You had danced until your feet hurt. Laughed until your stomach ached. Let one of your friends fix your lipstick with her thumb, both of you giggling in the mirror like girls who had never known fear. Someone had bought a round too many, and someone else had said something filthy enough to have you nearly choking on your drink.

By the time you all stepped out into the cold, your cheeks were sore from smiling.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk with you?” Clara asked, tightening her coat around herself.

You shook your head, still smiling. “I’m nearly home.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know,” you said, nudging her with your shoulder. “But you live the other way. I’ll be fine.”

Maggie gave you a look. “Tommy would have our heads if he knew we let you walk alone.”

“Tommy doesn’t own the streets.”

The three of them stared at you.

You rolled your eyes. “Alright. He owns most of them.”

That made them laugh, the sound carrying out into the foggy road. Clara kissed your cheek. Maggie squeezed your hand. Ada — not Tommy’s Ada, but your Ada, your friend with the same sharp tongue and no patience for men — pointed at you with a gloved finger.

“Straight home.”

“Yes, mother.”

“I mean it.”

You softened at that. “I know. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They split from you at the corner, their figures disappearing slowly into the yellow smear of streetlamps. For a little while, you could still hear them laughing, their voices thinning with distance.

Then there was only the sound of your own shoes.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The street felt different once you were alone.

It always did.

The fog seemed lower, curling around the edges of buildings, collecting in the mouths of alleys. The noise from the pub faded behind you until it was just a dull murmur beneath the wind. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then went quiet. A window shutter tapped softly against its frame.

You pulled your coat tighter and kept walking.

You were not far.

That was what you told yourself.

Not far from home. Not far from the door. Not far from warmth and Tommy’s cigarette smoke and the familiar sound of him moving through a room as if every bit of it belonged to him.

Your fingers found the edge of your purse, holding it close against your side.

The first time you heard the footsteps, you did not think much of it.

Birmingham was never truly empty. Men came home late. Men left home later. Drunks wandered. Workers dragged themselves back after long shifts. Boys lingered in alleys with cigarettes and too much nerve.

You kept walking.

The footsteps kept pace.

Not close.

Not far.

Just there.

Your smile faded before you even noticed it was gone.

You turned your head slightly, not enough to look afraid, only enough to glance over your shoulder. Behind you, the street stretched dim and damp, smoke and fog blurring the far end of it. A man crossed in the distance, but he went the other way, collar up, hands tucked beneath his arms.

No one else.

You breathed out a small laugh at yourself.

“Stupid,” you whispered.

Still, you walked faster.

So did the footsteps.

Your stomach tightened.

You told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. That the gin had made your head too light. That Tommy’s world had crawled too far under your skin, making shadows look like threats and silence sound like warning.

But then the footsteps stopped when you stopped.

You froze beneath a streetlamp.

The light above you buzzed, weak and yellow, flickering once over the wet cobbles. Your pulse began to thud hard enough that you felt it in your throat.

You turned.

Slowly.

There was a shape near the mouth of an alley.

A man.

You could not make out his face at first, only the dark coat, the flat cap, the way he stood half-hidden where the light did not touch him. He was not walking now. He was watching.

Your mouth went dry.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then he stepped forward.

You turned and hurried.

Not running yet. Running felt like admitting something terrible was happening, and some frightened, stubborn part of you was still trying to deny it. You could see your road now. The corner. The turn. Home was close enough that you almost wanted to cry from it.

Almost home.

Almost home.

Your breath quickened. Your shoes scraped harder over stone. Your hand shook as you dug for the small key in your purse, fingers fumbling through lipstick, coins, a folded handkerchief.

Behind you, the pace changed.

Faster now.

You looked back just as he reached you.

A hand caught your arm so hard pain shot up into your shoulder.

You opened your mouth to scream, but he slammed you sideways into the brick wall before the sound could properly leave you. The back of your head struck first, then your shoulder, then your cheek scraped rough against the brick.

The world flashed white.

Your purse slipped from your hand and hit the ground, spilling open. Coins scattered across the cobbles. Your lipstick rolled into the gutter. The little compact Polly had once given you cracked beneath someone’s boot.

You sucked in air, dizzy, trying to twist away.

The man grabbed the front of your coat and shoved you back again.

“Quiet.”

His voice was low and rough, soaked in cheap gin.

You tried to hit him. Your hand caught his jaw, nails scraping skin, and for half a second there was satisfaction in the way he hissed.

Then his fist struck your mouth.

Pain burst hot across your face.

You stumbled, tasting blood immediately, thick and metallic on your tongue. Your knees nearly gave, but he held you up only to throw you down. Your body hit the street hard, hip first, then palms, skin tearing against grit and stone.

You tried to crawl.

You didn’t think about dignity. Didn’t think about your torn stocking, your missing shoe, your hair falling loose from its pins. You only thought of the corner. The door. Tommy.

Your fingers slipped against the wet ground.

The man caught your ankle and dragged you back.

A sound tore out of you then, broken and panicked, but the street swallowed it. Or maybe you were not loud enough. Maybe fear had closed too tightly around your throat.

He kicked you in the ribs.

Once.

Hard.

The air vanished from your lungs.

Your body curled around the pain before you could stop it. You pressed one hand to your side, mouth open, unable to breathe. For a moment, you were certain something inside you had cracked.

The man crouched beside you, grabbing your hair near the roots and forcing your face up.

You saw pieces of him.

A pale scar near his chin. A dark ring on his right hand. Blood on his cheek where you had scratched him. Mud caked along the edge of his boot. His breath smelled sour, gin and smoke and rot.

“Pretty thing like you,” he muttered, “should’ve known better than to belong to a Shelby.”

Your eyes burned.

He knew.

The fear changed shape inside you. It became colder. Deeper.

This was not bad luck. This was not some drunk man seeing a woman alone.

This was a message.

He shoved your face away, and your temple struck the street. You heard yourself cry out, but it sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else.

“Tell Thomas Shelby,” he said, leaning close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear, “men remember what he takes.”

You tried to look at him. Tried to remember him. Tried to keep your eyes open through the blur of tears and blood.

Ring. Scar. Torn cuff.

You gripped his sleeve and pulled with everything left in you. Fabric ripped under your fingers.

He cursed and raised his hand again.

Then a voice cut through the street.

“Oi!”

The man froze.

Another voice followed, louder, rougher.

“Get the fuck away from her!”

Arthur.

Even through the blood rushing in your ears, you knew that voice.

The weight above you disappeared. The man shoved himself up and ran, boots striking hard against the cobbles as he vanished into the alley.

You tried to move, but your body would not obey.

Your cheek rested against the cold street. One eye would not open properly. Blood slipped warm from your split lip down to your chin. Your ribs screamed with every shallow breath.

Footsteps thundered toward you.

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur breathed. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

John dropped to his knees beside you first, his face white beneath his cap. “Y/n? Y/n, love, can you hear me?”

You blinked at him, but his face swam in and out of focus.

Arthur was pacing one step, then back again, like he did not know where to put his rage. “That’s Tommy’s girl. John. That’s Tommy’s fucking girl.”

“I know who she is!” John snapped, though his voice broke at the edges. He leaned closer, careful now, one hand hovering near your shoulder. “Y/n, look at me. Can you look at me?”

You tried.

Your mouth moved before sound came.

“Tommy.”

Arthur’s face changed.

All the fury in it cracked open into something almost afraid.

“Right,” he said, dropping down beside you. “Alright, sweetheart. We’re takin’ you home. You hear me? We’re takin’ you to Tom.”

John gathered your purse with shaking hands, shoving the spilled things back inside, while Arthur slid his arms beneath you as gently as a man like him could manage. Still, pain tore through you when he lifted you, and you cried out against his coat.

“I know, I know,” Arthur muttered, jaw tight. “Sorry, love. I’m sorry.”

You pressed your face weakly against him, blood staining the lapel.

John walked fast beside you, one hand at your back as if he could keep you from breaking apart. He kept looking behind him, teeth clenched, eyes sharp and wild.

“Did you see him?” Arthur asked.

“Only the back of him.”

“Fuck.”

“She scratched him,” John said, glancing down at your bloody fingers. “Look.”

Arthur’s hold tightened a fraction.

You barely heard them after that.

The streets blurred.

Light, fog, brick, footsteps.

Somewhere between the corner and Tommy’s door, you slipped in and out of yourself. One moment you were in Arthur’s arms. The next you were back on the ground, tasting blood, hearing that voice.

Tell Thomas Shelby.

Then a door opened.

Warmth hit your face.

Voices stopped.

For one terrible second, there was only silence.

Tommy stood in the doorway.

He had not been expecting this. You knew that at once, even through the haze. Tommy expected many things. Betrayal. Blood. Guns. Men coming to him with bad news and worse intentions.

But he had not expected his brothers to bring you home like this.

His cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.

Arthur shifted you in his arms. “Tom.”

Tommy did not move.

His eyes moved first.

Over your face. Your split lip. The blood at your temple. Your torn sleeve. The dirt on your knees. The way your hand hung weakly against Arthur’s coat.

Something went out of his expression.

Or maybe something came in.

Something cold enough to freeze the room.

“What happened?” he asked.

His voice was quiet.

Too quiet.

John swallowed. “Someone got to her on the way home.”

Tommy’s eyes lifted from you to him.

“Who?”

“Don’t know.”

Arthur shook his head. “He ran before we could catch the bastard.”

Tommy stepped forward then, slowly, like if he moved too fast the violence inside him might come loose before he meant it to. His hand came near your face, then stopped just short of touching you.

You wanted to say his name.

You tried.

It came out broken.

His eyes snapped back to yours, and for the first time, his face shifted.

Only a little.

Enough.

“Y/n.”

Your name in his mouth made your eyes fill again.

Tommy turned his head, his voice still controlled but sharper now. “Polly!”

She appeared almost instantly, tying her robe around herself, irritation already on her face until she saw you.

Then she went still too.

“Bring her in,” Polly said.

Arthur carried you to the sitting room, laying you carefully on the sofa while John hovered uselessly nearby, still holding your ruined purse. Tommy stood over you, one hand flexing at his side.

Polly moved faster than any of them. She snapped orders before anyone else could breathe.

“John, water. Clean cloths. Arthur, stop standing there looking like death and get the whiskey. Thomas—”

“I’m staying.”

Polly looked at him once.

“You’ll frighten her looking like that.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened.

“She’s not frightened of me.”

“No,” Polly said, softer but no less firm. “She’s frightened because of you.”

The room changed.

Arthur looked away.

John stopped moving.

Tommy’s eyes did not leave Polly’s face, but something in him absorbed the hit. You saw it. The way his throat moved once. The way his mouth pressed into a hard line.

Polly stepped closer to him.

“You go out there with murder written all over you, and she’ll think this is her fault. Stand there if you can be gentle. Leave if you can’t.”

For a moment, you thought he would argue.

Then your fingers twitched against the sofa.

Tommy saw.

He crouched beside you, all that cold fury forced down behind his eyes. Carefully, slowly, he took your hand. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, avoiding the torn skin.

“Who was it?” he asked quietly.

Your lips trembled.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s alright.”

“He…” You swallowed, wincing at the blood in your mouth. “He knew me.”

Tommy went very still.

Polly paused with the cloth in her hand.

You forced yourself to keep going because you knew it mattered. Because Tommy needed pieces. Tommy could build a whole death sentence out of pieces.

“Said…” Your breath caught when your ribs pulled. “Said I should’ve known better than to belong to a Shelby.”

Arthur swore under his breath.

Tommy’s hand closed more tightly around yours, then loosened at once as if he remembered you were hurt.

“Anything else?” he asked.

You blinked hard. “Ring. On his right hand. Dark stone, I think. Scar here.” You lifted your fingers weakly toward your chin. “I scratched his face. Tore his sleeve.”

Tommy nodded once.

That was all.

One nod.

Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your hand, so gently it hurt worse than if he had shouted.

“You did well,” he said.

“I was nearly home.”

His face changed again, and this time he could not hide it fast enough.

“I know.”

“I was nearly—”

“I know, love.”

Polly touched your shoulder. “Let me clean you up now.”

Tommy stood.

Your hand tightened around his before he could fully pull away.

Panic rose fast, sudden and humiliating. “Don’t go.”

The words were small.

Tommy looked down at your hand gripping his sleeve.

For a second, the whole room waited.

Then he bent close, his mouth near your ear.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said. “Polly will sit with you. I’ll be back before morning.”

You knew what that meant.

You knew where he was going.

Part of you wanted to beg him not to. Another part of you remembered the man’s hand in your hair and his voice in your ear and could not speak at all.

Tommy kissed your forehead, just above the bruise beginning to rise.

Then he looked at Polly.

“Look after her.”

Polly’s face hardened. “Always.”

Tommy turned to his brothers.

The softness vanished from him completely.

“Arthur. John.”

Arthur was already reaching for his cap.

John set your purse down with shaking care and followed.

At the door, Tommy stopped without turning around.

“Lock this house.”

Then they were gone.

☾ ⋆｡𖦹 °✩

Polly cleaned you with hands that were firm but kind.

She wiped blood from your mouth, your cheek, your brow. She checked your ribs with careful fingers and muttered curses under her breath when you flinched. She helped you out of your ruined coat and torn dress, wrapped you in something warm, and made you drink a little water even when your lip stung.

You cried only once.

Not loudly.

Not in a way that made the house shake.

It happened when Polly tried to wash the blood from your hands and you saw the red beneath your nails.

His blood.

Yours.

You didn’t know.

Polly saw your face crumple and sat beside you at once.

“Here now,” she said, pulling your hands away from the basin. “Look at me.”

“I couldn’t stop him.”

“You’re alive.”

“He knew who I was.”

Her expression tightened with something old and tired.

“I know.”

“He knew Tommy.”

“Most men in this city know Tommy.”

“That’s why he did it.”

Polly did not lie to you.

Maybe that was why you trusted her.

She held your hands in the towel and lowered her voice.

“Men like that don’t need much reason to be cruel. If it wasn’t Tommy, it would’ve been something else. Your dress. Your smile. The fact you were alone. Don’t hand him more power than he already took.”

You stared at her through watery eyes.

“He said I belonged to a Shelby.”

Polly’s mouth twitched, not with humor.

“You belong to yourself first.”

The words settled somewhere deep, though not deep enough to fix anything.

Nothing fixed it that night.

Not the fire. Not the whiskey Polly made you sip. Not the blanket tucked around your shoulders. Not even the knowledge that Tommy was out there with Arthur and John, turning Birmingham over stone by stone.

You sat awake until dawn.

Every noise made you flinch.

Every footstep outside pulled your breath short.

And when Tommy finally returned, the sky outside was grey and thin, and his coat smelled of smoke and cold.

There was blood on his cuff.

Not yours.

You saw it before he could hide it.

He paused in the doorway when he noticed you were awake.

Polly stood from the chair beside you. Her eyes moved over him once, reading everything.

“Done?” she asked.

Tommy took off his cap.

“Yes.”

That was all he said.

No details.

No names.

No grand promise that the man had suffered. He did not need to say it. It was there in the quiet. In Arthur’s absence. In John’s pale face behind him. In the way Tommy’s eyes looked almost black when they came back to you.

Polly left the room without another word.

Tommy crossed to you slowly.

You were curled beneath a blanket on the sofa, too sore to move properly. Your lip was swollen. One side of your face had bloomed purple near the cheekbone. Your ribs ached when you breathed too deeply.

Tommy lowered himself onto the table in front of you, close enough that his knees nearly touched yours.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then he said, “He won’t come near you again.”

Your eyes burned.

“Is he dead?”

Tommy looked at you.

The answer sat between you.

You nodded once, though you did not know if you felt relief or horror or both.

Tommy reached for your hand.

This time, his hands were clean.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked up, startled.

Tommy Shelby did not say those words often. Not because he never meant them, but because meaning them cost him too much.

His gaze held yours.

“I should’ve had someone walk you home.”

“I told the girls I’d be fine.”

“I should’ve had someone there.”

“You can’t have men follow me everywhere.”

“I can.”

“Tommy.”

“I can,” he repeated, and there was steel beneath it now. Fear dressed as command. “And I will.”

You looked away.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“What?”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not living.”

His jaw shifted.

You hated the hurt that crossed his face, brief as a match strike.

“I just want you safe.”

“I know.”

“That man touched you because of me.”

The words were blunt, almost cruel in their honesty.

You looked back at him.

Tommy stared at your bruised face like it was evidence against himself.

You reached for him despite the pain in your side. Your fingers brushed his wrist.

“He touched me because he was a coward.”

Tommy’s eyes flicked to yours.

“And because he wanted to hurt you,” you whispered. “But that doesn’t make it your hand that did it.”

Something in Tommy’s face pulled tight.

He leaned forward slowly, resting his forehead against your hand. For a moment, he did not look like the man Birmingham feared. He looked tired. Young in a way he never allowed himself to be. Haunted in the way only you ever seemed to catch.

“I’ll kill every man who thinks your name is a way to reach mine,” he said.

You believed him.

That was the problem.

☾ ⋆｡𖦹 °✩

For the next few days, the house became your whole world.

Polly came and went. Ada sat with you when she could. John brought flowers and acted offended when you asked if he’d stolen them. Arthur lingered in doorways, guilty and quiet, until you finally told him to stop looking at you like that and come sit down.

Tommy stayed closer than anyone.

He worked from home, held meetings behind closed doors, and slept lightly beside you at night. Every time you woke from pain, dreams, or footsteps that weren’t really there, he woke too. He never told you it was over. Never told you to be brave. He only reached for you slowly and waited for you to come closer.

The bruises faded.

The fear did not.

You still flinched when someone knocked. You still hated standing with your back to the door. And every time you thought about stepping onto that street again, your body remembered brick, blood, and a hand in your hair.

On the fourth evening, Tommy came into the bedroom while you were sitting at the vanity.

“Come out with me tonight,” he said.

Your fingers stilled on the pin in your hair. “Out?”

“Dinner. Somewhere quiet.”

You looked at him through the mirror. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll be with you.”

“I know.”

“And no one will bother you.”

You stared down at your hands. Part of you wanted to say yes just to prove you could. To put on a pretty dress, let him hold your coat, and pretend the world had not changed.

So you nodded.

“Alright.”

Tommy’s shoulders eased slightly. He kissed the top of your head.

“We’ll go slow.”

You dressed carefully, choosing a blue dress because you knew he liked you in blue, even if he rarely said it. When you came downstairs, Tommy looked at you for a moment too long, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

The words warmed you.

You smiled. “Thank you.”

He helped with your coat, his fingers gentle near your throat.

“Ready?”

You nodded.

You made it to the door.

That was all.

Your hand touched the handle, and your body stopped.

Your mind knew Tommy was beside you. Your mind knew the man was gone. Your mind knew you were safe.

But your body remembered the footsteps.

The brick.

The blood in your mouth.

Tommy noticed immediately.

“Y/n.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, but your voice shook.

He stepped closer, careful not to crowd you. “Look at me.”

You shook your head. “I can go. Just give me a second.”

“We don’t have to go.”

Your eyes burned. “I said I can.”

“I know you can,” Tommy said softly. “You don’t have to prove it to me.”

That broke you.

Your hand slipped from the door, and you turned away as the first sob came out small and angry.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“I don’t know why I’m—”

“No.” His voice was firm now. “You don’t apologize to me for being frightened.”

You looked at him through tears. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I can’t even open a door.”

Tommy reached for your hands slowly, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t.

“You opened it before,” he said. “You’ll open it again. Doesn’t have to be tonight.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Then we wait.”

“What if I’m like this forever?”

His thumb brushed over your glove.

“Then I’ll love you indoors.”

You stared at him.

“And by the fire,” he continued quietly. “And in the kitchen. And when you make it to the door. And when you make it past it. However far you get.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he wiped it away carefully.

“You don’t have to be brave every minute.”

“I’m with you,” you whispered. “I should feel safe.”

“You can feel safe and still be scared.”

Tommy leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“No one touches you again,” he murmured. “Not in the street. Not in this house. Not while I’m alive.”

Then he reached past you, opened the door just enough for the cold air to touch your face.

You stiffened.

He saw.

Without a word, he shut it again.

“Right,” he said, taking off his coat.

You blinked. “Right?”

“We’re staying in.”

“But dinner—”

“Can come here.”

“Tommy.”

His mouth twitched faintly. “You wanted a date. I didn’t say it had to be outside.”

A weak laugh escaped you.

Within minutes, the house shifted around you. Food was brought in, candles were lit, and the fire was built higher. Tommy moved your chair close to his, not making a fuss, not making you feel fragile, just keeping you near.

You ate slowly. He talked quietly. Nothing about blood or business. Just small things. John being stupid. Arthur being worse. Polly threatening a man who deserved it.

By the end, you smiled for real.

Later, you sat beside him on the sofa, legs tucked beneath you. Tommy didn’t pull you in. He waited.

Eventually, you leaned against him.

His arm came around you, warm and steady.

Outside, hooves struck stone. A door slammed somewhere down the street.

You tensed.

Tommy’s hand moved gently over your arm.

“I’ve got you.”

You breathed in.

Smoke. Whiskey. Soap. Him.

The fear was still there, tucked somewhere behind your ribs. Maybe it would be there tomorrow too. Maybe for longer.

But Tommy’s hand stayed steady.

His mouth brushed your hair.

And for the first time in days, the room felt bigger than what had happened to you.

“I was almost home,” you whispered.

Tommy held you closer.

A wide smile broke out on Bee’s face. “That sounds fun,” she snuggled closer to him, a hand on his chest. 

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette on the brick of the balcony with the heel of his boot, while pulling her impossibly closer. “We’ll wait until the sun goes down,” he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Gather up some old quilts, maybe some whiskey to keep us warm, and we’ll find a nice spot.”

“Sounds awfully romantic, Mr. Shelby,” she giggled. 

“Oh, it is,” he smirked. 

An hour later, Bee had managed to round up all the old quilts. A really thick one for them to lie down on and two thinner ones to drape over themselves. Tommy met her by the back door, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, in just his undershirt and trousers. 

He traded her the bottle of whiskey for the bulky blankets and they set off, looking for the perfect spot among the tall grasses. 

They walked for a little bit, the house looming in the distance, lamps all turned down low now that everyone in the house was asleep. Tommy stopped under an apple tree, looked around and nodded. “I think this is good.” 

Bee giggled, wrapping her wool shawl around her shoulders, the night air getting a little chilly. “What makes it a good spot, Thomas?” 

“Well,” he started to unfold the thickest of the blankets, spreading it among the grasses. “We can still see the house, but it’s far enough off the road that when the milk delivery comes in the morning it won’t wake us, and we’re right under all the stars. See?” he pointed up at the sky as he rolled the top part of the quilt as a makeshift pillow. 

Bee looked up to where Tommy pointed. The stars twinkled against the black night sky, bright and unwavering. “Oh,” she gasped softly, moving towards him, almost magnetically. “I never got to see the stars like this in London,” she told him as she sank down onto the quilt. 

They lay on their backs, Tommy pointing out different stars, different constellations. It was something he’d learned from a comrade in France, Julius. Julius’ mother had spent years fixated on the moon, the stars, and had learned, and taught each of her children about them. One night, rattled from a near disaster in a tunnel, the men were looking for something, anything to distract their minds from the terror they’d faced that day. So, Julius, the kind soul he was, taught them all he knew about the stars over a passed bottle of whiskey. It made them forget, just for a fleeting moment, who they were and what they were doing. 

At one point, Bee stopped looking at the stars and looked at Tommy. Her eyes glassed over with adoration. His features all seemed more handsome in the moonlight. His high cheekbones illuminated, the roundness of the tip of his nose more endearing. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled or chuckled about something. 

He turned, finally aware of her gaze on him. “What?” he asked softly. 

She rolled onto her side to face him, draping a leg over his hips, a hand moving to rest on his chest. He almost instinctively moved, a hand moving to touch her leg, moving her nightgown skirt out of the way. 

“I love you,” she said simply, pressing her lips against his. 

He sighed, any remaining bit of tension easing out of his body as she moved closer to him. His hand slid farther up her leg as her hand moved to cup the side of his face, their kiss deepening. 

Bee moved to straddle his waist, Tommy’s hands moving to her hips, the curve of her arse, touching her softly, almost reverently. 

When she pulled away, forehead pressed to Tommy’s, she rocked against him, a groan escaping his lips. “Don’t start anything you won’t like to see me finish,” he groaned in warning, his grip on her hips tightening. 

“I want you to finish it,” she smiled gently against his lips. 

Tommy smirked, his hips moving against hers. “My proper wife wants me to make love to her out here? Where anyone could see us?” he teased. 

“Yes,” she nearly moaned against his lips. “Please, Thomas.” 

~~

The next morning, dawn broke over the horizon, but Tommy and Bee remained blissfully asleep, unaware of anything besides the others' warmth and heartbeat.  There was a slight chill in the air, the grasses around them cool and dewy.

Tommy was awoken by familiar voices in the distance. “Where the fuck would he go? And wherever he is, she’s sure to be with him,” he heard Arthur say, the faint rustling of the grass in the distance. 

“You don’t think they went to the Cotswolds and didn’t tell us, do you?” John asked, referring to the sweet cottage Tommy had bought Bee as a wedding present. As if Arrow House wasn’t enough of a wedding present. 

“No, he knows we have business today,” Arthur rasped. 

Tommy pulled the quilt up over Bee’s bare shoulder. She lie completely naked next to him under the quilts, warm and soft. 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Arthur rasped, noticing the dip in the grasses where they lay. “Found ‘em, John boy.”

Bee stirred next to Tommy, eyes squinting into the sunrise. She let out a little, surprised sound when she realized they’d been caught. “Well, well,” Arthur bit back a laugh. “Like the good ole’ days, huh, Tommy?”

Bee curled his chest, face flaming red from embarrassment. Arthur smirked when the quilt shifted, revealing the soft curve of her bare shoulders. “Owner of a whole estate and still sleeps out under the stars with his wife. Glad to see you’re not forgetting our roots, Tommy,” John teased. 

Tommy didn’t move. “Go on to the house, have Frances make you breakfast,” he nearly growled, arms tightening around Bee. “We’ll be up.”

Arthur and John chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, sure you will. Right after you-”

“Go,” Tommy growled, voice low, already annoyed, and only awake for barely five minutes. 

“Yeah, okay,” John smirked. “Mornin’, Bee. Glad you got some good rest. The fresh air helps you rest a bit better sometimes I think. You need it with how our brother here keeps you occupied all the time-”

“Go,” Tommy snapped a third time, a bite of finality in his voice. 

John and Arthur snickered as they turned back towards the house. 

Bee groaned. “We’ve been caught,” she chuckled. 

Tommy smiled, pulling her from his chest. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, my love. I’ve caught both of them in far more precarious positions.” 

Bee shook her head. “I don’t want to know.”

“No, you don’t,” Tommy chuckled.

“This was very nice. I think I’d like to do it again,” she smiled, stretching sleepily. 

“Good,” Tommy sat up, reaching for his undershirt and sliding it over his shoulders. “Because I plan on ravishing you under the stars as often as I can get you out here.” 

“Thomas!” she laughed, a flush creeping back over her face. “That was a one time occurrence!” 

Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Oh, was it?” 

Bee reached for her nightgown, pulling it over her head. “Well, maybe. Maybe I’ll allow it again in the future. If you’re really sweet.” 

“Oh, I am sweet,” Tommy quipped back, fighting back a smirk. He moved quickly atop her, hands on either side of her head, his knees bracketing her in place beneath him. “So sweet,” his voice rumbled low as he pressed kisses to the side of her neck. “That my wife gets anything she wants, whenever she wants. I spoil her rotten, really.” 

Bee giggled. “Your wife is lucky, Mr. Shelby. Are her teeth rotted from how sweet you are to her?” she gasped as he nipped at her earlobe. 

“No,” he pressed wet, sloppy kisses to her collarbones. “She does taste better than any sweet I’ve ever had, though.” 

“Thomas,” she moaned as his hand moved up her nightgown, finding her warm and wet. “Don’t tease me,” she whined, hips bucking against his hand as his thumb circled her clit. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispered. 

“Thomas,” she moaned again, a warning look on her face.

“What, Darling?” he asked softly, lips close to her ear. 

“Please, need you,” she whispered. 

“What do you need, gorgeous? Tell me," he asked, moving so his forehead was pressed against hers, voice low and gravelly.

“Oi! Tommy!” they heard Arthur yell from the back terrace. “Quit shagging your wife in the grass and come on! We’ve got a meeting in an hour!” 

Tommy groaned, dropping back onto the quilts, the romantic tension now shattered. “Wish we could just stay out here forever,” he mumbled, sighing.

“Maybe one day we can,” she smiled softly at him as he sat up, quilts pooling at his waist. 

He sighed as Arthur yelled something else in Romani that Tommy couldn’t quite make out, Arthur unable to hold back a laugh. “That day is not today, my darling, unfortunately.” 

Jaime Lannister had always been too much of everything—too golden, too confident, too certain the world would bend around him like a willing lover. The man before you was stripped of all excess. His hair hung lank and filthy, clotted with blood and straw. One sleeve of his tunic was dark and stiff where something had soaked deep and dried wrong. He was thinner than you remembered, his cheeks hollowed, his mouth drawn into something sharp and bitter that might once have been a smile.

And still, infuriatingly, his eyes were alive. Green, bright, assessing. Measuring you.

You hated that most of all—that even now, half-starved and caged like an animal, he looked. As if he were not afraid. As if he was not aching from pain and the cold. As if he looked at you, and saw with rattling clarity where he would stick his blade and cut into you the moment he weaseled his way to freedom. And somehow, he always did.

You wanted to pluck his eyes from his head. Wanted to dig your fingers in and pull until they ripped free, like emeralds in your hands. You wished to inflict some sort of pain on him. Something rotten had grown inside of you since this all began. Maybe it had been there all along - but now nothing clutched it back. Ever since you found Brans broke body at the bottom of the old keep, since Jory's limp form hit cobble stones and he flicked his blood from his blade like it was nothing, a starved animal had taken its place in you.

And every day you saw Jaime Lannister alive, fed, clothed, the animal grew hungrier, and hungrier, and hungrier. You didn't always know what it wanted, what would soothe the sickening turmoil you felt, but you did know something;

The man inside the cage would be tasty, he would be plenty even, for the gnashing teeth in your breast to swallow.

You didn't take your eyes off of him the entire way. Even when he stared you down, you didn't dare look away. Like neither could look away, for the other may pounce as soon as one of you did.

“Step aside.” You commanded the guard. The man — a boy, really — jerked his head to you. Lord Karstark’s son. His nose wrinkled, and he dusted his hands off as a he stood. “Milady. It’s his graces orders no one but him shall come in—“

“And I am the blood of your king.” Your head turned sharply to him. Your lips formed a thin line, as you remained firm where you were. Expectant of him.

"Milady, you shouldn't-"

"I told you to open it." You repeated. Karstark's bot didn't think twice of it. He knew better than to have to be told twice, especially by the blood of his king.

He stumbled to the door, head swiveling as if afraid Robb Stark would materialize from shadow and scold him for indulging his aunts wishes. You stood firm, watching the boys shaking hands. He wore no gloves, you noted. It was freezing, his fingers red from cold. The metal hurt, you were sure. Why had he no gloves? Surely he’d been provided some.

The lock protested when the boy finally turned it. A sharp, metallic shriek that clawed through the quiet, echoing far louder than it had any right to. The sound scraped along your nerves, raising something ugly and restless beneath your skin. You didn’t flinch—but your shoulders tightened, just a fraction, as if bracing for impact.

Jaime’s eyes flicked to the door at once. Instinctive. Calculating. You caught it, the way he tracked the movement without moving his head, the way a predator never truly stopped watching its exits. Then his gaze slid back to you, slow and deliberate, settling with infuriating ease.

The door dragged open, protesting every inch of the way. Cold air rushed in, stirring the filth and rot inside the cage. The smell thickened immediately—stale waste, old blood, damp straw and sickness layered so heavily it felt like breathing through cloth. Your stomach twisted, but your feet did not hesitate.

You stepped inside.

Straw crunched under your boots, damp and half-frozen, clinging to the hem of your skirts. The iron bars loomed close now, pitted and slick with grime. You could feel the cage in your bones—the weight of it, the intention of it. Designed not just to hold a body, but to diminish it.

The door slammed shut behind you with a heavy, final clang.

For a moment, no one spoke.

The guards remained outside. The boy scrambled back a step as if afraid the filth might reach for him. The world narrowed, sharpened, until it was only iron, rot, breath—and the man in front of you.

For the first time since the war began. Since your brother had been crowned and everything familiar had splintered into blood and banners. Since grief had become something you wore like another layer of skin—

It was only you and Jaime Lannister.

He spoke first. He always did.

"Lady Stark." His eyes trailed up the length of you, settling on your face. Not quite meeting your eye. "Such a cold evening, and you are braving it for I? How loving of you."

"I've no time for your jests." You replied.

You were not entirely sure as to why you'd came to him. But you had, and now you stood before him. Jaime was everything and nothing you'd imagined him to be.

"No time for jests? Then what are you here for? Do you merely enjoy the stench of shit?" He laughed weakly.

Silence hung. Thick and oppressive, your hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. Barely visible from beneath your cloak. You still could not understand how, or why, he could inspire such feelings in you. Bringing to the brink of tears of anger and frustration faster than any else.

Maybe because, in a different time, you almost admired him. You almost saw him as clean, and good. He was the man who murdered Aerys, after all. Not even Ned would have. You could recall many nights arguing with Ned over the very subject of the slaying of Aerys Targaryen. Ned said it was not right, no honorable. That Aerys should have came to some trial to answer for what he did. That he should’ve been slain by anybody but the one who swore his own life to defend him.

You felt it infinitely more satisfying that it had been Jaime in particular. Aerys must’ve felt safe with Jaime there that night — his loyal dog, a Kingsguard, ready at any time. The very hands meant to kill in his name, raising a sword to him. Sometimes, in your darkest of nights, you envisioned Aerys desperately trying to crawl away, trying to flee, as a young Jaime approached with death around him like a shroud.

In another life, maybe you’d admired Jaime for this. In another time, you would have loved him for it alone. Sworn your loyalty for it. But Jaime, was himself. And he had helped pick your family apart just as Aerys had, and any illusion of him you once cradled to your breast as a girl vanished.

You wished to kill him. And he knew that much.

“Or did you come to see if you could muster the nerve to end my life?”

“Ending your life would be a mercy you are undeserving of.” You replied. "Feeding you to animals would be too kindly, even."

"I appreciate your generosity then." Jaime leaned back, his shoulders rolling as if he were trying to make himself seem larger and more confident then he could possibly at the moment.

“You know,” he said lightly, his voice carrying far better than it should have for a man half-starved and caged, “I always wondered what it looked like from up there.”

His eyes dragged over you for a second time—not leering, not hurried. Measuring. Cataloguing. Taking in your posture, your clenched jaw, the way your weight sat forward on the balls of your feet, ready. You and Robb stood the same when furious, he noted, only you shook more like a pathetic little thing.

“Winterfell,” he went on. “Those towers. All that height.” His mouth curved, just barely. “Must’ve been comforting. Looking down on the rest of us. Knowing you were above it.”

Your lips peeled back in a sneer no one else had ever coaxed from you before.

“You Starks have a talent for it,” he continued. “Standing tall. Standing righteous. Watching the world soil itself beneath you while pretending you’re untouched by the mud.”

His gaze flicked briefly to your boots. The dark stains at their edges.

Then back to your face.

“Tell me,” he said, softer now, almost curious. “From atop your high horse—how small do I look to you now?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. That old, familiar arrogance clawing its way through the ruin.

“I must look tiny,” he mused. “Pathetic. Insignificant.” His eyes glinted. “A rotten little thing in chains. A worm, maybe.”

He tilted his head, watching you far too closely.

Yes, you wanted to reply. Yes, and I want to smear you into the muck where you belong, but you aren't even worth my boot.

No one had ever looked upon you, listened to you a mere handful of times, and understood exactly where the fleshy parts of you stood so fast.

"Is that what he looked to you, my lady?" He asked, his words lazy. As if he was the one leading this, as if you were the prisoner. In some thoughts, that was true.

"Who?" You curtly replied.

"Your beloved brother." He quickly replied. "Not the one who choked. Or the one who ran for the wall with his cock tucked between his legs."

You could have struck him hard enough to take his head from his shoulders. He would have loved to have seen you try. To see you weep in a blistering rage he caused. He found himself almost excited at the idea of you laying your hands upon him.

"Lord Eddard. The honorable Eddard Stark." His words curled like a living thing. Jaime leaned his head back, the back of it meeting the wooden pole he was bound to gently. The silver of his collar used to keep his tightly restrained glinted.

"You loved him so. It was pathetic to see, really. He couldn't love anything more than honor itself. Well..." He drawled, his eyes casting sideways. You took the bait because you were no better then he.

"Well?" You demanded. "Speak plainly, Kingslayer. Before I have your tongue removed and fed to the pigs." "Remove my tongue? My lady, quite a few seem to think it's one of my best qualities.” He feigned concern. If his hands had not been bound, he likely would've had them pressed to his breast to aid to the dramatic posturing.

“In fact, I could show you. I know how freezing it is up here. Why don’t you lift your skirts, and I can warm—“

"Enough!”

Your words resounded like a slap. For once, the Kingslayer took the note for silence. He tilted his head side to side, his posture relaxing slightly. He knew you could not hurt him. Not in a way that mattered to his father, anyway.

"I was going to say, the only thing he must've loved more was..."

His eyes slid back to your own. He held them.

"The whore he sired that godforsaken bastard on, no?"

Your blood turned to ice.

"He must've loved her a great deal. Enough to bring home that bastard on his hip like it was nothing - disgrace himself, his lady wife, the whole of House Stark, really." He sighed dreamily. “Quite romantic.”

Jaime cocked his head, and his lips turned into a small, mocking smile.

"Or, mayhaps, she just had the best cunt in Westeros?"

Something inside of you caved inwards. Something filthy, that had merely been sheltered by rotten supports and bones that finally could no longer contain it. The beast you’d dreamt of being, the one who devoured those wrongful men with your fingers and teeth, became a real living creature in one moment.

Jaime was like a pile of fresh, bleeding meat to satiate that monstrous, furious beast.

In a moment, you were on him. Your blade singing as it slipped past its sheath on your hip. Your free hand grabbed the back of his neck violently, as he instinctively tried pull his head back upon seeing the flash of silver. Had one not seen the blade, heard the words exchanged, the posture and motions almost resembled that of lovers crashing together. But, that was not what this was.

You pressed the blade to his throat. Right over where it was the warmest, despite the cold. The blade pressed more and more. Your breath was warm against his freezing face, coming in hot puffs from your mouth. Your lips had peeled back in a snarl, your nose crinkling. You looked like an animal, he’d thought. Like a snarling animal, furious and certain of what it would do. She is going to eat me.

Your eyes were the most alive he’d ever seen them.

As you knelt over his stretched leg, one hand cupping the back of Jaime’s neck while your blade kissed flesh with the other, you saw it. With rattling clarity, you saw it.

You were as capable as he.

You too, when pushed far enough, would resort to the same violence that had crippled Bran. That had killed Jory. And he managed to coax it out of you with mere words. Not even true threats.

Taunts and words.

You had toppled from your pedestal.

You released him as if he had burned you. Your hands recoiling fast and hard, nearly dropping your blade in the process.

He could see it in your eyes. So wide now, so horrified. He’d never seen a Stark look like that. You’d always looked so, high above it, he had thought before. Always firm, and unshakable. It had been admirable, in a way — almost the antithesis of his own smirking mask. But now?

Now your hands shook. Those wide eyes, the ones he just now truly noticed, staring at him, then your blade. Then him once again. You looked human, he thought. It should’ve been a cathartic feeling. For one reason or another, it wasn’t. He felt no satisfaction from your dawning horror and revulsion.

“Easy, isn’t it.” Jaime hoarsely remarked. His voice quieter, a rasp into freezing air. “The things you find yourself capable of.”

Your eyes jerked back to him. They’d been locked on the blade. Your stomach churned in disgust. Your gloved hands still shook.

You and him were made of the same beast. The snarling great thing, that curled around what it loved tight enough to choke — and what bared its filthy teeth at anything that came too close.

Your lips parted once, twice. Words trying to come out but you could manage nothing. Not even a cold comment, or a wish for death. You saw too much of yourself to say a single word.

“You are revolting. Vile. You are made of the filth of the earth and—“

“Filth it seems you are capable of wallowing in — with enthusiasm, even.” Jaime immediately bit back. He nodded to your now muddied skirts. “If you’d only wished to get dirty with me, you merely could have asked.”

You hated him. You hated him.

“You and I.” Jaime plainly stated.

“I am nothing like you.” You hissed. In that moment you wished you were the great beast you dreamed of being, so you could devour him alive and silence the bile spilling from his lips. I am clean, you nearly spat. But you weren't. You knew undeniably, you were not.

Something broke then—not loudly, not cleanly. It cracked like ice beneath too much weight. You saw it in his eyes.

Your voice came at last, low and shaking with restraint. “You do not get to name what I am.”

You turned sharply, skirts whispering against straw as you moved for the door. “Lock it,” you commanded again, harsher now, like a wound stitched too tight. The guards rushed to obey. The iron slammed shut between you, final and merciless.

You did not look back.

Behind the bars, Jaime sagged against the pole, breath shallow. The echo of your warmth lingered like a brand on his skin. Anger, fear, something close to perverted awe.

He swallowed hard.

Whatever you were, you were not untouched by the dark anymore. And neither, he realized too late, was he untouched by you.

There had been something raw, and unseen in you. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined anymore — the one carved from a weirwood itself.

You were flesh, blood, warmth and anger. Your warmth, even if made of anger, has grazed him.

Hazy memories drifted across the inside of his eyelids. That dark look in your eyes as he shifted, sitting too close for it to be considered professional. The sweetness of your mouth on his. Your skin soft under his fingers, his lips. The tight, hot velvet of your cunt.

Despite his raging hangover, his cock stirred.

"Oh, you're awake. I brought you a tea."

He jumped at her voice, blinking hard, pain slicing through his skull.

"Sorry," he mumbled, voice hoarse, his mouth gritty. Coughing, he awkwardly levered himself into a sitting position - his back easily regaining first place on the pain scales - and gratefully accepted the mug his wife was proffering, taking a much needed swig.

"Good night, was it?" she smiled, reaching for his pills as he struggled to twist to get them.

"Ta," he said, swallowing two in one mouthful of tea. "Yeah, a bit too good, I think."

The memory of your face as the car drove away darted across his vision like a slap, and he cleared his throat again.

Helen chuckled, sitting down by his legs. "What time was it when you got in?"

"No fucking idea." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Sorry if I woke you."

"S'alright, I'm used to it. Was out again right away."

"What time is it?"

"Almost ten."

"Fuck. Sorry, love. I'll get up now."

She leaned over, wrinkling her nose as she pecked him lightly on the lips.

"It's fine, they're just watching cartoons. Christ, you smell like a brewery. Were you pinching Amanda's smokes again?"

He felt colour rise to his face. "Only the one."

She laughed and patted his knee. "Do you want some toast?"

His stomach churned in protest.

"Nah, not yet. I'm not sure it'd stay there."

Shaking her head at him, she left him alone and he sagged back against the pillows, Bella running through his head and twisting in his guts.

*****

You were hiding in the back garden - if you could call it that, it was more of a yard really - sitting on the shallow step down to the rest of the paved rectangle that was littered with brown straggly plants in cracked pots. A cigarette burned between your fingers.

Behind you, raised voices echoed from inside the house and you took another long drag.

You never smoked unless you were back here.

Inside, something smashed, and the back door suddenly crashed open, bouncing off the grey pebble-dashed wall beside it.

"FUCK YOU!" your half-brother, Ash, yelled back into the small house, slamming the door so hard the frame wobbled.

Merry fucking Christmas.

"Gimme one of them, will you," he snapped, snatching the pack from your hand.

He was ten years younger than you - closer in age to the kids at Stanton really - and if one of the lads at school had done that, you'd have raised a brow and given them a firm but kindly talking to.

"Oi! Fucking watch it!" you snarled instead, grabbing them back, shoulders hunching against the cold.

"She's such a fucking bitch," he muttered, nicking your lighter from the ground beside you and drawing smoke heavily into his lungs, holding it so long it must have been almost painful.

"You let her get to you."

"And you don't?"

You shrugged in concession. "Yeah, well, I'm not the one wrecking the place, am I?"

"That was her, not me."

"She's drunk - you should know better by now."

He shook his head scornfully. "What do you even know about it anymore? You're never here."

You sighed, stubbing out your cigarette on the ground and folding your arms around you for warmth.

"If you let me help you with college - and stopped dealing for Mickey - you could get out of here too, y'know."

He blew out another long plume of smoke with a dry scoff.

"You think you're so much fucking better than us, don't you? You don't even sound the same anymore."

You shifted to look at him properly, lighting a fresh cigarette, his eyes flashing with the spark of the flame.

"You tryna start a fight with everyone tonight?"

He held your stare for a long moment before sagging slightly and shaking his head, dropping his eyes to the ground.

"If you ask Gran, she'd let you move in," you said more gently.

"Why can't I come and live with you?"

"'Cause Celia and I barely have room for us both, and I'm not having you bringing Mickey fucking Tomlinson's gear into my house."

"The gear pays the rent."

"Bullshit, it pays for you to go out with your mates and get smacked off your tits."

He crushed the end of his smoke under his toe and spat to the side. Voices raised indoors and something else smashed.

"It's only a matter of time 'til you get caught again, Ash. They won't let you off with a warning next time. Please… go to Gran's, let me help."

"You can't help anymore," he muttered, wrapping his arms around his knees like he used to when he was a kid and, just for a moment, he morphed into Shy in front of your eyes.

"Course I can," you said quietly, dropping your arm over his shoulders. "It's not too late yet."

*****

He fumbled his way through Christmas and new year with Helen and the girls, enduring the side-long glances from Helen's family, the conversations that stopped when he walked into a room.

It had been over be two years since the accident, since he'd been cut from the wreckage, since he'd undergone life-saving surgery and spent six months learning to walk again.

Two years since another family didn't have their little girl at their Christmas table and no presents for her under the tree.

It had been ruled as accidental death, that there was nothing he could have done differently to save either of them from their fates. But he knew what Helen's family thought of him, even if no one ever dared to say it aloud.

As January finally arrived, it was a relief to get back to Stanton Wood.

Except there you were, already in the staff room when he arrived. You looked up at his arrival and immediately looked back down at the file you'd been reading.

"Morning, Steve," you said quietly, drowned out in the other welcomes and cheerful calls of happy new year from the others. But he heard it, like you were the only one in the room.

"Morning, morning, happy new year," he replied, apparently to everyone but meant for you. But you didn't look up again.

"Come on, mate, physio time," urged Amanda, and as he went to lie down on the floor, his back complaining, he caught you glancing his way. Your eyes met and you looked away hastily.

Doing his exercises, trying not to audibly groan at the discomfort, he and Amanda took the staff through the start of term briefing. The boys would be back on Wednesday and they had two days to get everything set up and ready for their arrival.

"I want to spend tomorrow with the files," he said, wincing as he pushed himself back into a sitting position. Amanda held out a hand to help him to his feet and he dropped down into his office chair with a heavy breath. "Sit down with the files have a good look at the plans for each of them. Jenny will be with us after lunch so let's make the most of her time, alright?"

*****

And so the usual routines of the school began again. The boys exploded back in the building like a bomb-blast and it was all any of you could do to contain the damage. You hardly saw Steve apart from at morning briefings - as usual he was was run ragged all over the school, breaking up fights, putting out - sometimes, literal - fires, trying to keep the whole precarious show on the road.

Or perhaps he was avoiding you as much as you were avoiding him.

Occasionally, you caught him looking at you, and in those fleeting moments where your eyes met, your stomach turned over, breath catching in your chest. You'd spent most of the holidays doing your best to hate him for leaving you standing there like that but, deep down, you knew it had been stupid of you to think it could ever have been any different. He was married, he had kids. Of course he went home to them.

He could have just told you he was going though, you thought again, the sting of watching the car drive away still burning on your skin like a slap.

It wasn't until the start of the second week of term that he appeared at your classroom door, the clearing of his throat lifting you out of lesson planning.

"Hi," he said quietly, tentatively crossing the threshold.

"Hello, Steve."

He frowned at the formality of your tone.

"Bella, can we…" He looked around the corridor and shut the door, the ever-present rumble of noise in the school dying away. "Can we talk?"

You sat back in your chair, crossing your legs, and his eyes drifted to the movement before rapidly shifting back to your face. You raised an eyebrow and he cleared his throat again.

"About one of the boys?" you asked, feigning ignorance, determined not to make it easy for him.

He perched on the edge of one of the student desks and rubbed the back of his neck.

"No… I wanted to say sorry."

Brushing invisible fluff from the knee of your trousers, you shook your head slightly.

"And what exactly are you sorry for, Steve?" He opened his mouth but you carried on like he hadn't been about to speak. "For fucking me? For cheating on your wife? Or, perhaps, for leaving me standing on my fucking doorstep watching you drive away..?"

A pink flush spread across the tops of his cheeks and he looked at his hands for a moment before he met your eye again.

"All of it?"

It came like a kick in the stomach.

It was one thing to be sorry for leaving you standing there. But to be sorry it happened at all..?

"I'm sorry, Bella. I—"

The door crashed back on its hinges as Tarone barrelled into the room, stopping dead when he saw you and Steve.

"Don't you know how to fucking knock??" you snapped and his eyes widened; you never spoke to the boys like that. Immediately you held up your hands. "Sorry, Tarone. You just gave me a fright."

"Sorry," he mumbled, "I left my pad." He pointed across the room to where he'd been sitting for the last period of the day, his notebook still there.

"You're fine, go ahead. Steve was just leaving anyway."

"Right, yeah," Steve said, slapping his knees and slipping off the desk. "Thanks for that, Bella. I'll…umm… I'll see you later."

He left and you hopped out from behind your desk before Tarone to make his getaway, pad tucked under his arm.

"I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to snap," you said gently, resting a hand on his arm.

"Whatever," he muttered with a shrug and disappeared on his way.

Dropping back down behind your desk, you hid your face in your hands and sighed heavily.

You'd ruined it. After all the work you'd done to get to Stanton Wood, you'd fucking ruined it in less than a year by not being able to keep your fucking legs closed.

*****

You were haunting him. Lying awake next to his wife in bed at night, every time he closed his eyes you were there. He could still feel you, taste you, the smell of your perfume and the scent of sex in the air.

He was so hard he almost considered waking Helen. Almost.

Instead, he slipped out of bed - a not unusual occurrence since the accident because the pain often made it difficult for him to settle - and went downstairs. Popping two pills, he sat on the sofa in the dark, hand wrapped around his aching cock, reliving every moment of that night until, with your name on his lips, he painted his fist and stomach with sticky white ribbons.

Night after night he fought it, and it was almost as bad at school. He couldn't look at the sofa in the rec room without visceral memories of your tits bouncing in his face as you rode him. Or your lips stretched wide around his dick, watching him under your lashes as you sucked.

He did his best to avoid you, to be even more professional than usual, but even just walking past your classroom, seeing you teaching, or quietly working at your desk, conjured all kinds of notions.

More than once, he had to hide in the toilets down at the furthest end of the building for a frantic moment of relief.

For your part you didn't seem to be aware what you were doing to him. Or pay him much notice at all. You were perfectly civil and professional, nothing that would draw attention in any way, but you were colder, more aloof than before. If you had issues, he noticed that you'd started taking them to Amanda instead of him. Once or twice, he set the rotas so you'd be working together on an overnight or weekend shift, but every time you swapped with another member of staff, claiming they clashed with things in your personal life. Always making up for it by going above and beyond, just not when he was around.

*****

It was the middle of January and you were on a date with a guy Celia knew from work. He'd taken you to the fancy new wine bar that had opened up on the high street and you were nursing a glass of red, wishing you were anywhere else. You had got to stop agreeing to letting Cee set you up. The guy - Simon - was talking but you'd stopped listening quite some time ago, because it was evident your input was surplus to requirements.

Just as well really though because you couldn't stop your thoughts from drifting to Steve.

Did he bring his wife places like this, you wondered, swirling your wine idly. He would probably like this red you were drinking, if he was the one who had chosen the bottles for Christmas.

"Don't you agree?"

You blinked at the man opposite you, momentarily unable to conjure his name to mind.

"Of course," you nodded, sipping carefully and he smiled, comforted in his superior opinions.

"What is it you do—?"

He couldn't remember you name either. How could be possibly be expected to when he'd been only listening to his own voice for the past thirty-five minutes.

"Bella," you smiled and flicker crossed his face, it clearly not tallying with what he had been trying to recall. But why not give her a run outside Stanton, you thought. Bella was a lot more confident that you were. She broke up fights and seduced married men, after all.

"Right, yes. Sorry, Bella. Celia said you're a teacher? Is that right?"

"Yes."

He paused, his glass halfway to his lips, clearly expecting to not have to put any more effort into the conversation.

"And…where do you teach?"

"Stanton Wood. You might have heard of it?"

"Is that the private one, out past the golf course?"

You licked wine from your lips, noticing how his eyes followed the movement.

"Not quite, no. It's over by—"

"Wait, no, I do know it," he interrupted. "That's the one they send the delinquents to, isn't it?"

You sat up straighter. "We work with kids from challenging backgrounds who have struggled in other educational settings, yes."

"What's that like? Working with the dregs of society?"

"Excuse me?"

Panic flashed in his eyes, realising much too late he had insulted you.

"I mean—"

"You think they don't deserve educating just because they're more difficult than other kids?"

"No, of course not—"

"Not everyone gets to grow up with nice parents in the suburbs. Or with the safety and stability to get them back on track if they go off the rails."

He toyed with the stem of his glass, staring at the tabletop and you let the silence stretch taut.

"It's fucking hard work," you sighed, breaking the almost unbearable tension, and he looked up, his cheeks red. "They take everything you have and more, just to get the basics. But they're worth the effort."

"How did you get into working somewhere like that?"

You shrugged slightly. "I did my training at an inner city comp. In some ways, Stanton is a fucking dream compared to that, 'cause at least now I only have a handful of them at any time and not a class of thirty-five and half of them needing somewhere like Stanton." You smiled into your glass. "I fucking loved it. They scared the shit out of me every day and I loved it."

Looking up, you found him staring at you like you'd grown a second head.

"It's not for everyone."

You should have left then. He had no respect for what you did - or you, probably. But you didn't. Steve's rejection was still smarting within you and for all his questionable views, he wasn't unattractive, so you let him come back to your house.

Lying in bed next to him, wide awake after a fairly lackluster orgasm, your thoughts returned to Steve. He'd wanted you just as much as you wanted him, you were sure of it. Even if he regretted it, you knew that had been real. You'd felt it in the way he kissed you.

Sighing, you turned over and nudged Simon who was snoring next to you, waking him with a start.

"Can you go, please?"

"What??" he slurred groggily, squinting as you switched on the bedside light and pulled on a large tshirt as you got out of bed.

"Time to go home. I'll call you a taxi."

"Bella, it's late—"

Hands on your hips you sighed heavily.

"Come on, off you fuck, Simon. And my name's not Bella."

*****

Helen was away with some old school-friends on a girls' weekend. Laying on the sofa, most of a bottle of wine and several whiskeys deep, not really watching whatever was on, Steve's mind was once again on you.

He needed to fix what he'd broken. He knew he'd hurt you - he hadn't missed the wounded look in your eye that afternoon in your classroom, or the completely uncharacteristic way you'd snapped at Tarone. If he'd had a moment longer with you, he'd have told you he didn't regret what happened. That he wasn't sorry for that.

His dictaphone was lying on the coffee table from where he'd been setting himself reminders earlier, after getting the kids to bed - for once, his own, and not his motley crew of teenagers. Grabbing it, he stared at it for a long moment in his hand as an idea formed in his mind.

Settling back with a fresh tape in the device, he thought hard about how to start before he sank the end of his glass and finally pressed record.

"Bella, I know you probably don't want to hear from me, but please, can you do me this one favour and don't just switch this off, ok? I know you've been avoiding me and I get it. I do. I fucked up. But please, I just need to tell you something that I haven't been able to find a way to do up at the house."

He swiped his tongue over dry lips and cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, Bells, I really am. What I said that day in your room… it came out wrong. Because the only thing I was actually sorry about was leaving you there that night. That was a shitty thing for me to do and I've no excuse— I… I just panicked. Because of how much I wanted to stay.

"And I was going to. When I went back to the taxi I really was planning to pay him and tell him just to go on. But then I got there and I realised I didn't know how I was going to explain to my wife where I'd been. I couldn't even blame the lads… for once."

He laughed dryly, running a hand through his hair.

"I panicked and I'm so sorry. But I'm not sorry at all about what happened between us, Bells. In fact, I can't stop thinking about it. About you…"

*****

There was an envelope on your desk when you got to work on Monday morning. Opening it with a frown, you shook a cassette tape out into your hand with a small piece of paper. The sticker on the tape read 'FOR BELLA' in Steve's familiar scrawl. Unfolding the single sheet of lined paper that was with it, you read:

Please just listen. I'm sorry.

S x

With a flutter in your stomach, you tucked them both back back into the envelope, you stuffed it into your bag just as the door banged open - the customary greeting from the boys.

"Bella, tell Posh Carl he's a wanker," shouted Riley and, just like that, your day was underway, hurtling along like a runaway train.

It wasn't until that night when you were going to bed that you remembered about the tape. Climbing in under the covers, you put on the headphones of your Walkman, heart beating a little too fast.

It seemed unlikely that it was just another briefing tape.

For a second there was nothing but crackling silence and then his voice rumbled in your ears, in an earnestly hesitant apology.

I panicked and I'm so sorry. But I'm not sorry at all about what happened between us, Bells. In fact, I can't stop thinking about it. About you…

You stopped the tape in a rush, holding the little player to your chest, your breath coming too quickly.

He thought about you..? About what happened..?

With a shaky finger you switched it on again and he cleared his throat. You could hear rustling in the background, but that wasn't unusual for a Steve tape. He was always recording on the move, losing his train of thought for a second, stopping and starting.

The truth is, Bella, is that it's killing me not being able to touch you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You don't know what you do to me… One taste…

He laughed throatily again and it send a shiver through you.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. I know I shouldn't be saying this, I probably shouldn't even be thinking it…but I need you, Bella.

There was rustling again and his breath hitched slightly.

Fuck… if you were here right now, you'd see how true that is. How fucking badly I need you.

Holy shit… wait… was he touching himself while he was recording?? The very thought of it sent heat pooling between your legs.

I think about it every single day. I lie next to my wife at night and I'm fucking you in my head. Thinking about you that night, on your knees, with my dick in your mouth. That fucking perfect cunt of yours.

He grunted slightly, breath coming more quickly and your hand drifted down your body, slipping beneath your underwear until you had to bite back a moan, ashamed to feel how slick you already were.

I walk past your room and I want to go in, shut the door and just bend you over the desk, fuck—

His breathing hitched and your fingers began to slid in slow circles over your clit.

Bend you over your desk, or maybe lay you out on it. Spread those legs wide so I can watch that beautiful little cunt taking me so well. So I can see that pretty face you make when you cum for me.

He was panting more now and so were you, free hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sounds that threatened to spill free as you pushed two fingers inside yourself.

Do you think ever about that? Probably not… but I like to think that maybe you touch yourself and think of me, like I do about you.

His voice gave way to a groan and you thought you could hear the sound of him stroking himself, but it may have just been wishful thinking.

Are you touching right now? Listening to this..?

You bit down on your finger, desperately trying not to let Celia to hear you. In your ears, he laughed softly.

Maybe that's just me deluding myself, isn't it? But I wish I could see it. Spread them wider so I can see what you're doing, pretty girl.

He groaned and your back arched, a breathless whimper slipping out as your hand abandoned its post at your mouth, joining your other to rub tight, quick strokes across your clit while you worked your fingers inside you.

I'd wait 'til you were hanging by a thread and pull your hand away so you cum on my tongue instead. Fuck you taste so good, Bella, I could spend hours down there if you'd let me. Til you're fucking begging me to stop. Begging me to fuck you properly. Fuck, I wish you were here right now… can you hear what you do to me?

In the background there was the unmistakable sound of his fist frantically tugging on his cock and you could hear how wet you too, your fingers racing you towards the finish line with every filthy, breathless murmur of his voice in your ears.

Fuck…fuck...

He moaned, low and needy, and your fingers slid messily through your soaked pussy stroking and teasing, faster and faster.

I want you so fucking badly… I need you.

You were slipping, the end hurtling towards you so quickly it was like to hadn't touched yourself in weeks, and you heard him suck in a sharp breath, a heavy groan rumbling in your ears as he crashed over the edge.

Fuuuuck… I wish you were here so I could watch that leaking out of you.

It was barely more than a mumble - you weren't even sure he knew what he was saying, his panting breath loud in your ears, but it sent you falling. With a whimper you could barely contain, you let the waves take you, your legs clamping tightly around your hands, trapping them in place as you shuddered to a stop.

Shit… this isn't the tape I meant to make. I don't know if I'm going to ever give you this. But if I do, I hope you lasted longer than me.

His chuckle was cut short as the recording came to an abrupt end and you lay there, listening to the light crackle of the tape still spooling, blinking at your ceiling as you tried to get your breath back.

So… maybe you hadn't ruined everything, after all.

*****

You couldn't look him in the face the next day, a needy thrum beating between your legs every time you were in the same room. Pouring coffee from the pot in the staff room, you jumped when he came bustling in, almost spilling the burning liquid over your hand.

"You alright?" he asked as he stopped beside you to do the same.

"Yep, fine," you mumbled, glancing at him to find cool blue eyes burning into you with a question he couldn't ask out loud and you scurried away with a half-baked excuse about class.

For the next two days you avoided him. Yes, he'd left the tape for you. Yes, he'd made the tape in the first place. But did that mean he actually meant it? What if he regretted it but you'd already taken it home before he could take it back? And if he did mean it, what did that even mean? That he wanted to, what..? Have an affair with you?

Did people really do that in real life?? Leave filthy tapes by way of an apology to a co-worker after a drunken fuck, and then just start sleeping together?

You were anxious and distracted with the boys and they took full advantage of your inattention, causing more chaos than usual, carrying on out of their seats and shouting, until Amanda came storming into your room.

"Sit DOWN!" she thundered, making the boys - and you - jump, and an instant silence descended.

"Bella, do you need a hand?"

You shook your head and swallowed. "No, thanks Amanda, I'm ok. We're all just a little silly today, aren't we?" you said, turning to look at the boys who fidgeted with books and pens and refused to meet your eye.

"You alright?" she asked more quietly, with a concerned frown, and you nodded quickly.

"Sorry, it's as much my fault as theirs. I didn't sleep very well," you replied softly and she patted you on the shoulder.

"Fucking behave, you lot," she ordered as she disappeared and you blew out a breath, hands resting on your hips.

"Right, that's us told," you chuckled, earning a couple of half-hearted smiles in return. "Where were we? Shy, can you kick us off again please? Page 86."

*****

If there was one thing that was worse than having to do night shift at Stanton Wood, it was covering the weekend shift. Generally these were shared between staff so if you did the friday night shift, you stayed and worked on Saturday, and then another set of staff took over at five o'clock and did the rest of the weekend. The boys hated being sent to bed before midnight and were always ten thousand times more rowdy, with any small perceived slight or insult from one of the other lads much more likely to result in blows.

Bracing yourself for the Friday night, you packed up your classroom and locked it like you did every weekend, making your way round to the staff office. There was no one else there except for Steve.

"Oh, hi. Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," you said quietly when he jumped at the sound of the door, dropping something into his desk drawer and shutting it with a small bang.

"I was just in my own world," he smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes for a second. "You alright?"

"Yeah, just grabbing my stuff to get ready for the ring tonight." Rooting around in your bag under the desk across from him, you started pulling out your more comfortable clothes for the evening. "Have you seen Owen? Is he already with them?"

He didn't reply and you emerged from under the desk, clutching your small bundle of clothes.

"He's gone home," he said quietly, colour beginning to bloom on his cheeks.

"But he's on with me tonight," you frowned.

"You've got me instead… sorry."

Your stomach turned over and immediately filled with a million butterflies.

"Oh…right, nice one. I'll just..umm…" You gestured with your clothes and hurried out of the room, heart racing.

*****

Fuck. He'd totally misread this situation, hadn't he? The look on your face when he told you about the change to the rota, like a rabbit in the headlights, was burned into his vision as the door swung shut behind you.

Sinking the pills he'd been reaching for when you came in, he rested his head in his hands and groaned.

What an absolute first-rate, A+ creep he was. He'd left fucking porn on your desk and based on your reaction just now, you'd definitely listened to it. The thought you hearing his rambling wank made him slightly nauseous. The whiskey had convinced him it was such a great idea at the time.

No doubt he'd be hearing from the Trust's HR team any day now.

When you didn't come back, he had no choice but to go in search. Opening the office door, he was blasted with raised voices coming from the canteen and he ran, skidding into the room to find you between Shy and Jamie, arms outstretched as they glared at each other, surrounded by a circle of the other boys who all fell into a febrile silence as he arrived.

Why was it always fucking Jamie.

"Hey, hey, what's going on..?"

"Nothing, we're fine. Aren't we, lads?" you said, not taking your eyes off Shy who looked angrier than Steve had ever seen him.

"Shy, what's the matter?" he ventured, carefully sliding in between you and the boy, allowing you to focus on defusing Jamie.

"He was talking about my sister."

"I was just saying what I'd been told," Jamie interjected loudly from behind him and he heard Bella hiss something at him. Which unfortunately made no impact as he added, cheerfully, "It's not my fault she's a slag."

Shy launched himself at Jamie and it took all of Steve's strength to grapple him back until he had him carefully pinned against a wall.

"Stop it."

"Let fucking go of me, Steve. He's not allowed to talk about my fucking sister like that! You'd beat the shit out of him yourself if he said shit like that about your sister."

"Yeah, well, I get it but I still can't let you. Come on. Let's go."

He shoved Shy gently towards the door and Jamie muttered something else that he didn't catch, but Shy clearly did because he wriggled out of Steve's grasp and in a few brisk strides he'd landed a punch in the bigger lad's stomach that sent him doubling over.

"Shy!! Fucking hell!" you shouted, grunting as you blocked an attempted follow up, the blow glancing off your ribs as Steve grabbed Shy around the arms and hauled him away, his aching back screaming in protest.

"Easy, easy," Steve soothed as he dragged a still struggling Shy out of the room, pushing him further down the hall towards the rec room. "Shy, man, you can't be doing that. You know that."

"You heard what he said about my fucking sister—"

"I did, but you still can't—"

"She's fourteen!"

Steve blew out a long sigh and leaned against the wall as Shy paced next to him.

"I'll have a word with him. And there'll be a punishment. But you gotta stop using your fists. Because now I have to punish you too."

"But I—"

"I know." Shy opened his mouth, fists tightly balled at his sides and Steve held up his hands. "I know. But you can't let him get under your skin like that, Shy. You know he's only doing it to deliberately wind you up, and you let him. You have to stop rising to him."

Shy stared at him murderously and he shifted to rest his hands on the boy's shoulders, meeting his eye until Shy's graze dropped and Steve felt his shoulders sag.

"Have you had any dinner?"

Shy mumbled something.

"Sorry?"

"No."

"Alright. Well go and sit in there and I'll get you a plate, ok?"

Shy shrugged and slouched away, leaving Steve standing in the corridor. Dropping his hands to his knees, he sighed heavily, pain spasming through his back.

Popping another pill, swallowing it dry, he trudged back to the canteen.

*****

You made it through the rest of the evening without any more major incidents, an ice-pack from Sarah in the kitchen pressed to your ribs in the breaks between your turns as you played pool with Nabz and Benny. Shy sat in the corner, headphones on, ignoring everyone.

Steve had checked on you right away after he'd come back from dealing with Shy but apart from a few awkward words, you'd hardly seen him as he floated around keeping the fragile peace.

By half eleven you'd managed to get them all into the rooms and the closest thing to silence that Stanton ever saw, fell over the creaky old building.

Padding back downstairs to check everything was locked up, you noticed the light to the staff room was still on. Opening the door slowly, you saw Steve sitting by his desk, leaning back in his chair, legs spread wide, eyes shut. Only the lamp on his desk was on, bathing the room in a soft golden light, casting deep shadows in the far end of the long room.

He jumped as the door clicked shut behind you.

"Hi," you said quietly, coming to rest by the edge of the large boardroom desk that dominated the space.

"Hi," he replied, and you thought you saw him swallow. "Are you alright, after earlier?"

"Yeah, fine. It was my fault for getting in the way."

"Yeah, could you stop doing that please?"

You cracked a smile. "No promises."

Chuckling softly, he looked down at his hands and you took a deep breath.

"So… I got your tape."

His head snapped up, the colour draining from his face.

"Right…"

The silence stretched between you and you fidgeted with the cuff of your jumper.

"And have you— umm… have you listened to it?"

You held his eyes for a moment before you nodded. "Yes."

"Right." Looking away, he cleared his throat heavily, shifting in his seat and you could see pink beginning to tinge his cheeks.

"More than once."

That got his attention. Meeting your unwavering stare again, he slowly pushed himself out of his chair.

"It was a dangerous thing to leave lying around," you said quietly as he drew closer, pushing yourself away from the table to meet him with your chin held high. "Some might say, a terrible idea…"

Amusement flickered across his face as he came to a stop just far enough away so as not to be in your personal space.

You stepped closer.

"I've decided there's no such thing as terrible ideasanymore," he mumbled, the back of his knuckles brushing lightly across your cheek and you shivered under the intensity of his pale stare.

"More than once?" he asked, thumb grazing across your chin as he cupped your jaw.

"I wanted to make sure I'd heard everything," you replied, leaning into his touch, letting your hands ghost across the front of his shirt until they curled into his collar. With the barest tug, you brought his lips crashing into yours, his hands cradling your head as he deepened the kiss, tongue demanding access that you gave immediately, the low groan in his throat sending a jolt straight to your core.

You clung to him, falling headfirst into the softness of his mouth, the tickle of his beard against your nose making you giggle, which gave way to as gasp as his lips wandered from yours to your jaw. Hand in your hair, he gently tugged your head back to expose the smooth slant of your neck, goosebumps erupting over your whole body as he teased his lips along the delicate, sensitive skin.

"Tell me, Bella," he murmured by your ear, your bum knocking into the table as he nudged you backwards, "was it only in my imagination?"

"Was what only in your imagination..?" you gasped out, arching into him as his other hand slid under the hem of your top, warm against your skin.

"Were you touching yourself while you listened?"

Heat rushed between your legs, a whine slipping from your throat as his teeth scraped against your neck and you tangled a hand in his hair, dragging his mouth back to yours in a desperate, messy kiss.

But he pulled away almost immediately, cupping your face between his hands to make you meet his eyes.

"Did you?"

"Yes," you whispered and he groaned deeply, pulling you back into another searing kiss that robbed the breath from your lungs. You could feel him, hard against your stomach and your cunt fluttered needily.

"Show me," he panted as you broke apart, close enough that his nose still brushed against yours.

"What?" you said, a nervous laugh stuttering through the air.

"Show me," he repeated more slowly, thumb dragging across your lips.

"You want me to…? What, here??"

He nodded, eyeing you hungrily.

"They could wake up… come in…"

Pulling away from you, leaving you propped against the table with your heart hammering so hard in your chest you thought it might break free, he walked slowly to the office door, twisting the lock. Nodding at you, he did a circuit of the room, pulling down the blinds until there was no possible way anyone could see in.

"Better?" he asked, coming to rest in front of you again.

"Steve…this is…"

He cut you off with a kiss, hands kneading your hips.

"Please, Bella. You heard the tape…you know what I want. Show me."

Swallowing thickly, you nodded, heat burning your face as you fumbled with the button on your jeans and he stepped back.

"Where you are you going?"

He simply smiled, settling down in his office chair, palming himself over his trousers.

"Go on."

Blowing out a long breath you shook your head, hardly able to believe this was really happening, and pulled down your jeans, kicking them away from your feet. Your fingers hooked into the sides of your underwear and he clicked his tongue.

"Leave them on."

Raising an eyebrow at him, he smiled and you shrugged, sliding back up onto the desk behind you, using a nearby chair to brace one of your feet.

His cheeks were flushed now, eyes dark, barely blinking as you swallowed and pulled your other heel up on the desk beside you, legs falling wide for him to see.

"Why are you sitting all the way other there?" you asked softly, teeth in your lower lip as you grazed your fingertips over your inner thigh and along the edge of your underwear.

"I can see just fine," he answered hoarsely. "And any closer and I'm not going to be able to stop myself."

You ran two fingers along the seam of your folds, the soft cotton already damp.

"Why do you want to stop yourself?" you asked, breath catching in your throat as you pressed a little more firmly against your clit.

"Because I've been fucking dreaming about this," he mumbled, running a hand over his beard. "Let me see you."

You felt powerful in that moment. In the heat in his eyes. In the tightness of his jaw. In the deep gravel in his voice.

Pushing your hand behind the band of your underwear, your mouth fell open at the slick heat that met your fingers, eyelids closing as you slipped them across your clit.

Across the room you heard the rattle of his buckle and your eyes flew open.

"Let me see you," he mumbled, loosening the fly of his trousers but not touching further.

Slowly you pulled your hand back, letting him see your wet fingers before you gently tugged your underwear to the side so he could finally see you, spread open and glistening with need. He groaned, his hand disappearing into his own underwear and you began to run quick, tight circles over your clit.

"No so fast," he said, tongue flicking across his lips.

"Why do you get to see me and I don't get to see you?" you shot back, slowing only fractionally, need licking up your spine.

With a half shrug he shoved his trousers and pants lower, letting you see his fist wrapped around his cock, the flushed tip peeking above his hand.

"Fuck…" you mumbled, sliding from your clit to press two fingers inside, watching his jaw slacken as the sight of your cunt welcoming them.

"Is this what you imagined?" you asked breathily, his eyes never leaving the slow pump of your fingers, your arousal already audible.

He nodded, thumb sliding over his tip.

"You thought about having me here?"

"Everywhere," he managed, his breath shaky.

"You better not cum over there," you said quickly, dragging your fingers back up to your clit, a thin whimper in your throat as each swift flick made lights dance across your vision. "I want to feel you."

A low chuckle drifted towards you, his fist slowing as your fingers quickened, your breath coming in short gasps. Standing awkwardly, tugging his trousers back up, he made his way to you, coming to a halt between your legs, leaning so you were almost nose to nose.

"Are you close?"

You nodded frantically, the scent of his aftershave and the warmth of his breath on your skin only pushing you closer.

"Do you remember what I said I would do if you let me?"

Your head was cloudy, your high already beginning to lick up your spine, quivering on the brink of collapse.

"Bella..?"

Blinking hard you stared uncomprehendingly at him, unable to recall what you were being asked until his fingers closed around your wrist and tugged your hand away.

"No—!" you pleaded in a broken gasp but he just smiled, brushing his lips across yours before bending low and pressing his face into your pussy.

"Fuck!" you cried, as his tongue swiped through your folds and up to tease across the swollen little bundle of nerves. Sliding backwards, you braced yourself on your elbows, seeing him watching you as he flicked across it in softly, rapid strokes. With a wicked grin, he sucked harder on your clit and it was your undoing, the wave crashing over you before you could do anything to stop it. He pushed your legs apart as they threatened to close around his head, not letting up until he dragged another heavy aftershock from you.

Rising slowly, his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes were so dark you could barely see his pale irises. Catching him by the shirt, you dragged him into you, lips colliding in a frantic, sloppy kiss, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands were on your hips, coaxing you up so he could finally rid you of your underwear. Kicking them off your feet, heat warming your face at the feeling of the desk beneath your bare skin, he swallowed a desperate cry that bubbled out as he pushed two thick fingers into you, the stretch and his reach both much greater than what you'd been able to do for yourself.

"Ssshh," he soothed against your ear as your head pitched forward into his shoulder. "You'll wake them."

Twisting his wrist he pressed heavily against your gspot and you muffled a wail against his shirt.

"Again, so soon?" he teased softly, fingers working unrelentingly inside you until you could barely breathe, snatching for air in desperate gasps as you fought to stay quiet.

"Cum for me again, pretty girl," he murmured against your ear, free hand catching in your hair to pull your head back so you were looking up at him, his thumb swiping across your clit. "Let me see that pretty face you make again."

With a whimper that was almost a sob, you crashed over the edge, making a mess of his hand and the desk beneath you, whole body shaking with the force of it. His broad fingertips brushed your gspot and you whined, hips jerking to try and escape the overwhelming feeling, the pleasure almost painful. With a smirk, he pulled them away, licking them clean as the spinning in your head slowly began to settle.

"You ok?"

Nodding dazedly, you blinked up at him, your hands drafting shakily to where his trousers still hung open.

"What else did you want?" you asked hoarsely. "To bend me over a desk, was it?"

He laughed, grunting slightly when you pushed his lower layers away and wrapped your hand around his leaking cock.

"Lay you out on it, I think I said. I can't quite remember. You're the one who's heard it more than once - you'll have to remind me."

You hummed in response, smoothing the pearls of precum that beaded his tip with your thumb, making his breathing falter.

"I think that was it, yes. Something about being able to see me better."

He cupped your head, kissing you almost roughly and tugged at your jumper until you had no choice but to let go of his cock to let him pull it over your head. No sooner was it gone than his lips were on yours again, fumbling behind your back to remove your bra. Mumbling in satisfaction when he finally had you naked, he ran his thumb over your swollen clit, a wicked light in his eyes when you hissed and gripping him a little tighter.

Ducking his head, he ran his tongue over one of your nipples, the bud hardening against it as he flicked and teased, teeth grazing it when you tugged him more roughly.

"Fuck me," you mumbled, running your nails over his balls and smiling to yourself when he practically whimpered in response.

Lifting his head, he met your eyes and with a tight grip on your hips, he manhandled you closer to the edge of the desk. Looking down, you bit your lip as his cock slid proudly through your folders, coating his skin in the mess you'd already made of yourself. Reaching between you, he guided the tip to nudge against your needy hole.

You sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed forward, forehead on his chest, watching as inch by thick inch disappeared into you, your thighs quivering as he stretched you wider than his fingers had prepared you for.

"Fucking christ," he hissed, pulling back so that only the tip remained before burying himself into you again in a single, slick thrust. "Feels even better than I remembered."

Gripping his shoulders, you couldn't speak as he began driving into you in long, deep strokes, each one making you see stars. Gently untangling your hands from him, he kissed you before easing you backwards with a broad palm against your chest. Hooking an arm around one of your thighs, he held your legs open wider, giving him a perfect view of your cunt stretching each time he filled you. His other other hand roamed your body, the curve of your hip, the swell of your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple as your back arched from the table, rocking to meet every delicious snap of his hips.

"S'fucking beautiful," he mumbled, groping your chest as your tits bounced with the increase of pace, rocking into you hard and fast. With every exquisitely brutal movement you could hear how sinfully wet you were, but any embarrassment you might have felt was lost in the bolts of pleasure that he sent ripping through you.

"Fuck, Steve…" you moaned, slapping a hand across your mouth, as you struggled to contain the tiny, breathless whimpers that slipped out each time he bottomed out deep within you, almost as if his cock was pushing them out of you. He grabbed your other hand, dipping his head to meet your fingers as he brought them to his mouth, sucking gently on them, and you almost lost it completely.

"Touch," he murmured, guiding your now slick digits down between your legs. "Let me see you make yourself cum."

To far gone to even consider arguing, you began to roll them against your clit, jolting at the sensation. Reaching lower you let your middle and index fingers spread wide, bracketing his cock so you could feel him as he slid into you, his skin soaked in your arousal.

With a low groan, his hands circled your waist as you arched into him, holding you in a tight grip as he fucked into you.

You hung on the edge, nerves aflame, eyes watering with the effort of keeping quiet and the overwhelming feeling of him dragging against that sweetest spot inside. Letting your fingers drift back to your clit you sucked in a deep breath, and barely had you begun to stroke but you were engulfed your climax. His hands gripped your hips so tightly you were sure you'd have bruises the next day and you felt him shudder, barely holding on long enough for you to cum before he spilled heavily into you.

Your back stuck to the table beneath you, the surface hard against your spine, the wood warmed by your sweaty skin. Breathless and boneless, you blinked up at the ceiling and the ornate plasterwork of the building's former grandeur.

"Fuck," you mumbled, to no one in particular, and you heard him laugh quietly. Moving to try and sit up as he slipped out of you, he caught you with a palm on your stomach.

"Wait…"

"What for—?"

You felt the warmth of his release spilling out of you and he groaned deeply, heat racing to your already warm face but feeling a low hum of arousal in your core.

"I've fucking dreamed about that," he muttered, making you gasp as he ran his fingers over your pussy, smearing his cum over your swollen, over-sensitive clit, chuckling when it made you jerk. "Beautiful," he added quietly, pressing two fingers back into you and you slipped back down to the tabletop when he stroked them over your gspot.

"Steve, please…I can't," you mumbled, chest tight as he teased across that perfect spot inside you mercilessly until a ragged aftershock rippled through you.

"I knew you had it in you," he chuckled, finally pulling back, his fingers glinting in the low light with your combined release.

"Can I have my jumper please?" you asked hoarsely as he wiped them on his underwear, tucking himself away, and you realised that once again he was still almost entirely dressed when you lay there fully naked.

He passed you it and you dragged it on hurriedly, wincing at the slick that stuck your thighs to the table when you sat up. Coming to slot between your legs again, he cupped your face, kissing you softly and slowly.

"You alright?"

Nodding, you fumbled with his shirt.

"Bella?"

"What was this?"

"I'd have thought that was fairly obvious," he smiled and you rolled your eyes. "I'm going to need a minute though if you need me to give you another demonstration."

"Will you please be serious."

He kissed you again with an intensity that made every hair on your body stand on end, both of you panting slightly when your lips parted.

"Is that serious enough for you?"

With an uncertain puff of breath you nodded and gently nudged him away so you could stand up and pull on your other clothes again, tucking your bra in your bag.

"I should get to bed."

He nodded, arms sliding around your waist.

"My bed."

"Stop it, you know I can't do that."

"Why not?"

You leaned back to look up at him, trying to discern if he was just teasing you.

"You know why not. We're at school, Steve."

"You can leave in the morning before they get up, no one will see you."

"And what if there's an emergency in the night? I can't be caught in your bed. If the kids find out then everyone will know. I don't want people to know that I'm like…this."

"This?" he frowned.

"This girl who fucks her married boss."

He sighed heavily, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

"Alright… I get it. This had to be a one time— well, two time— thing. I understand."

You lifted his chin with your fingertips so he was looking at you.

"No, you weren't listening, that's not what I said." Two furrowed lines appeared between his brows. "I said I didn't want people to know."

His face relaxed into a half-smile, his eyes dark.

"But I'll leave it up to you whether it happens again," you added, kissing him slowly before you slipped from his hold and headed for the door.

"Goodnight, Steve."

"Goodnight, Bella."

Hands up if you think that’s the last time they’ll hook up? No, I don’t think so either! 🤭 As ever, I live for your feedback so please come scream in all the usual ways! 🤍

Masterlists: CILLIAN | SERIES | MAIN

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The room, which had been thick with shouting seconds earlier, fell to a deathly silence. So quiet that you thought you'd have been able to hear the drops of blood that were spilling from your face landing on the tatty old linoleum tiles, were your ears not still ringing from the force of the blow.

"Fuck…" muttered Jamie, all his stocky, aggressive bravado evaporating in a heartbeat and when you looked at him, trying to contain the mess pouring from your face with your hand, you caught a glimpse of the little boy he used to be.

"Sorry, Bella," mumbled Riley, looking equally ashen.

Beating the living shit out of another student was bad enough, but they'd all been there at some stage and the fear of the punishment that came with it wasn't always enough to keep their tempers in check. But punching a teacher? They were really in the shit now.

"Will someone get me a tissue, please?" you asked thickly, hot, sticky blood running down your hand to your wrist, probably ruining the sleeve of your jumper.

There was a sudden flurry of movement, mad scrambling and hushed, anxious voices and then a wad of blue roll was pressed into your free hand. Gratefully staunching the flow with it, you inspected your bloody palm.

Yep, yet another jumper ruined by Stanton Wood and you hadn't even made it to the October half-term yet. At this rate you'd have nothing left by June.

"Benny? Will you get Amanda for me please?"

Behind you, the door squealed on its hinges as he shuffled out to do your bidding.

The classroom was unnaturally quiet while you waited for Amanda, the Deputy Head, to arrive. The only time the boys at Stanton were this quiet was when they were sleeping.

And even then, not always.

"I didn't mean to, Bella," Jamie mumbled, still standing next to you, arms hanging limply by his sides, knuckles already showing signs of a bruise. "He started it."

"No I fucking never!" shouted Riley, immediately squaring up to the other boy again, "I'll fucking stab you!"

You pressed a firm hand to his chest, and hissed, "Don't even fucking think about it."

"Aw, Bella! You've got blood on me," he moaned, rubbing at the red streak on his tshirt, only succeeding in making it worse.

The door squeaked open again and you turned, but it wasn't Amanda.

Steve's eyes widened at the sight of you.

"Someone want to tell me what's been going on here then?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"We had an accident," you said before any of the boys could speak. Though they didn't all seem to be rushing to come forward with explanations.

"Riley started it," said Jamie and you rolled your eyes, immediately regretting the shooting ache it sent through your skull.

"No—! I fucking—! NEVER!"

Riley launched himself at Jamie again and you had no choice but to leap aside and let Steve have his turn as ringmaster.

"OI!" he bellowed, shoving them roughly apart, keeping them separated with arms outstretched. "Enough! Let's just take it down, alright? C'mon now, get outta here. Up to your rooms. And if I hear a single peep out of either of you…"

The noise had attracted more attention, Owen appearing in the open doorway, taking in the carnage.

"Owen, will you escort these two to their rooms please and then come back and watch the others?"

"Are you alright, Bella?" asked Ash quietly, as Riley and Jamie filed out, kept apart by Owen's hulking form.

"I'll be fine, don't worry," you tried to reassure him, but the tissue they'd got you was soaked through and you had to admit you were feeling a little dizzy now the adrenaline was beginning to fade.

"Come and sit down," Steve said quietly, apparently reading your mind. But given how he seemed to be everywhere all at once, and know everything about everyone in the school, you could easily believe that mind-reading might actually be one of his skills.

Steering you by the elbow, he helped you to a chair and crouched down in front of you.

"Can I have a look?"

You gently pulled the sodden tissue away, wincing as it pulled where the blood had stuck it to your skin.

Fresh blood dripped down over your lips.

"Yeah, I think we need to get you to A&E."

"No, honestly, I'm fine. I'm sure it'll stop in a minute," you argued, wiping the constant stream from your mouth with the back of your hand.

With a raise of an eyebrow, he gently pressed on the side of your nose and you couldn't prevent the high yelp at the sharp pain that sliced through your face.

"I think it's broken. We're going to A&E."

From somewhere he produced a fresh tissue and you pressed it gingerly to your face.

Climbing to his feet, he turned to address the remnants of your class.

"When Owen gets back he's going to take you lot out for football—"

"But it's raining," complained Nabz, shutting his mouth abruptly at the thunderous look on his Headteacher's face.

"I haven't set homework yet," you said weakly through the tissue, and Steve turned to look at you. "There's sheets on the desk."

With a half smile, he went over to get them, only to look mildly perplexed at the mayhem of your desk. Mayhem to the untrained eye, at least.

"On the left, second pile from the bottom."

As he handed them out in stony silence, Owen finally reappeared.

"Andy's keeping an eye on them upstairs, Steve," he said, glancing worriedly at you. "You alright?" he mouthed and you shrugged with your best attempt at a wry smile, but his eyes only widened further.

"Come on," Steve said gently, offering you his hand to help you stand. "Let's get you looked at."

*****

The wait in A&E was interminable.

"You really don't have to stay, I'm fine," you said, for about the fourteen-thousandth time.

"I've told you already, I'm not going anywhere," he replied, exactly as he had done the previous thirteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine times.

At some point - time had ceased to have meaning by that stage - the bleeding had finally stopped and you'd been able to clean your face a bit in the toilets. And you understood better why Owen had looked so alarmed - you lips, chin, and even your teeth were bloody, like you'd been casually indulging in vampiric urges with your students.

"You're gonna have a helluva shiner," said Steve.

"Just the one? I was hoping for a set."

You looked at him and he chuckled, squinting thoughtfully at your broken face.

"Actually, you might be in luck. He really clocked you, didn't he?"

"He didn't mean to."

"Just because it should be Riley sat here with a smashed up nose and not you, doesn't make it any better."

"What are you going to do?"

He sighed and slid lower in the brutally uncomfortable plastic chair, dragging a palm down his face until his fingers drummed wearily against his lips.

"Please don't kick him out, Steve. He's a good kid. He didn't mean to hurt me."

"He put a teacher in hospital."

"You're making it sound like I'm in intensive care! He broke my nose by mistake. I'm not saying he shouldn't be punished - and I'm curating a list of cruel and unusual English Literature options as we speak - but if you kick him out that's it. He's lost. No where else will take him in, you know that."

"You think I want that? But I've got the Trust to answer to, and he's already on thin ice, Bella," he sighed.

Bella. Sometimes plain Bell or Bells. And on very special occasions, Bellissima or Belladonna. Though those were usually only just from Amanda, because, well, she was Like That. None of them were your actual name, of course, but they were the ones that had stuck at Stanton Wood.

You'd arrived in the early Spring, the eponymous woods around the building carpeted in the jaunty little blue-purple flowers, and on your first day you'd picked a bunch to cheer up your classroom. The boys immediately dubbed you Miss Bluebell. And despite your attempts to convince them otherwise - or probably because of them - they refused to ever use your actual name.

However, 'Miss Bluebell' was too long-winded for kids that were used to calling all the other staff by their first names, so after a week it had already dropped to just Bell. And a few weeks later, everyone in the building was calling you Bella.

You weren't sure anyone even remembered what your actual name was.

"So don't report it," you replied. "Or… I dunno, say I tripped and broke my own nose."

"That sounds dangerously like the sort of thing domestic violence victims are forced to say."

You gave him a hard look and a smile twitched on his lips.

"Please, Steve. It would be different if he'd actually come for me. But you know what they're like - Jamie especially. It escalated out of nowhere and I put myself in the way. It was my own fault really for thinking I could defuse them and not calling for Owen like you told me to."

"Ok, look, I'll do you a deal - I'll talk to Amanda and Jenny about it," he sighed. "But if they think he has to go then you won't fight me on it, ok?"

"Deal," you said, shaking his outstretched hand.

A nurse called your name and you gathered your coat and bag.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, it's fine. Hopefully it won't be long. Sorry about all this."

"It's fine - take your time. I'll be here when you're ready to go home."

"You don't have to wait, I can get a taxi."

He fixed you with a look you had come to know well. "I'll be here when you're ready to go."

*****

There was no way around it, you thought as you surveyed the damage in the bathroom mirror the next morning - you looked like warmed up shit. Half your face was hidden behind thick white bandaging, exhausted eyes barely peeping through. Not being able to breath normally, not to mention the blinding headache, had kept you awake half the night.

"You're not actually going back to that place, are you??" exclaimed Celia, your housemate, when you emerged dressed for work.

"It looks worse than it is," you lied.

"I hope they send the little fucker who did that to you to Borstal."

"Don't say that, I told you last night it was an accident."

"I don't know how you can stand working there," she retorted, passing you a mug of tea.

"I make a difference there."

"You can make a difference in a normal classroom."

"Not like this," you said, wincing as the steam hurt your wounded nose.

"And what happens when one of them really turns on you?"

"They're not like that, Cee. They're messed up kids who need adults who'll show up and be in their corner. They aren't bad people."

"I'll tell you what though," she replied, glossing over your point with a flick of her long pink nails. "That bloke who dropped you home would make me keep going back to school. Yes, sir," she grinned.

You felt heat rush to your face. "I dunno what you mean."

"Uhh...did the blow to your head affect your vision??"

"Come off it, he's my boss. I've never thought about it."

*****

But of course you had.

The eyes, the cheekbones, the slightly rumpled aesthetic. The accent.

Oh god, the accent.

Yeah, you'd definitely thought about it.

When you first joined Stanton Wood, Steve had made you little tapes - recordings of his thoughts about each of the kids in residence and how things worked. On a day to day basis he was always so pulled from pillar to post that there was never any time to do it in person. So each morning and night as you drove to and from work, and sometimes when you cooked in the evenings, you listened to him. Soft, deep, lilting baritone rumbling in your ears.

You'd begun listening to them in bed too, letting your mind drift away until the meaning of the words disappeared and it was just the sound of his voice humming through you.

So, yeah. You'd thought about it.

Sitting on the bus to work - your car still stranded at school from the day before - feeling like someone was drilling into your head, you tried very hard not to think about the soft look of concern in his eyes when he'd dropped you home. Or how his hand had lingered on your shoulder at the door.

Because it just wasn't possible that he'd thought about it too.

Was it?

*****

"Bloody hell, you look like shit."

Dropping your heavy bag onto one of the chairs that were dotted haphazardly around the large conference table that dominated the staff room, you sighed in relief.

"Thanks, Amanda."

Steve came striding in at speed - he always seemed to be rushing about somewhere at speed, like if he stayed still long enough something unpleasant would catch up with him - coffee mug in hand, but one look at you brought him to a sudden halt.

"What the fuck are you doing here today?"

If it hadn't hurt to move anything on your face, you would have raised your eyebrows. Instead you had to make do with speaking.

"My job?"

"Holy shit, Bells…you look like you've been run over," said Andy, wandering in with a stack of exercise books under his arm.

"It looks worse than it is," you lied, for the second time in an hour.

Steve came closer, scrutinising you, and you tried to swallow down the feeling it sparked through you.

"Go home."

"Steve, I'm fine. You need me here."

"I do, but I also need you to not keel over before break. I'll cover your classes for the rest of this week. Go. Home."

A mixture of frustration and intense relief washed over you, forcing tears to prick at the corners of your eyes and you bit the inside of your cheek to try and stop them. Not because you didn't want to cry in front of him - though you didn't, even though it wouldn't have been the first time because Stanton Wood had a habit of pushing you all to your limits - but because if you cried you'd have to blow your nose and it would be excruciating.

"Bella?" he murmured.

"Yeah, ok," you mumbled back. "Thanks."

"Did you drive?"

"No, my car was still here. It's fine, I can drive home now though."

"You sure you're ok to drive?"

Nodding more briskly that you should have, you fought a rush of nausea at the pain it spiked in your head.

"Yeah, that's not happening," he said firmly. "Andy, I'm going to take Bells home. Will you follow me in your car if I drive hers?"

"Sure, boss."

Steve turned back to you and squeezed your shoulder. "Come on, let's get you home."

*****

On the journey home every bump in the pot-hole pitted roads was enough to almost have you losing what little breakfast you'd eaten, the pain so much worse than it had been before.

"I don't know what you were thinking coming in," Steve scolded you in that softly spoken, gentle way of his. The voice you'd heard him use a thousand times a day with the boys.

"I didn't want to let them down," you mumbled, digging your nails into your palms and breathing slowly through the pain as he took a corner a little more sharply than your head would have preferred.

"I know that feeling," he said quietly, taking the next turning at a slightly more sedate speed. "But you have to make sure you're ok first if you're going to be there for them."

You looked at him, the soft curves of his side-profile and his beard almost hiding the sharper angles of his face.

"Is that what you do?"

A wry smile flickered over his features but his knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.

"I try to…" he said, before shaking his head slightly. "Though this is probably one of those 'do as I say and not as I do' things."

"I thought as much."

He glanced at you, smiling properly, and you tried to return it, but it hurt too much and came out as more of a grimace.

"It hurts?"

"Like a motherfucker," you sighed, hearing him chuckle sympathetically as you rested your head back and closed your eyes. "I swear it wasn't this bad when I got up."

"Just get some rest and let it heal a bit before you try and get back in the ring, ok?"

When you opened your eyes again, he was already on your narrow terraced street, idling slowly towards your house, looking for a space.

"Anywhere is fine," you mumbled but he found one just two doors down and parked it carefully.

"Ok, let's get you inside."

A small bolt of alarm shot through you - he was going to come in? What sort of state was the house in?? God, this was going to be mortifying.

"Honestly, Steve, you don't have to do this. I'm fine," you said quickly, hurrying to catch up seeing him already striding towards your house and immediately regretting your speed.

"I can make you a tea? Get you settled?"

"Steve," you said firmly. "You need to go back to school - you didn't have time for everything you actually needed to do today, let alone this."

"You're top of my list today," he replied, waiting as you fumbled in your bag for your keys.

"Yeah? Well you've got English Lit in—" You checked your watch. "Sixteen minutes."

"Fuck," he hissed.

"Go. Please. I promise I'm fine, and I promise to just lie still and do nothing until I feel less shit, ok?"

"You realise what you just said is a contradiction in terms?"

"Fuck off," you laughed and he cracked a smile.

"I'm your boss, you can't just tell me to fuck off."

"This is my house - well, porch - so I fucking well can. Go on, they need you there more than I do."

In any other circumstance where your face wasn't actively trying to explode with pain, this would have been yet another lie. You needed him. Badly.

"Take care of yourself, yeah?" he said softly, squeezing your arm.

"Promise."

His hand lingered, standing almost too close to you. Andy tooted the horn loudly from the street, making you both jump and turning you saw a small queue of traffic beginning to build up behind him.

"Oh fuck," muttered Steve. "I'll see you Monday," he called, shooting off to get into the waiting car.

*****

Back at school the following week, you fumbled your way through the day, the pain in your head reduced from a sharp stabbing to a lower level constant ache. To your relief, Jamie was not only still in residence at school, but he'd left you a hand-written note on your desk. Unfolding it, you saw he'd got one of the other boys - probably Cal, based on how good it was - to add a little bunch of bluebells beneath his questionably-spelled apology.

Your rational brain knew it was probably something he'd been coerced into doing by Steve or Jenny, but it didn't stop you from welling up all the same. Which was bad news for your broken face, the discomfort only making you more teary.

"Crying at your desk again?"

You looked up, hurriedly wiping your face, finding Steve in the doorway, clutching a tennis ball, a knowing smile on his lips.

"Monday ritual, you know how it is," you replied croakily.

"At least you made it to the end of the day."

"I think that's what's called growth." Giving him a watery smile, you cleared your throat. "Did you put him up to this?"

He shook his head. "It was his own idea."

"Sure it was."

"It was! He'll be devastated to learn you think otherwise."

Shaking your head, you folded the little scrap of paper carefully and tucked it into one of the many pockets of your bag.

"You alright?"

"Better for the days on the sofa. Thanks for forcing me to do that. Were they ok?"

Steve blew out a long breath. "Define 'ok'," he said and you laughed.

"Sounds about right."

Shouting emanated from further down the corridor and with a mumbled curse and a slight raise of his hand towards you, he took off, yelling sternly in the direction of the noise.

*****

It seemed to take forever for your face to feel like your face again but as the weeks rolled by and christmas began to dominate the shops, brightly lit-up decorations adorning the local high street, you finally felt like yourself again.

Sitting in your classroom, avoiding the chat of the staff-room, but still able to hear the low-level roar of the boys in the rec room, you were marking homework when a rap on the door-frame caught your attention.

"Yep?" you called out automatically, squinting as you came up from what you'd been reading, the room dark apart from the pool of light from the lamp on your desk, and you saw Steve hovering in the doorway.

"Sorry to disturb you," he said quietly.

"You're not… well, yes, I'm marking, but it's fine, come in."

"I need a favour," he said, coming to lean against the edge of your desk, fidgeting with the mug between his hands, and your heart sank.

"This looks like a bad favour."

He looked up and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, making your stomach swoop.

"That obvious?"

"Don't play poker, boss," you smiled cheekily. "Come on, out with it. You're in charge so we both know I'm going to have to say yes, whatever it is."

He shook his head slightly. "I'm really sorry to ask because I know you did it the other day, but can you cover the night-shift tonight?"

Leaning back in your chair, you pushed a hand through your hair with a low groan.

"Sorry, Bells. Andy's been throwing up since lunch so I've had to send him home."

"It's ok, yeah I can," you said wearily.

"You're a life-saver. Thank you."

"I'll have to go home and get my stuff. Who am I on with?"

He paused for a fraction longer than you expected before he replied.

"Me."

Was it your imagination, or just the light in the room, or was there more colour in his cheeks than there had been a moment earlier?

"Oh, ok, cool," you said quickly, trying to ignore the feeling swirling in your stomach. "Do you need me for anything now, or is it ok if I run home?"

"No, go for it. Amanda's here until seven."

*****

Night shift at Stanton Wood was all about dividing and conquering so, much to your relief, you hardly saw Steve all evening. Most of your time was spent preventing Riley from escalating and wearily asking him to stop calling the other lads cunts.

"But why?"

"Because cunt isn't a word we use at school," you said tiredly, realising your error too late as the boys assembled all started hooting and hollering.

—"MISS! You can't say cunt!"

—"Fuck me!"

—"BELLA!"

"Alright!!" you shouted over the din, face burning. "You're all illustrating my point beautifully. This is why we don't use… that word here."

"Did you hear that, Steve?!? Bella called us cunts!" shouted Riley, beaming from ear to ear.

Turning slowly, you found Steve behind you, his face locked in a rictus that you recognised as him trying his hardest not to laugh.

"It was a teaching moment," you offered weakly.

"I see…" he said slowly and the boys fell silent, hanging on his soft voice, barely contained glee thickening the air as they waited to see if he was going to bollock you in front of them. "Well, seems fair enough. They are a bunch of cunts sometimes."

The room erupted again and you closed your eyes, a silent laugh shaking your shoulders.

"Alright you lot!" he called over the noise, gaining only the faintest lowering of the volume. "It's ten o'clock, beds now please."

With a groans and sighs and a general chuntering of discontent, the boys eventually began to trail towards their rooms.

"Cunts?" Steve said quietly as the last of them left you alone.

"Riley started it," you muttered and he smiled with a shake of his head. Just as he opened his mouth to reply the sound of something crashing echoed down the hall.

"Jesus fuck," he hissed and you both took off to deal with whatever fresh mayhem the boys had unleashed.

*****

It was after eleven by the time you got lights out and quiet reigned within the walls of the crumbling old stately building.

"Alright, I'd better get some sleep," you said, loitering on the landing, Steve already halfway down the stairs. At your voice, he turned.

"Do you want a drink before you do?"

You frowned, coming closer to lean over the bannister.

"Is that allowed?"

He flashed you a smile.

"One small one won't be a problem." He rubbed the back of his neck. "To say thank you for stepping into the breach."

Shrugging slightly you followed him down to the office you all shared and he dug around in the bottom drawer of his desk, producing a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

"This alright?"

"Do you not have any gin in there? Vermouth? We could make martinis?" you replied, already at the sink in the corner, gathering the least grubby looking glasses you could find, giving them a quick wipe with the slowly unravelling tea-towel.

"I'll restock for Christmas," he laughed, plonking the bottle on the table as you sat down, tugging one of the other chairs closer so you could put your feet up too.

"What are you doing here, Bella?" he asked, pouring two glasses, larger than you expected, and sliding one towards you.

"Gosh…ok…" you began, swirling the liquid. "Well you see, you came to my office this afternoon and asked me to work tonight. And we do this thing called 'night shift'… sorry, am I going to fast? Do you need visual aids?"

You met his eye and he shook his head slowly at you in quiet amusement.

"Sorry, I couldn't help myself."

"Why are you here?" he asked again, leaning back in his chair, grimacing slightly.

"Have you taken your pills?"

He nodded. "Don't change the subject."

"Steve, you already know all this, you interviewed me."

"Ah, that's not the same. People will say any old shite in an interview."

"If you thought I was talking shite why did you give me the job?" you asked with a raise of your brow and he grinned, sipping his drink.

"You were upright and breathing - we were always going to hire you."

You chuckled into your glass. "Charming, tell me what you really think, why don't you?"

"What I think is that you're a brilliant teacher, Bells. And that you could be being a brilliant teacher somewhere a lot nicer than this, with easier kids, for a lot more money."

You felt heat rush to your face. "I'm not brilliant."

Steve sat up, leaning forward to tap his fingers on the tabletop. "You are. D'you know I saw Shy actually reading A Midsummer Night's Dream earlier?? That's not something you see every day in this place."

"Ah, but that's Shy, he's a clever lad."

"He is, but he doesn't do that in other lessons."

You pondered this for a moment, sipping gently and letting the burn settle on your tongue before you swallowed.

"When I was at school, my English teacher told us that Shakespeare isn't supposed to be read. It's supposed to be performed, to be heard. That there's music in the language if you listen for it. I told Shy to find the music."

Steve nodded slowly and you smiled, embarrassment creeping up the back of your neck and you quickly looked down into your glass.

"I'm here because anyone can teach the academic kids. They're hard work in their own way, of course, but I always preferred the ones who want to fight you, who'll get angry when they realise they've been learning despite their best efforts to thwart you in teaching them. The ones you have to work so much harder to reach, but when you do…"

You looked up, his eyes piercing into you.

"But you get that, right? You love them in all their mayhem and messiness. It's in those tapes you gave me. Just love, spilling out between the facts."

He looked away, smiling quietly, picking at a scuff in the wood.

"I do."

"My grandad called it my 'fix-it duck' mentality. Like I can't stop myself from trying to fix everyone or everything."

"My wife says something similar," he mumbled.

Wife. The word hit you like a kick in the guts. He didn't wear a ring for some reason, and you'd allowed yourself to forget about her existence.

Lucky bitch.

His brow creased slightly and, afraid your thoughts were leeching onto your face, you pasted on a smile.

"I should probably go to bed," you said, downing the end of your glass, which was a poor decision because there was more left than you thought and it went down the wrong way a little, making you cough.

"Mind yourself," he laughed, leaning forward to clap you on the back as you tried to catch your breath, and when you looked up, his face was closer to yours than either of you expected. You could smell the faint sharp sweetness of whiskey on his breath and the woody notes of his aftershave.

He didn't withdraw and his hand didn't move from where it rested on your back.

"You ok?" he asked very quietly.

Not yet trusting yourself to speak, you simply nodded.

It would be so easy to just lean forward and—

"I should get to bed," you mumbled, voice a little raspy from coughing.

Come with me, whined the voice in back of your head.

"Yeah, me too," he replied, finally pulling away, the imprint of his hand still warm against your spine. "I'll do the final round of checks, you go on."

Lingering at the door while he dumped the glasses in the sink, you fumbled with the hem of your top.

"Thanks for the drink."

He looked up and smiled and it took all your willpower not to cross the room and kiss him.

"Don't tell the others - that's a decent bottle and I don't want it to finish it too quickly."

"Promise," you laughed. "Night."

"Night, Bella," he smiled. "Sleep well."

*****

But you didn't. You lay awake for hours wondering about that moment between you. There'd been something in his eyes, in the warmth of your proximity… something that wasn't Strictly Colleagues. Or, if you were being pedantic about it, Boss and Employee.

Married Man and Single Girl.

The following morning it was like nothing had happened, though you could have sworn he avoided being around you, leaving rooms as you arrived. But he was always on the move, so you tried to tell yourself it was just your imagination.

As the year dwindled down towards Christmas everyone seemed to be clinging on for the end of term. You were knackered and looking around the drawn faces of your colleagues, you weren't alone. And the students were tired and fractious - the combination of a long term, dark mornings and the sun disappearing at three in the afternoon, and the building anxiety of having to return to their families for the holidays. There was, after all, a good reason why the boys lived at Stanton Wood.

But you all really needed a break from each other for a few weeks, and from the claustrophobia of the creaky old building.

On the final friday of term, you dressed up more than you usually would for school - a pretty forest green jumper dress you'd been saving that clung and skimmed in all the right places, teamed with a pair of heeled boots. In just a few hours all the boys would be collected, and the staff could finally kick back and relax. And, if you knew them as well as you thought you did by now, get right, royally shitfaced.

"You look nice," commented Celia when you emerged from your room, running late after faffing too long with your hair and make-up, with just enough time to bolt a cup of tea.

"Thanks," you mumbled between gulps.

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

Your mug paused halfway to your lips.

"Sorry?"

"Please, you know exactly who I mean," she grinned over her coffee. "Mr handsomely disheveled." She batted her eyelashes theatrically, putting on a high voice. "Please, Sir. Yes, Sir."

Heat rushed over you, prickling up the back of your neck. "Come off it, Cee. He's my boss. And he's married."

"I wish my boss looked like that," she sighed and you drained your mug.

"I think it's probably better for everyone that he doesn't."

"Is your place hiring?"

You snorted as you pulled on your coat, wrapping a scarf around your neck.

"You know I love you, but you wouldn't last half an hour at Stanton Wood."

"Half an hour might be all I need," she smiled darkly. "I'd have him right where I wanted him in five minutes."

Rolling your eyes, you shouldered your bag and said goodbye. Leaving your car at home, given the amount of wine you intended to consume later, you trotted towards the bus stop, heels clicking on the pavement, Celia's comments still spinning around in your head.

As much as you didn't want to admit it to yourself, he really was the reason you'd made such an effort that morning, though you weren't really sure he was the type to even notice something like that.

And would it even matter if he did..?

*****

Shy's mum was late coming to collect him and he was growing visibly more anxious as the hours ticked by, his headphones on, hands constantly fidgeting.

"Shy?"

He didn't hear you, jumping when you tapped his shoulder.

"What?" he mumbled, pulling his headphone down around his neck and you could hear the heavy thump of drum and bass.

"I asked if you wanted a tea?"

He shook his head and moved to pull them up again but you sat down beside him. In the distance you could hear the hum of the rest of the staff setting up for your christmas party.

"She'll be here," you said quietly but he shook his head.

"She doesn't want me at home."

"That's not true, she'll just be running late. Traffic's always a nightmare this close to Christmas."

"You don't know her," he muttered harshly.

"But I know you."

He glanced sideways at you. "They hate me."

"They don't hate you," you said gently. "Hey, no, look at me. They don't. It's just hard, isn't it? But look at this term, you've done such a great job at keeping your temper under control. Just remember that when you get home - think about all the stuff Jenny says, yeah? Your breathing and that?"

He shook his head dismissively and you fought the urge to sigh.

"Even if it's not ok, you've still got us, alright? We'll all still be here after the holidays."

A throat cleared behind you and you twisted to look, smiling when you saw Steve.

"Shy, your mum's here."

"'Bout fucking time," he muttered, pushing himself upright and you followed, taking him gently by the arm before he walked away.

"Give her the benefit of the doubt, yeah? Try not to fall out before you even get home."

He glowered slightly and you fixed him with a sterner look.

"Just try. That's all I'm asking. And remember what I said. You've always got us."

Giving you a non-committal nod he pulled himself away from your light hold on his arm, trudging out of the room. Steve gave you a questioning look but you just shrugged and he disappeared to hand Shy over to his mum.

Heading to join the others in the staff room, Steve appeared a few minutes later, knocking the door to get everyone's attention.

"Alright, that's the last of them - get the fucking wine open."

*****

By nine o'clock everyone was drunk, or at the very least pleasantly tipsy. You weren't a large staff, and whilst that was an issue in the day-to-day running of the school because there were never enough of you to go round, it meant parties like this were intimate and cosy affairs. Though Steve and Amanda seemed to have bought enough booze for a staff four times the size.

You'd spilled out of the staff room long ago, taking over the much larger rec room used by the boys. Owen had hooked up a cd player to some speakers and cheesy pop and Christmas tunes blasted out over a small but raucous group of dancers. You'd taken your boots off an hour ago, your tights helping you spin on the scuffed wooden floor when Sarah from the kitchen team twirled you around, both of you cackling.

"I need a drink!" you called as another song started, disentangling from the little throng, pushing your hair back from your warm face and padding over to the vast array of bottles.

"Red or white?" asked Steve, appearing at your elbow, his cheeks flushed and standing closer to you than usual.

"Red, please," you said, holding out your plastic cup and he sloshed wine into it, accidentally dripping onto your hand.

"Shit, sorry."

"S'fine, I got it" you said, licking it clean without thinking about it. But you caught him following the movement of your tongue and it sent a sharp thrum through you.

Clearing his throat, he met your eye and you gave him a small smile.

"Bells!" yelled Owen, almost careening into you. "We're doing karaoke, what's your tune?"

"Absolutely fucking not," you laughed, only to be drawn into a heated debate about why you were wrong and should take part, and when you looked back, Steve had drifted away, back towards the beaten-up sofa in the corner, talking to Jenny.

*****

It was later than it should have been, and people had been slowly disappearing over the last hour, taxis coming and going, until it was only you, Owen, Amanda and Steve. You were surprised he was still there given he didn't appear to be as hammered as the others, but perhaps he didn't trust the rest of you not to burn the place down when he wasn't looking. For your part, you'd stopped drinking a couple of hours ago, when the karaoke got competitive - of course you'd been roped into it in the end - switching to pints of water instead.

"Taxi's here," called Amanda as you wandered around the rec room with a bin bag, clearing up plastic cups and paper plates from the beige buffet the kitchen staff had rustled up to prevent you all getting alcohol poisoning.

"You go on ahead," said Steve, also clutching a bin bag, "I'll finish this up."

"You can't stay and do it on your own," you chided. "I'll help."

"No, it's fine, honestly."

You gave him a firm shake of your head. "Where abouts do you live?" He told you and you nodded in recognition. "Ok, so you're not too far from me then? We can share a taxi in a bit."

"Are you two sure?" said Amanda, pulling on her coat, swaying slightly. "We can clear it up in the new year."

"It'll be disgusting by then," grimaced Steve. "Go on, all of you. I won't be long."

"And you'll be faster if I help."

He met your stare and a shiver ran through you.

"Alright, if you insist," he sighed.

"Are we going or not?" said Owen, reappearing at the door. "He's threatening to leave if we don't hurry up."

"You and Amanda go on, I'm just gonna help him finish this up," you said and he nodded. With quick hugs and wishes of Merry Christmas, you watched them go, the main door banging behind them.

"And then there were two," you chuckled, getting back to clearing up.

"You really didn't have to stay," he said quietly.

"I know, but the idea of being on my own in this place gives me the creeps, so I don't want to leave you behind. What if the ghosts get you?"

"Ghosts of what?"

"I dunno, teachers who got behind on their lesson planning - doomed to wander the halls for eternity until they can finally fill Period four."

He laughed, packing unopened bottles of wine into a box.

"I'm just going to go and tackle the office - if you hear me scream, don't follow. There's no need for more than one of us to die tonight," he said seriously, doing his best to keep a straight face.

"Don't be a hero, it's alright to run," you warned with a smile, and he gave you a mock-salute before heading off to the other room.

*****

When he came back, you'd dealt with the worst of the carnage - enough that it would be fine for the cleaning team to cope with when they came in before term started - but he didn't come alone.

"Fancy a dram?" he asked, proffering the same bottle of whiskey from the time you'd done night shift together.

Your stomach turned over and you swallowed quickly.

"Sure, it would be rude not to."

Dropping down onto the old sofa, he poured two glasses and handed you one as you sank down beside him. Holding his out toward you, you clinked yours against it.

"Sláinte," he smiled.

"Cheers," you replied quietly, curling up carefully on your half of the sofa, shoulder leaning against the back cushion. He mimicked you, drawing one leg up under him.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" he asked.

"Back to my mum's. I'm kind of dreading it, if I'm honest."

"Why?"

You sighed, sipping on your drink, letting the warmth seep through you.

"I was saying to Shy earlier about how all he needed to do was try the keep going the way he had been here, how he'd been so much better at keeping his temper in check and to try not to fall out with his mum before it even began. And the whole time I was talking, all I could think was how I was probably going to be breaking all my own advice the minute I walk back into her house."

"You don't get on..?"

Shaking your head, you drank again. "It's not even so much that… it's just hard. I dunno how else to describe it. We bring out the worst in each other. And you'd think given this job, and what we do, and what we've had to learn to get to work somewhere like this, that I'd be better at it, wouldn't you? But it's like, the minute I get back to the house I'm fifteen years old again."

Pausing, you laughed dryly into your glass, avoiding his searching stare.

"Why am I like this."

"You never stop being your parents' kid," he said gently and you shrugged, conceding the point.

"Anyway, what are you doing for Christmas? Do you still have family in Ireland?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but I'm staying here this year. It's too much of a faff getting back over with all the shit for the girls. I need a fucking rest."

You leaned your head against the cushion and rolled your glass between your hands.

"What a year, hey? I can't believe I've been here nine months already."

"It feels like a lifetime?"

"Like a life sentence, more like," you smiled and he matched it over the rim of his glass.

"Didn't have your nose broken at your last school though, I reckon."

"I think they save that for your tenth anniversary."

"No one makes it to ten years here, we like to get it in early."

You giggled and something flickered in his eyes.

"It's healed up well though," he said and you frowned, the whiskey drifting to your head even after your attempts at sobering up. "Your nose," he added, pointing at your face, in case you'd also forgotten where your nose might be.

"Oh! Right, yeah it has," you replied, running your fingers over it. "Thank god, I'm not sure I have the face to carry a jauntily angled nose."

"Nothing to worry about, you're still very pretty."

Warmth licked up your neck towards your face.

"Am I now?"

"Ah, c'mon Bella, you know fine well you are, don't give me that. You know all the lads fancy you."

"Only because I'm the only girl here under forty," you snorted, trying to cover your rising embarrassment and the fluttering in your stomach. Was he flirting with you or was it just a joke?

"Nothing wrong with being over forty," he replied, a slow smile creeping across his face and he shifted slightly in his seat, which moved him closer to you, though whether it was intentional or not you couldn't say.

"I never said there was," you said, copying him and trying to make it look casual as you reduced the gap between you further. Watching him, you sank the end of your whiskey and leaned over to set the glass on the floor, and when you sat up again you were somehow even nearer him.

But he didn't pull away.

"And is is just the boys?"

He frowned slightly. "What do you..?"

Taking a breath, the whiskey sending possibly ill-advised courage flowing through your veins, you asked the question that had been on the tip of your tongue since he brought it up.

"It's just that I… that you…" You swallowed and pressed your lips together for a second but you didn't miss the way his eyes darted at the movement. "That you're looking at me the same way you did that night."

He shifted closer, his knee bumping into yours.

"And what way is that?"

You leaned closer, his warmth bleeding into you across the narrow space between you, curious as to when he was going to pull out of this game of chicken you seemed to be playing.

"Like you're trying to decide if you want to kiss me," you whispered, letting your eyes drop to his mouth as you spoke before, meeting his eyes again in challenge.

Something flickered across his features - possibly the last vestiges of his self-control abandoning him - and for a fraction of a second you thought you'd pushed it too far.

"That would be a really terrible idea," he mumbled, his hand coming up to rest on the back of your neck and your heart began to race.

"Really terrible," you agreed in a hoarse whisper.

"Really incredibly unwise," he murmured.

The seat seemed to tilt beneath you, your stomach swooping as he closed the gap, drawing you into a slow, delicate kiss that sent tingles rushing across your skin and up your spine.

As your lips parted, you expected him to come to his senses and pull away. But he didn't, the firm hold on the back of your head keeping you close, his breath coming in rapid bursts that tickled your face. But it was only for a second before he pulled you in again, needier this time, and you moaned into his mouth as his tongue swiped across you lips. Deepening it, he tasted like whiskey and red wine and the cigarette you'd spotted him cadging off Amanda earlier in the evening, his beard softer than you'd imagined against your face.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, heat pooling between your legs and before you could stop yourself, you found yourself in his lap, pushing him back against the cushions, your thighs bracketing his. His hands came up to cup your face, pushing into your hair, before sliding down your back to boldly cup your bum, squeezing gently.

Sitting lower onto him, you felt the telltale hard press of him through his trousers and he groaned, his grip tightening.

"Fuck…" he hissed, head dropping back slightly, looking up at you with puffy, parted lips. "I'm sorry."

You rolled your hips down into him, pressing your core against him, and he let out a broken moan.

"Why are you sorry?"

"This is a really bad idea. I shouldn't be—"

You leaned down, claiming his mouth again and he kissed you hungrily. His hands fell to your thighs where your skirt had ridden up, sliding up beneath the hem, palms hot through the thin material of your tights. You whimpered as they crept higher, thumbs drawing teasing patterns along your inner thigh until they brushed the edge of your underwear.

"Steve," you mumbled needily as his lips began to trail along your jaw and down to your neck, your hips rocking almost of their own volition as you chased friction.

"Such a terrible idea," he muttered, sucking lightly on your skin, your whole body shivering as he ran one thumb up along the seam of your covered cunt, pressing more firmly against your clit.

"Fuck," you whined, pushing down against his hand as sparks flickered through you.

Panting you pulled away from his roving lips, holding his face between your hands to make him look at you as you rocked into every roll of his thumb.

"It would be an even more terrible idea if you touched me properly."

He nodded slightly, eyes hooded, as you slid off his lap to stand before him. Reaching under your dress you pulled down your tights, taking your underwear with them, and did your best to remove both as elegantly as your slightly dizzy brain would allow. Seeing you wobble, he held out his hand, steadying you as you freed one foot and then the other, before guiding you back down astride his lap.

His hands were immediately on your thighs again, burning your skin as he inched your skirt higher.

"Can I..?" you asked, resting your hands on his chest, plucking at one of the buttons of his shirt. He swallowed and nodded briefly, and you went to work, fingers faltering when his warm hands cupped your bare ass beneath your dress. Mastering the final button with shaking hands, you pushed the fabric apart, exposing pale, freckled skin. Lean rather than muscular, you ran your hands across the expanse of his chest, lightly dusted with dark hair, and down towards his toned stomach.

"May I..?" he asked in reply, shuddering as you ran a finger along the line of hair that disappeared enticingly into his waistband. Waiting for your nod, he gripped the hem of your dress and pulled it up over your head, letting you toss it behind you, leaving you almost naked in his still mostly clothed lap.

"Fuck…" he mumbled, hands on your waist.

"Terrible idea..?" you replied, reaching behind to unhook your bra and letting it fall away, throwing it the way of your dress.

His eyes widened, dark pupils so large they pushed his pale irises into fine slivers, and you saw him swallow thickly, his hands creeping up to tentatively cup your breasts.

"Really fucking terrible idea…" he said hoarsely, teasing his thumbs across the stiffening buds, making your breath catch in your throat.

Catching one of his wrists, you guided his hand down your body, urging him where you needed him most.

"Please," you mumbled, leaning down to kiss him and he cupped the back of your head with his free hand, tongue pushing into your mouth and catching the loud moan you made when his fingers swiped through your slick folds, circling your swollen clit.

"Fuck me, you're so wet," he muttered but you barely heard him over the loud pounding of your heart as he slipped and rolled over the little bundle, sending fire licking through your veins.

He'd barely touched you and you were already hurtling towards the edge embarrassingly quickly, forehead dropping into his shoulder as he played with you.

And then two thick fingertips pressed delicately against your cunt.

"Fuck," you wailed, bearing down as he eased them into you, stretching you open.

"You're so close already, aren't you?"

You nodded frantically, gritting your teeth against the slow drag of his digits against your walls.

"I think it would be a really terrible thing if you were to fuck yourself on my hand until you came," he mumbled against your ear and you felt as though the breath had been punched from your lungs. Your hips rocked desperately into his fingers, a thin cry slipping from you when he brushed the sweetest spot that made lights scatter dizzyingly behind your eyelids.

"I need to confess something to you," he mumbled, breath hot against your shoulder.

"What's that?" you panted, not really interested because in speaking, he had slowed the pace between your legs and no amount of grinding your hips down seemed to give you the friction you needed to finally topple over the edge.

"I wasn't thinking about kissing you," he said and you stopped moving, lifting you head to look at him, an unpleasant feeling sliding in your guts.

"Ok…" you replied slowly and he reached up to cup your cheek, running his thumb across your lips.

"I was thinking about how you'd look with my dick in your mouth."

A heavy bolt of arousal shuddered through you, his face breaking into a wicked smile as he undoubtedly felt your cunt react around his fingers.

"Is that a request?" you choked out, gasping when he moved to brush against your gspot again, his thumb sliding across your clit as he stroked across it. Taking advantage of your open-mouthed panting, he pressed his thumb against your tongue and you automatically began to suck.

"Fuck…" he mumbled and you felt his cock twitch heavily beneath you.

You were teetering on the edge now, barely hanging on, pleasure sparking through you like lightning with every shift of his broad fingers, the thought of him in your mouth as you teased his thumb with your tongue making your insides flutter needily.

Leaning forward, the shift in his hand knuckle-deep in your cunt, making you cry out, he swiped his tongue over the stiff bud of your nipple. Taking it into his mouth, his beard tickled against your skin as he sucked, and in the brief moments you were able to force your eyelids open, you saw that his eyes never left your face.

Pulling his hand from your mouth, a trail of salvia dribbling over your lips, he slid his slick thumb over your other nipple and it was the final straw. With a ragged wail you unravelled, soaking his hand with the force of your orgasm, gripping his shoulders as your whole body shuddered.

He pulled back from your breast, his fingers slowing within you as you drifted back down to earth.

"Fuck, you're pretty when you do that," he murmured and you felt your cheeks warm up as you slowly met his eye again.

Gently, he slid his fingers from you, making you whimper slightly as he withdrew. They were glossy with your climax and you shivered slightly, cunt clenching around nothing, as he brought them to his lips and put them in his mouth. He watched you as a cleaned them, groaning softly at your taste on his tongue.

"Even better than I imagined," he said, his usual quiet, lilting baritone cut with a gravel that set flames burning within you again. Sliding off his lap you knelt between his knees, palming the bulge in his trousers until he groaned. He helped you as you struggled with his belt, large hands closing over yours as you eased down his fly.

"This is a really bad idea," he said again, need flickering across his face as you stroked him over his underwear.

"You want me to stop?" you asked, resting your head against his thigh and his jaw ticked heavily against his cheek, presumably his better nature fighting against the desperation he was feeling, if his cock twitching beneath where your fingers still lay was anything to go by.

"I should…" he mumbled, covering your hand with his again, but this time increasing the pressure on his cock and you smiled, sitting up and nudging his hand away so you could free him from his underwear. He sucked in a sharp, shaky breath when your fingers closed around his length, his head falling back against the cushion.

"Fuuuuck…" he muttered, hips bucking slightly into your fist as you pumped him lightly. He was bigger than you'd guessed - or hoped, when you were alone and thinking about such things - and your walls pulsed needily at the thought of sinking down onto him. Leaning further forward you dragged your tongue over the tip and he let out a half-strangled hiss, his hand landing on top of your head. He didn't push, but the heavy pressure of it urged you down, letting his thick cock slide along your tongue and you sucked gently.

You watched him under your lashes as you teased him, tongue flicking across his velvet-soft skin, dragging from root to tip before swallowing him down with bobs of your head, his thighs clenching under your hands. With parted lips and hooded eyes, he looked down to see you watching him and his hips stuttered, pushing him deeper into your throat, making you pull back with a cough, trailing salvia down your chin.

"Shit, sorry!" he immediately apologised, grunting when you replaced you mouth with your hand, sliding easily along his slick skin.

"S'fine," you grinned back, wiping your chin and letting go to climb back into his lap. He quickly shoved his trousers further down and you sat up until they were past his knees and you lowered yourself onto his bare thighs, sliding your wet pussy along his length.

"Do we need..?"

"I'm on the Pill."

He nodded briefly, tongue flicking quickly across his lips, and he gripped your hips, helping you as you shifted and reached down between your bodies to guide his tip between your folds until it pressed bluntly against your leaking core. You sucked in a breath as he pushed up into you, slowly at first, stretching you out as inch by inch filled you.

"Oh my fucking christ," you mumbled through gritted teeth, lights dancing across your vision as at last you were seated fully on him. Cupping your face, he stroked his thumbs across your cheeks until you opened your eyes.

"You ok?"

Nodding urgently, you gripped his shoulders and lifted yourself off him, watching his jaw slacken at the slow drag of your walls around him. His hand drifted to the back of your neck and he pulled you into a messy kiss, all teeth and tongues and swallowing each other's groans and whimpers, as you began to ride him.

Finally pulling away, panting slightly, you leaned back, bracing your hands on his knees behind you. His eyes immediately dropped to where your bodies met and the slow grind of your hips, rutting him against the spot inside you that made your head swim. One hand on your waist, guiding your movements, he let his other loosely rest around your throat, and you whined, cunt fluttering in response.

He made a low sound, a quiet smile tugging at his lips and he squeezed a little harder, your arousal evident in the increased wet sounds that filled the air around you both.

Still holding you, he leaned forward, limiting your movement, and sucked hard on one of your nipples. His tongue slid across one firm bud and then the other until you were keening with need, every small, desperate shift of your hips pressing this thick tip deliciously against your gspot.

Abandoning your grip on his thighs, you curled your fingers into his hair, tugging him back from your breasts, gasping as he scraped his teeth over your sensitive skin. Looking up at you, his lips slightly swollen, pupils blown wide, his hand slipped from your throat, joining the other at your waist and with more freedom of movement, you dragged yourself slowly upwards, shivering at the sensation.

He let you take the lead, rising and falling, your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. Each time you let him fill you, it robbed the air from your lungs, pushing a high whine from your throat. His hands drifted to your behind, squeezing the generous curve of your flesh, spreading you open widen, guiding your movements.

You were close again already, you could feel it building, the coil tightening in your belly, glimmering up your spine. Ignoring how your thighs burned with the effort, you moved faster, harder, chasing the high with panted breath, your skin slick where you were pressed chest to chest. His lips were on your neck, tongue smoothing the occasional nip of teeth and he began to bounce you faster.

"Fuck… Steve… I'm—"

He groaned against your skin, large hands gripping harder until he was holding you still, driving up into you at a brutal pace.

You were losing your grip, spinning out of control, every rapid stab of his cock a bright bolt of pleasure.

"Would be… a really fucking… terrible idea," he mumbled through gasps, "if you came all over my dick."

Fingers locked in his hair, you hid your face in his shoulder, crying out as you orgasm shattered through you, so hard you could scarcely catch your breath. Vaguely you heard him groan loudly, before you felt the stutter of his hips, slowing to a ragged stop, buried deep inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound the breathless gasps for air and your heart buzzing in your ears. When your head stopped swimming quite so much, you sat up to look at him, murmuring as he shifted inside you, sending a little aftershock skittering through you. His face contorted at the fluttering of your cunt, hands gently stroking up your spine.

"Hi," you mumbled, and as your high receded you were suddenly acutely aware of being naked in your boss's lap, your mingled cum leaking out of you.

"Hi."

"So… that… umm… was a terrible idea?"

He gave you a half-chuckle, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing across your cheeks.

"That was…" he breathed, thumb stroking lightly over your lips, "something that can't happen again," he said quietly and even though you were expecting it, your heart still sank.

"I know," you said as breezily as you could muster, pulling back from his hold and sliding awkwardly off him, the loss of him inside you immediately leaving you feeling hollow. He quickly hauled his pants and trousers back up to cover himself.

"I shouldn't have—"

Grabbing your clothes from the floor, so you could at least hold them as a barrier, you held your head up as high as you could.

"It's fine, Steve. We're both adults. It didn't mean anything." Clearing your throat, you winced as it sent cum sliding down your inner thigh. "But just so we're on the same page - I like my job and I'm not leaving Stanton Wood just because we got drunk and had sex."

His brows immediately knitted together. "What?? No, of course you're not leaving."

"Ok, as long as we're both in agreement." You cuddled your clothes tighter to your body. "I'm just going to go and, umm… clean up… do you want to call us a taxi?"

He nodded and you did your best to shuffle from the room without making a mess or letting him see too much of you.

*****

The taxi stopped at your house first.

"Alright, well I suppose I'll see you in January," you said, forcing a smile.

"Yep, suppose so."

You tried to give him some money but he just waved it away.

"Ok, well have a good Christmas," you said, climbing out of the car, heart in your boots as he mumbled a reply.

You were nearly at your door when you heard a car door slam and footsteps came hurrying towards you. Turning, key in hand, your back collided with the door at the force of him barrelling into you, mouth hungrily on yours. He caught the back of your head to stop you banging it, kissing you with a ferocity that stole your breath.

"Happy Christmas, Bella," he said as he pulled back, smiling at the surprise on your face.

"Do you want to come in?" you mumbled. "My housemate's at her boyfriend's."

"I can't."

You nodded, tugging him by the collar back into another searing kiss and he groaned into your mouth.

"Can't or won't?"

"Shouldn't."

"Because it would be a terrible idea?"

His eyes danced, matching the twitch of your lips.

"Goodnight," he said quietly, kissing you softly before murmuring your real name. You looked up at him, startled, the word sounding alien in his mouth, and clearly he felt the same based on his expression.

"Never call me that again," you laughed.

"Sounds so wrong," he agreed.

Behind him the taxi driver leaned on his horn.

"Fuck," he muttered.

"Stay," you said, running your thumb over his lips, his beard soft against your palm.

"Give me a minute."

He dropped a kiss to your lips and disappeared, and you turned back around to unlock the door, pulse beginning to race at the thought of round two.

You heard the slam of a car door again, but there were no hurrying footsteps this time. Spinning back towards the road, you saw the taxi driving away. In the back window, Steve held up a hand, mouthing an apology as he disappeared down the street.

I hope that was worth the wait/build up I've been giving it🙈 If this gets enough interest I would be open to considering other parts (I already have some ideas but let's see if this flops first! 😂). If you enjoyed, I'd love to hear from you - come scream in all the usual ways ♥️ xxx

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