this week. Or wondering whether Jackie Evers is gonna agree to co-lead our economic development bill. Or wrestling with the fact that San Antonio remains the most impoverished major city in the nation.”

“Marcus…”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand people below the poverty line, Linda,” he continues, working himself up. “And what are we doing to make it better? Children going hungry, undocumented families scared for their lives, lead pipes in the walls and guns on the streets, money for fighter jets but none for child care, and you think just because I’ve been a little moody lately that it’s about a woman? You’re really gonna just walk into my office and assume that any change in my mood has to be about a woman?”

Linda waits until he’s gotten it all out of his system, watching him rise from his seat and gesture more and more broadly with his hands the more indignant he becomes. When he finally stops, breathing like he’s just run a hundred-meter dash, she simply raises one eyebrow and says:

“So what is it about, then?”

Marcus meets her stare with his own for a few seconds, then deflates entirely, flopping back into his chair.

You’re there a bit earlier than you’d anticipated, but you figure even if Justin’s not home from his shift yet you can let yourself in. You’ve been friends long enough that you know under which flower pot the spare key is kept, and you’re more than comfortable letting yourself in.

It’s a tricky balancing act getting the key into the lock with a container of cupcakes on one arm and your bag over the other, but you manage it. But with all your focus on not dropping anything, it isn’t until you shut the door behind you and turn back around to face the room that you realize you’re not alone.

The sight of a tall, unfamiliar man in the kitchen doorway across from you causes you to let out a yelp of surprise, the container of treats falling to the floor with a loud smack on the hardwood.

“Who-” The word comes out at a much higher pitch than you’d like, the adrenaline from your fight or flight response taking over fast. Have you interrupted a robbery?

The man looks almost as startled to see you as you are to see him, but he holds up his hands in the universal gesture for I am not a threat and takes the smallest step towards you.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright-” he says, his voice warm and low, “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Who are you?” You manage to get the entire question out this time.

“I’m Zach,” he replies, “I’m a- a friend of Justin’s.”

It’s probably a good sign that he knows the name of the guy who lives here, right?

“Who are you?” he asks, and it’s with a neutral tone, but there’s an undercurrent of wariness.

You tell him your name. “I’m just here to see Justin, but his car wasn’t out front so I let myself in-” Something clicks, then, in the back of your mind, a fragment of memory surfacing from a conversation you’d had with Justin last week. “Wait, Justin told me he had someone staying with him for a bit-” What was it he’d told you about his unexpected guest? “You’re the ex-Marine, right?”

A dark look passes over Zach’s features and he looks away from you. A muscle flexes in his neck like he’s grinding his teeth together. “Yeah, that’s me.”

But as quickly as the expression comes, it fades, and when he looks back at you, his eyes are soft.

“Look, I’m really sorry for startling you,” he says, sounding genuinely contrite.

The adrenaline is slowly starting to ebb from your system, and you place a hand to your chest as if it could help slow your racing heart. You shake your head vigorously.

“No, if anything, I’m sorry for startling you. I’m the one forgetting that Justin had a guest staying with him and barging in here without any warning.” You know that veterans in particular don’t have a high tolerance for being snuck up on.

Zach swallows and reaches one hand up to rub the back of his neck. “It’s okay,” he replies, “Justin- he didn’t mention he had a girlfriend.”

The snort you make at the insinuation is both totally involuntary and utterly unladylike.

“Oh, trust me, I’m not. My relationship with Justin is strictly platonic,” you say without thinking. But then the implications catch up to you. Wait. Did he - did he say that on purpose? As a way to check if you’re single?

But Zach looks nothing but abashed at having made the wrong assumption. He rocks back on his heels and shrugs, awkwardly adorable.

“Well, I’m not sure when Justin will be back, but you’re obviously welcome to stay. I can- I can move my stuff and get out of your way.” His voice gets very quiet. He gestures to the couch and for the first time you notice the pillow at one end, a blanket folded neatly on top of it, and the large duffle bag on the floor that must be his.

Justin had mentioned that Zach had - what did he call it? - a “place to sleep problem.” Zach doesn’t meet your eye and his shoulders have curled in on themselves a little, like he’s trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Normally when people say “I’ll move my stuff” they mean “I’ll clear off some of my crap from the coffee table,” not “I can hide away the bag that holds everything I own like I don’t even exist.”

Anger flares inside you for a moment, anger that Zach would feel like his very presence is some kind of imposition onto whatever your original plans for coming over were.

That won’t do, you decide very quickly. That won’t do at all.

“Or,” you say, bending down to pick up the container of cupcakes from the floor, “you could help me see how many of these are still edible?”

Zach doesn’t smile at you. Not really. Nothing more than a tiny quirking up of one side of his mouth, but…

For his part, Pero has hardly been sitting at home alone, waiting for his woman to come back to him. The past year has seen him grow into his role at the tree farm (no pun intended), overseeing the trees’ cultivation and helping Amie build out new sections full of flowers, letting Tessa’s sister develop a burgeoning wedding business for the farm.

Early December remains the busiest time of year for the farm, however, which means that despite the fact that Tessa has a rare weekend at home, Pero is swamped with work, lending his large hands and considerable strength to the task of getting folks’ Christmas trees cut and wrapped and tied to their cars. Tessa had gotten home late from the airport the night before, too tired to do more than fall asleep in Pero’s arms mere minutes after walking in the door. There hadn’t been time to fool around this morning either, Pero’s workday starting early. He’d left her still in bed with a kiss to her forehead and a whispered promise to make it up to her tonight.

Fortunately, Tessa can still see him throughout the day. It’s all hands on deck at the farm in December, and Tessa had gladly volunteered to help tend the gift shop housed in the converted barn on the property. Amie had even talked Tessa into doing a book signing, many copies of her cookbook prominently displayed in the shop, a testament to how proud Tessa knew her sister was of her.

The view out the shop window is awfully distracting, though.

Every few minutes she can see Pero walk by, hauling a freshly wrapped Christmas tree to someone’s car. He’d started the day in a puffy down-lined coat, his favorite red scarf wrapped around his neck and a black beanie covering his curls. But the constant physical nature of the work has led him to slowly shed these items over the course of the day, until by mid-afternoon he’s left in just a thick cable-knit sweater and dark jeans. A light, gentle snowfall starts around noon, just enough for a few flakes to cling to Pero’s hair.

Tessa can’t help but stare at the way the muscles in Pero’s arms fill out his sleeves, expanding and contracting each time he hefts a tree over his shoulder. She can see the fog of his breath leave him with each heavy exhale, reminding her of the many nights she’s fallen asleep sprawled across the broad expanse of his chest, lulled by its steady rise and fall. His hair falls across his forehead, and if he turns just the right way, she can see the scar that bisects his left eye. He’s so damn handsome it almost hurts, and in between folks coming over to talk to her and buy her book, Tessa daydreams of all the ways she’s going to make it up to Pero for all the time she’s been away lately.

But as the afternoon wears on, it becomes apparent that Tessa isn’t the only one who’s noticed that the person helping to run the Christmas tree operation this year is a tall, mysterious, dark-eyed, certified Grade-A hottie.

When Nora Clark comes by to pick up a tree, Tessa doesn’t think much of it. She and Nora hadn’t been particularly close in school, but Tessa knows her former classmate gets a tree from the farm every year.

When another acquaintance, Sarah Moore, comes by to pick up a tree, Tessa hardly registers it.

But then Mary Carter comes by. And Stephanie Davis. Cora Sweeney. Emma MacIntosh. It’s a steady flow of women Tessa knows from middle and high school, many of them former members of the clique of popular girls Tessa was never cool or beautiful enough to be a part of. And as Tessa watches Pero work and moons over how deftly his stupidly large hands handle trees of all sizes as confidently as he handles her body, her gaze isn’t the only one that Pero attracts.

A tiny flame of something ugly and possessive flares in Tessa’s stomach. The moment it does, an even stronger feeling of guilt accompanies it. There’s no justification for it. These women aren’t doing anything, and Pero is doing even less. Occasionally one of them will attempt to make conversation, but Pero never responds with more than a word or two, his attention clearly on the job at hand. But to be so near Pero all day after having been apart, yet unable to truly spend time with him, makes Tessa go a little green around the gills with envy.

Stay away, the petty, childish part of her wants to growl. He’s mine.

It’s manageable until late in the day, just before the farm closes, when Sophie Westman arrives. The Queen Bee of Tessa’s class, the woman had gone on to marry some rich guy from Grand Rapids and was now an extremely successful real estate agent. She hops out of her Range Rover, neither her husband nor any of her three children in tow, dressed in skin-tight leggings and a pink puffer vest, manicured nails and immaculate brown waves cascading down her back, the very picture of a snow bunny.

Tessa watches as she strolls right over to Pero, no doubt requesting his help not just to get a tree to her car, but to also cut it down for her in the first place. He gives her a quick nod and she follows him into the rows of trees. Tessa wishes the Sharpie she’s been using to sign books with were a pencil instead. She’s filled with the sudden urge to snap something.

When they return nearly a half hour later, Pero is hauling the biggest tree she’s yet seen him handle today. He dutifully sends it through the wrapping machine as Sophie wanders inside the barn to pay. She heads up to the counter where Angus, one of the local teens who works at the farm as a seasonal job, rings her up. Tessa can’t decide if she desperately doesn’t want Sophie to notice her at her table near the window, or if she wants to give in to the insane notion of standing up and physically blocking her from returning to Pero outside.

In the end, Sophie turns from the counter once she’s done and spots Tessa, who frantically tries to school her face into an expression that reads as, if not openly friendly, then at least unbothered. Sophie walks up to her, her perfectly straight and snow-white teeth showing as she smiles.

“Tessa, right?”

It doesn’t matter whether Sophie’s pretending not to remember who Tessa is or has genuinely forgotten, in that moment Tessa is transported back to the halls of Grennich High where girls like Sophie never gave girls like Tessa a second glance. Never mind the fact that Tessa is sitting amongst copies of her book, clear evidence of her hard work and success. Just like that, the long-scabbed-over wound of teenage Tessa’s self-doubt reopens.

“How are you, Sophie?” Tessa says, hoping to sound reasonably polite.

“Oh my gosh, Tessa, how long has it been?”

“A while, for sure.”

“What are you doing here? Last I heard you were still some big hot-shot lawyer in Chicago!”

Tessa shakes her head, trying not to grimace.

“Not anymore.”

“Oh! You’re an author now?” Sophie finally seems to have noticed the stacks of cookbooks with Tessa’s name on them.

“I am,” Tessa replies, a bit more defensively than she intends.

“Well good for you. You know between work and my kids, I rarely have time to read. There’s always something else getting in the way. I just barely had enough time this afternoon to come by and pick up our tree. Christopher keeps trying to tell me we should just get a fake one we could store in the basement, but I won’t hear of it. Not when this farm produces such beautiful trees. And especially not when the help’s so easy on the eyes, too. Have you seen the new guy your sister has working here this year? Wish I could take more than a tree home with me, you know what I mean?”

She laughs and winks at Tessa, as if they are both in on the joke. Tessa reaches beneath the table and balls the fabric of the hem of her dress tightly in her fist.

“I doubt your husband would appreciate that much.”

Sophie’s smile falters just a little, as she realizes Tessa isn’t as willing to play along as she’d thought.

“Yes, well, speaking of, I should get going. Good to see you, Tessa.”

Tessa looks out the window as Sophie heads back to her car, Pero following behind with her tree, now much more simple to manage with its limbs tightly bound in netting. Pero secures it to the top of the Range Rover with practiced ease. As he moves to step away, Sophie reaches out and catches him by the elbow, the snow still falling lightly around them like a scene from a Hallmark movie. Tessa watches, transfixed, as the other woman closes the distance between them to a few scant inches and slips a few bills into Pero’s hand. Sophie murmurs something to him and flashes her megawatt smile alongside a flirty little toss of her hair.

How many times had Tessa seen her deploy those exact charms when they were teenagers? How many times had Tessa seen boys turn to putty in Sophie’s hands? How many times had Tessa tried to emulate her without success?

Pero, for his part, has gone stiff as a board at the attention, crumpling the tip money in his fist. If Tessa weren’t so focused on Sophie, she would feel bad at how uncomfortable Pero looks. He gives Sophie a curt jerk of his chin, then turns away. Sophie lets her hand finally fall away from his arm and watches him walk away for a moment before getting into her car.

It’s late enough in the day that the sun is rapidly starting to set, making it feel much later than it actually is. Once Sophie has driven off, the only cars left belong to employees and Tessa. Angus starts the process of closing up, popping in his AirPods and turning up whatever music kids listen to these days while he does so. Tessa begins packing away her things and putting the unsold copies of her book back in their usual display.

The door opens and Pero walks in with a swirl of snow and cold air, rubbing his hands together to warm them. He nods at Angus and makes a beeline for Tessa.

“Hello, angel,” he says, pressing his chilled lips against her cheek.

“Hi.” Tessa tries to settle her emotions; it isn’t fair to take any of this out on Pero.

“I am sorry I didn’t get a chance to come in and see you before now. There has been no end to the rush of people wanting trees today.”

Tessa shrugs and smiles, even if she can’t quite meet his eye.

“It’s okay. I could see you were working hard out there.” A hint of bitterness creeps into her voice that makes her feel instantly ashamed the second the words leave her mouth.

Pero frowns.

“Is something wrong?”

Damn him for being able to see right through her.

“Everything’s fine. I’m just tired, I guess. Haven’t fully recovered from traveling.”

Pero makes a skeptical noise in his throat. Tessa tries to change the subject.

“Anyway, what do you want to do for dinner? We could pick up burgers on the way home, or pizza? And then maybe we can finally finish House of the Dragon — ”

“Angel,” Pero says a little more firmly. “Something is bothering you.”

“Pero, I told you, it’s fine, let’s just — ”

Pero cuts her off by curling a hand around her upper arm, broad and firm. His eyes are full of worry.

“Tessa,” he murmurs, “tell me.”

Her breath leaves her in a quiet huff, but it’s directed at herself. She looks down at her hands, rubbing idly at a nonexistent spot on the table next to her.

“It’s nothing. I’m being ridiculous.”

Pero simply raises an eyebrow at her and waits, something he’s found to be a fairly foolproof strategy. Tessa squirms under his gaze, then relents with a groan.

“Okay fine. I went to school with several of the women you helped today. They were always everything I wasn’t: cool, popular, pretty. There isn’t any animosity between us now, but back then…I wanted to be like them so badly. That last woman, Sophie Westman? She was Homecoming Queen three years in a row. She had every hot guy in school wrapped around her finger. And seeing her talking with you…it just brought back a lot of insecurities, I guess.”

Pero is silent for a moment, then asks, “Are you angry with me?”

Tessa’s head snaps up.

“No,” she says emphatically. “Oh god, Pero, no. You didn’t do anything wrong. And honestly, neither did she. I just…”

Pero watches color bloom high on Tessa’s cheeks as she looks away from him again, as if embarrassed by the whole thing. Then he understands.

“Angel,” he says, a smirk threatening to spread across his face, “are you jealous?”

“Ugh, I told you it was ridiculous!” Tessa wails, burying her head in her hands. “We also just haven’t had as much time together lately, and I miss you, and something about the way she touched you, like she was flirting with you, just got to me, even though it absolutely shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

But her apology falls on deaf ears as Pero steps closer, steadily invading her space until he has her crowded up against the wall behind her.

“Pero?”

“You didn’t like that, mi amor? Someone else touching what’s yours?”

Suddenly Tessa’s skin is flushed and warm for an entirely different reason. Pero’s pupils are blown wide and he straightens to his full height, looking down at Tessa in a way that never fails to make her stomach flip at how small and slight it makes her feel. She shakes her head in response to his question and he hums in approval of her answer.

Angus is fussing with the register, and would have to turn all the way to the right to look directly at them. And with his headphones still in, there’s no way he could hear them, but Pero leans down to murmur in her ear anyway, the rasp in his voice making her tremble.

“Perhaps you could remind me, then, of who I belong to.”

A beat of silence. And another, as Tessa’s brain attempts to catch up to the rest of her. Then she slides around him, grabbing his wrist to tug him along after her.

She leads him to the back of the store, down a small hallway that ultimately leads to the inventory storeroom, the employee break room, and Amie’s office. Tessa stops short of all of these and instead pulls Pero into a tiny storage closet with - importantly - a door that locks.

Barely is the door closed when Tessa drags Pero down to meet her in a crushing kiss. A feral little growl escapes her that Pero eagerly inhales. He lets her turn him around and push him up against the back of the door, doing her best with her smaller frame to hold him there.

They fumble at each other in the dark, the light coming in from under the door just enough to make out the outline of their features. Pero smells of sweat and snow and pine needles, and Tessa buries her nose in the soft sweater fibers near his collarbone and pulls his scent into her lungs. Pero wraps his hands around her hips and presses her against him. He doesn’t miss the little gasp she lets out at the feeling of his hardening cock already evident through their layers of clothing.

“Feel that, angel?” Tessa shudders against him. “Feel what you fucking do to me?”

She whimpers in response.

“Just for you, mi amor.” Pero threads his fingers through the hair at the base of her neck and tugs her head up so he can claim her mouth once more. “There is only ever you.”

“I know,” Tessa whispers, shoving her hands underneath his sweater to run her hands over his bare skin. “I know — ”

She trails her fingertips down over this stomach, letting her nails barely scrape his skin. Pero sucks in a breath.

“More,” he groans. “Harder.”

Tessa pauses, uncertain.

“Are you sure?”

Pero takes Tessa’s hands in his own, sliding one back up under his shirt and pressing the other over the hard length of his cock. He pushes Tessa’s fingernails into the skin of his chest, much harder than she’d ever have dared to, and he can just barely see her eyes widen at how his cock twitches violently at the sensation.

“Please, mi amor,” he rasps. “I want it. Let me bear your marks. Let them all see that I’m yours.”

Tessa drags her nails down his stomach, hard enough that she’s sure to leave thick red welts behind, but the sound of pleasure Pero makes is enough to nearly make her knees give out.

She shushes him with a kiss before running her lips over his throat, sucking at his skin and worrying it between her teeth to leave a trail of bruises in her wake. Another run of her nails down Pero’s torso has him rutting against her other hand. Pero bunches up the skirt of her dress and gropes the curves of her ass through her fleece-lined tights.

It kills him a little, the thought that Tessa might see him interact with another woman and feel wounded by it, even if he knows his actions are not the cause. He’d take his dagger to his own flesh before willingly causing her pain.

And yet…

And yet her jealousy tugs at something selfish inside him too. Something that revels in her possessiveness, at the notion that, for the first time he can ever remember, someone has laid claim to him out of love, rather than bought him and his sword for violent ends. And to see Tessa bare her teeth and be willing to defend that claim…

Sometimes it feels like he can’t breathe with how much he loves her.

“How do you want me?” He asks, reaching down to still her hand on his cock before she pushes him past a point of no return.

There isn’t much room to maneuver in the cramped, dark space, but after some shuffling Tessa has her front pressed up against the door with Pero behind her. He flips her dress up over her back and tugs her tights down to her knees. One hand caresses her backside while the other dips between her thighs. His fingertips come away wet, but Pero knows he’s still a lot to take without any prep. If they were home, he’d make sure she was ready, he’d wait until he knew he could slide inside her without issue, aided by the slick of at least one orgasm.

Tessa seems to sense his hesitation.

“Take me just like this, Pero,” she says bossily over her shoulder.

Pero fumbles with the zipper on his jeans and pulls his cock out.

“Yes ma’am.”

He sneaks a hand around just below her mouth.

“Spit.”

She does.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, smearing it over his length. Grasping her hip, he tugs her backward and adjusts the angle, easing just the head of his cock inside her at first.

“Pero,” she whines trying to push herself back onto him, “Pero, come on — ”

“Hush.” He reaches around again and puts his palm over her mouth this time, fully taking back control. “Have to let me open you up, angel. I always take care of you, don’t I?”

She nods against his hand.

“That’s right. You wanted me to fuck you, and I’m going to fuck you, and you are going to be quiet and take it, hm?”

Her moan of assent is muffled. Pero places a kiss to her shoulder blade.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and Tessa obediently slides a hand down to rub at her clit.

Slowly, inch by inch, he fills her. Her tights around her knees force her legs to stay together, making Pero feel even bigger inside her, the walls of her pussy squeezing him even more tightly. As he at last starts to move in earnest he wishes for more light, wishes he could watch the way she takes all of him, the way her ass ripples and bounces with every thrust, her greedy little hole swallowing every inch of him.

Pero’s never been a man of many words. He’s never had much use for them, knows he has especially little talent for articulating his feelings. But in moments like these he sometimes yearns for the ability to mold his love into poetry, to express to Tessa exactly what she means to him. He settles instead for trying to show her with his body, to convey his devotion with every long drag and deep stroke of his cock, every firm grasp and soft touch, every nip of his teeth and brush of his lips.

He thinks she understands. He hopes she does.

She whimpers into his palm, a sound he knows well even if she can’t currently form words.

“I know, angel, I know. Let it happen. Give it to me. Give me what is mine, and you can have what is yours.”

Tessa’s body goes taut, her cunt clamping down impossibly tight around Pero’s cock. She’s mere seconds into her orgasm before he follows her, both of them trying to keep quiet as they ride their pleasure together.

Finally, they still, the air in the tiny space hot and humid and reeking of sex. As gently as he can, Pero pulls out, turning Tessa around and gathering her into his arms, waiting for both of their hearts to stop racing.

“I love you,” she mumbles into his sweater after a minute. “I’m sorry for being weird earlier.”

Pero hushes her, his nose rubbing back and forth along her hair as he shakes his head.

“Do not be sorry, Tessa. If this is the outcome, I can hardly complain.”

She smacks him weakly on the arm, but he can feel her chuckle. She raises her head to look at him, just able to see the sliver of light under the door reflected in his eyes.

“I trust you completely, you know that, right?”

“I do.” He presses a kiss against her forehead, soft but reassuring. “Te amo, angel.”

Together they do their best to put each other’s hair and clothing back into a semi-presentable state, hoping neither of them runs into Tessa’s sister on the way out.

Tessa cautiously opens the door and peeks out before stepping into a blessedly empty hallway.

“C’mon, Pero, let’s go home.” She turns back and gives him a cheeky grin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

A hint of purpling skin peeks out from the collar of Pero’s sweater. He smiles back at her, and it feels like a gift every time he does.