Pope knows the unspoken rules. He can look. But he can’t touch. Not when she’s Deran’s employee at the bar. Not when she’s so kind and warm and innocent. Not when she’s so much younger than him. Early to mid twenties? Pope isn’t sure.

But he’s sure of one thing. Too young for him. Which is why he feels like a degenerate as he watches her move back and forth behind the bar, cleaning, making drinks, running tabs, ponytail swishing behind her as she moves.

She’s so pretty. So bright. And maybe his upbringing and prison time emotionally stunted him, but she looks like the kind of girl he’s always dreamed of. All sunshine and rosy cheeks and the kind of softness his callused hands didn’t ever deserve to touch.

He watches enviously as she smiles sweetly at a customer, chatting away words he longs to hear as she sets a drink in front of him. The man’s eyes linger on her, raking over every curve and crevice on her body in a way that makes Pope’s skin crawl. She gives the man an innocent smile and continues her work, oblivious to the way those fox eyes track her, like a bunny caught in its sights, his jaw wired and ready to snap.

Pope continues surveying the situation, eyes locked between her and this man at the bar. He would never admit it out loud, it’s information that couldn’t be tortured out of him, but he’s been doing this for months. Watching her. Since the day she started at the bar he’s been hooked, like a moronic moth to a flame, eyes always trailing after her. He can’t help it. She’s always there with a bright smile and a soft word and she makes him feel like there’s light and hope in the world again.

He shoves those feelings away because no one can know. Not her. Not his brothers. Not even the universe. Because if they do, that’ll be the end of it. The higher powers that be will decide that he doesn’t even deserve to lay his corrupted eyes on her anymore and she’ll be gone, just like every good thing in his life before now. He tries to break his gaze away, tries to make it less obvious. But he just can’t help himself.

By the time Pope finishes his own drink, the man is the only person left sitting at the bar top. The rest of the place is pretty dead and the man has struck up yet another conversation with her as she organizes cups and bottles. Pope has just gathered up enough courage and sense to go up there and ask for another drink when Deran flops into the booth across from him and, to his chagrin, Craig follows.

Pope immediately casts his eyes down to his empty glass, attempting to hide the subject of his intense gaze. Craig looks over his shoulder in the general direction of where Pope was looking but his brain is so fried he can’t find anything that would be of enough interest for Pope to be staring that intensely at.

“The hell are you looking at?” He asks.

Pope swirls the melting ice cubes around in the bottom of his glass and grumbles, “Nothing.”

Deran starts talking the logistics of their next job and Pope tries to pay attention, he really does. But how can he when the hottest rays of the sun are shining so brightly just feet from him and he’s been living in darkness his whole life?

He’s half tuned in to Craig’s questions about how much they expect to make when the glass in front of him is snatched up. He looks up to see the face he’s been staring at for hours, now right in front of him. He can’t seem to meet her eyes, so he looks down again, the way he would if he was outside on a hot afternoon with no sunglasses on, avoiding the bright, shiny light that she is.

“Can I bring you another one?” She asks, voice gentle, calming.

Pope doesn’t meet her eyes. “Sure,” he says.

Her heart sinks when he doesn’t look at her. She gives him a moment to acknowledge her presence, silently begging him to just glance at her, give that rush when he does. He doesn’t. She turns to Craig and Deran.

“Want a drink?” She asks them and Pope can’t help but notice that her voice isn’t quite as gentle and warm when she talks to Craig or Deran.

They tell her what they want and her eyes drift back to Pope, and this time, his eyes flick up to meet hers. Deran’s voice seems to fizzle out in her ears as she meets Pope’s hazel eyes. Her cheeks heat up at his gaze and his do the same and there’s a moment of silence as the two stare at each other, Deran and Craig and the bar and the rest of the world fade away for a split second. She breaks their gaze first, turning to walk back to the bar and Pope watches her go, his eyes trained on the way she seems to glide off, as if there’s some invisible force pulling him to her. He briefly wonders what’s wrong with him before Deran pulls his attention away.

“What was that?” Asks Deran, jutting his chin in the direction of the bar to indicate that he’s talking about that strange little exchange between his brother and his bartender.

Pope turns his attention back to Deran, letting his face fall slack, pretending everything is normal and fine and that his pulse hasn’t decided to pound like thunder in his veins. “What was what?”

“That,” says Deran, gesturing between Pope and the bar. “That…look.”

Pope gives the tiniest, most nonchalant shrug he can manage. “What look?”

Deran rolls his eyes. “Don’t bullshit me,” he says.

Craig looks between the bar and Pope several times while his brain catches up to their conversation. “You and…the bartender?” He lets out a loud laugh that draws the attention of everyone in the bar.

“No,” Pope grumbles, his voice low and grumpy as he tries desperately to get the bar patrons’ attention away from their booth.

“Your eyes were about to fall out of your head, man,” Deran chuckles.

Pope crosses his arms over his chest in a manner resembling a pouty child. “Shut up, no they weren’t,” he says. Craig starts laughing again and Pope shoots him a withering look. “I said shut up.”

“Listen, I’m not above screwing younger,” says Craig, his voice much too loud for Pope’s liking. “But that’s just robbing the cradle, Pope. She’s like…barely legal.”

“She’s in her twenties,” says Pope. And then it dawns on him, with a sinking feeling, that he doesn’t actually know, so he looks to Deran for confirmation. “Right?” He asks.

Deran surveys him for a moment. “Yeah, twenties.”

“But still,” Craig continues. “That’s pretty young for you.”

Pope scowls. “Can we drop it please?”

Craig continues his laughing until she returns, two beer bottles and a glass in her hand. She sets the drinks down on the table.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Craig grabs her attention and she acknowledges his beckon with a polite hmm. “I know it’s cliche, but what’s a nice girl like you doing working in a dump like this?”

“Don’t talk about my bar like that,” Deran protests.

She grins at this and gives a light shrug. “I needed a job.” Her voice is pleasant.

Craig looks her up and down and Pope resists the urge to reach across the table and strangle his brother. “But still, you could do so much better than this place.” His voice is flirty and, Pope thinks, sleazy.

She shrugs again. “That’s sweet,” she says. “Want anything else?”

“Yeah,” Craig continues, taking a long drink of his beer. “We’re having a little get together tonight. You should come.” He flashes her what he probably thinks is a winning smile. She returns a pitying one.

“Can’t,” she replies. “Someone’s gotta hold down the fort.”

Deran sets his beer bottle down on the table and looks at his bartender. “Someone else can cover tonight. You should come.”

She looks between the three men for a moment and then shrugs. “Okay,” she says.

Pope looks out of the corner of his eyes as she walks away. When he looks back at his brothers they’re both staring at him. Craig has a look on his face as if someone has told a great joke and he’s still chuckling about it. Deran, on the other hand, has a sour look on his face.

Deran catches Pope’s eye, his brows furrowed and the corners of his mouth pulled down in the manner that tells Pope he means business. “Dude,” Deran says, voice flat. “Please don’t fuck my bartender.”

Somehow, Pope manages to pull his focus to the conversation his brothers are trying to have about their job for the next hour or so. He only glances at her a few times and his brothers say nothing about it. Pope finds it difficult to keep his focus on the task at hand, like his brain has been hardwired to tune into her and only her.

She also is able to distract herself in her work and not those big hazel eyes or those dark curls or shoulders spotted with freckles. She’s wiping down a table when she feels a presence behind her right before there’s a hand on the small of her back. She stiffens at the touch and turns around to find the man who had been sitting at the bar all morning right behind her. She takes several staggering steps backwards, almost tripping over her own feet and toppling ass first into the booth.

She clutches a hand to her chest and lets out a nervous giggle. “You scared me.”

The man smiles at her, corners of his mouth turning up in a predatory manner as he looks her over with that same dangerous look he’s been giving.

“My glass is empty,” he says.

His words are slurred and she can smell the whiskey on his breath. She knows he’s drunk. She’s been refilling his cup for the past several hours with their top shelf whiskey and he’s racked up a bill of almost two hundred dollars for just himself. She’s been counting down the moments until he leaves, mostly because he’s annoying, but partially because, by his behavior, she’s expecting a big tip. She backs away even more, her retreat stopped by the seat of the booth behind her. There’s no where to go, he’s much too close for anyone’s liking, and the alarm bells are ringing in her head.

“Okay,” she says, trying her hardest to muster up her sweetest smile. “I’ll be right back up there to bring you another one.”

She moves to side step him and get away, but his hand snatches out — exceptionally quick for someone who has had so much to drink — and grabs her wrist. On instinct, she pulls her arm to wrench it from his grasp but his hand has cemented itself around her wrist. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls her to him and lets out a low, menacing chuckle. She pushes his chest with her free hand, but he’s an immovable mass honing in on her space.

“Let go of me,” she protests, trying to keep her voice firm without getting hysterical.

His free hand reaches around to grab at her back and she protests with a shout, the panic making its way out of her body now. Before she can shout at him again to get the fuck off of her, a fist flies out and connects with the side of the man’s face. He staggers and before he can even regain his footing another punch hits him, squarely in the nose this time. She can hear the crunch as Pope’s fist makes contact with the man’s face and she watches as he falls onto the dirty bar floor in a drunk heap.

By the time Pope turns to her, Craig is already hauling the guy to his feet and Deran is yelling about how if he ever sees his face again he’ll get it much worse. She’s wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible — an animal trying to camouflage itself, a defense mechanism in hopes that she can protect herself and draw as little attention as possible.

Pope’s face is full of rage but his voice is low and even when he speaks to her. “Are you okay?” He asks her. He doesn’t like the way she flinches at the noise, her eyebrows drawing together and cheeks scrunching up to create little worry lines across her face. He resists the urge to reach out and run his fingers over her face and smooth those worry lines away.

She nods in a very unconvincing manner. “I’m fine.” Her voice is so small and Pope wants to reach out and wrap his arms around her body, pull her in and let her whisper all her worries into the warm sanctuary of his chest. He has no way of knowing that, in that moment, she wants that too.

“No you’re not,” Pope counters.

A small bit of annoyance rises in her at his response and she wonders why did he ask if he knew? She gives a small shrug and casts her eyes down at the floor. There are small droplets of blood across the floor at her feet and it makes her heart race and her chest bubble with something not entirely unpleasant to know that Pope put that blood there for her.

Pope watches as her face scrunches up even more and a tear leaks out of the side of her eye. She refuses to look up and meet his gaze and in that moment Pope lets instinct win and reaches out to wipe the tear away. His thumb lingers on her skin for a moment and he can feel the heat that’s risen in her cheeks. Whether it’s from fear or something else, Pope isn’t sure. At his soft touch, her eyes flick up to meet his and the intensity of his stare wipes every thought clean out of her head, leaving a blank slate filled with nothing but his worried hazel eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Instinctively, actions completely out of her control, her eyes flutter shut and she leans into his touch, refusing to break the contact between his hand and her face.

It strikes Pope quite suddenly how young she seems in this moment. There’s an air of innocence around her, something delicate and quiet in those wide eyes and the tremble of her lip. It’s almost palpable, the years that separate them. He brushes the hair away from her face so it doesn’t get stuck in the damp tears on her cheeks. Then he turns away.

He thinks she might go after him, might grab his hand and pull it back to her body so their skin is making contact again. Maybe she’ll call after him in that sweet voice that sounds like bells or ocean waves or piano music, the few things in this world that make Pope feel content. Maybe she’ll tell him to stay by her, ask him to be there for her, talk to him in a way his heart yearns to feel. Maybe she’ll initiate a touch, run her hand through his hair or wrap her arms around his abdomen and press her face into his chest in an embrace that Pope is sure could make him believe in a higher power again. But she doesn’t. And when he glances at her from his seat in the booth, all he can see is the devastation in her face before she turns back to the bar.

And then it dawns on him; maybe she doesn’t know how to let someone love her either.

The music is loud, the people even louder as they crowd around Smurf’s house, jumping into the pool, dancing, drinking, doing lines and whatever other shenanigans people get up to at these ridiculous house parties. The noise is a dull roar in Pope’s ears as he drifts through the house, desperate for something to do. He’s been here an hour and the sun is starting to set. He can’t help but wonder when she’ll be here. She told Deran and Craig she would come. Where is she?

Of course, Pope would never admit that that’s why he’s here. Everyone knows he hates parties, hates large gatherings, hates people. But the thought of her being at the house was enough to draw Pope here. Moronic moth to a flame indeed.

He takes one more lap through the house, wandering like a lost puppy before he makes his way back outside. He’s just begun glancing around when he feels a hand snap across his back, right between his shoulders. He stiffens.

“Can’t believe you actually showed up,” says Deran, draping his arm over his brother’s shoulders in a friendly manner. Pope huffs in acknowledgment.

“You must really like this girl.” It’s Craig’s voice that says this, sauntering up with two beer bottles in his hand, one which he hands to Pope.

Pope takes a long drink from the bottle and says nothing. He surveys the area and finally sees her, perched on a patio table. She looks like a fish out of water, sitting there quietly in her big t shirt, a can of coke clutched in her hand as she watches the people, the same way Pope watches her.

Looking at her, sitting there on her own, he’s overcome with an overwhelming feeling of want. It’s not desire, not lust like some would claim. It’s a want he’s never felt before. He’s not thinking about what her body looks like or what she would sound like with his head between her thighs or how her body would mold to him while he’s inside her. He’s thinking about what it would feel like to have her head on his chest so she could hear the way she makes his heart pound. He can see it in his mind’s eye, the way her pretty eyes would watch him so intently while he told her every worrying thought in his head. He imagined feeling the heat of her, curled up against him as she wrapped her arms around his waist. And he wants it, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. There’s a pull to her that he feels deep in his stomach, in his chest where he’s sure his broken and wretched soul sits. He keeps his feet planted in place.

She looks around, surveying the people in the pool as if she’s working up the nerve to actually get in. She takes a long swig of her soda and then crumples the empty can in her fist. There’s a splash from the pool and she recoils, her nerve lost. She brings her knees up to hug close to her chest, closing herself off as she watches the partygoers from her seat on the table.

A voice clearing next to her grabs her attention and she turns to find Pope standing there, his eyes not meeting hers as he pushes a fresh can of coke into her hands. She looks down at it for a moment as if it takes her a minute to register exactly what has happened.

“Thanks,” she says, the surprise clear in her voice.

Pope gives a wordless nod, then shifts his gaze towards the pool. “You getting in?” He asks.

She gives a meek shake of her head. “I don’t think so,” she responds. “It looks a little crowded.” Her eyes shift over the people in the pool again. “And…I don’t really know anyone in there so…” she trails off uncertainly.

“I’ll get in too,” says Pope, struck by something momentarily. He wouldn’t call it bravery, but it pushes him to speak. “If you want. That way you won’t be by yourself.”

The corners of her mouth turn up in a smile that make dimples pop out of her cheeks and Pope is struck with the realization that all he wants to do in that moment is put his mouth over the craters in her skin. He doesn’t. He holds himself back.

He takes another long drink of his beer and leans against the table she’s sitting on. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just there.

“Thanks again,” she says. “For today. At the bar.”

Pope shrugs. “He was bein’ a creep.”

She turns to look at him fully now. “Yeah. I really appreciate you stepping in. To be honest, I kind of froze. I didn’t really know what to do.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Pope says. They fall into silence again and Pope curses himself. He should have said something better, something that would keep her talking to him.

He can feel her eyes on him, moving over his body, and it feels like someone is pushing light through his veins, making him glow uncomfortably bright everywhere her eyes land. She reaches out and lifts his hand and Pope realizes she’s examining the cuts on his knuckles.

“Are these from today?” She asks.

Pope nods.

She runs a finger over the small gashes gently and Pope realizes in that moment that no one has ever really been gentle with him before.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Why are you sorry?” Pope asks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “It wasn’t your fault.”

She shakes her head. “It kind of was. It happened because of me.”

Pope looks at her fully now, demanding her attention as he firmly states, “No, it wasn’t. It was his fault for grabbing you.”

“Yeah, but you got hurt,” she protests.

Pope’s stare is intense as he looks her dead in the eye. “I’d do it again.” She nods, but says nothing. “It wouldn’t hurt if you learned how to throw a punch, though.”

She smiles again and its playful, crooked on one side as her brow lifts in an inquisitive manner. “Is that so?” Her voice has a tiny, teasing lilt to it.

“Mhm,” Pope hums. “Wouldn’t need anybody to lay someone out for you. You could do it yourself.”

“You’ll have to teach me,” she says.

She’s still holding Pope’s hand and he doesn’t pull it back, saying a silent prayer that she never lets go.

“I can do that,” he mumbles.

She smiles fully at him now, teeth and all and his heart picks up. “I’d like that.”

They’re quiet for another moment, hands still joined until the voices next to them turn to shouts. Two guys in swim trunks are in what is clearly an altercation as they begin shouting at each other. From what she can make out, they’re fighting over a girl, but also the game they were playing in the pool. Apparently one of them tried to drown the other to impress a girl he didn’t come to the party with. So he says. They’re pushing at each other, moving closer and closer to where she and Pope sit. Two more of their friends are now involved and she stands from the table in an effort to get away from the ensuing brawl.

The pushes grow into full on punches and then the four men have enveloped her and Pope into the fray. Pope tries to move her away from the fight but there isn’t anywhere to go. A large body knocks into her and she falls hard, her knees hitting concrete and cheek scraping against the side of the outdoor grill.

She’s a little out of it, so before she can get her bearings, strong arms are pulling her into a standing position. More people have gotten involved, trying to pull the fighting men away from each other. There’s blood running down her legs, crimson and sticky as it flows from the ragged scrapes on both her knees. Her face burns with the scrape against her cheek, more road rash than anything else.

“Come on,” says Pope, leading her carefully into the house. “Let’s clean those cuts.”

He takes her into the bathroom and closes the door tight behind them. He lifts her easily, as if she weighs nothing, and sets her on the bathroom counter. Her bare feet hang above the floor and her baggy t-shirt pools around her thighs.

“Look at me,” Pope instructs.

She does and he looks deeply into her eyes. She still feels a little disoriented, so there’s a dopey sort of look on her face as Pope examines her. She gives a floaty smile to him but it falls when he doesn’t return it.

“What’s wrong?” She pouts. “What are you doing?”

“Checking to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

“And?” She asks. “Do I?”

Poor turns away and starts gathering supplies from the medicine cabinet. “No.”

As delicately as Pope can manage, he places large bandaids over the scrapes on her knees. His eyes flick up to her face and his limbs suddenly feel heavy, fumbling and awkward as he thinks about touching her cheeks and neck.

“I’m going to bandage the cuts on your face,” he says, voice low. He can feel heat creep up his neck and into his face and he tries his best to ignore it.

He dabs as gently as he can at the ragged skin on her cheek but he realizes that he can’t quite see as well as he needs to. He looks from her face to her knees and back again.

“Can I—?” He cuts himself off, unable to ask the question stand between your legs. It feels unacceptable, too unnecessarily intimate a thing to request. He hopes his gaze can communicate what his words can’t.

It’s her turn to blush, but she nods at his request. Despite this, Pope doesn’t move. “You can…come closer,” she says. Her voice is a low whisper, shaky, sure to be private in this moment.

Clearly, it’s the words Pope was looking for.

He brushes his fingers over the inside of her knees, just barely on her thighs, and pulls her legs apart so there is enough room for him to stand in between. He slots himself between her legs and gets to work on the cuts, wiping away blood and tacking skin back together with butterfly bandages.

“Thank you, Pope,” she says softly.

Pope hums in acknowledgement, focused on the placement of the bandage over her cheek. Once he’s put it exactly where it needs to be, he speaks. “Don’t worry about it.” His voice is gravelly. He pauses for a moment, then says with a touch of humor, “Why do these assholes decide they’re going to lose it around you?”

She cracks a small grin. “I don’t know,” she chuckles. “Something about me must scream trouble.”

Pope’s smile fades slowly, his eyes searching hers. “Nothing about you says trouble.” And he’s right. Not one thing Pope has learned about this girl would make him thinks she’s trouble. Quite the opposite, actually. That air of innocence always seems to be there, shining out in the smallest of moments, in the way she speaks and moves and handles herself. The way she deals with men, especially men that seem to want something from her.

Before Pope can stop himself, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Just like she did in the bar, her eyes flutter closed and she leans into his touch. Her cheek is warm in Pope’s palm and the action stirs something deep in his chest.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he says. But he makes no move to bring his hand away from her face. She only nuzzles deeper into his hand.

She sighs contentedly. “Do what?” She asks. And by her tone, Pope can tell she doesn’t actually know what might be wrong or dangerous about the precarious position they are currently in.

“Touch like this,” he says, demonstrating what he means with soft strokes of his thumb over her cheek. “It’s a bad idea.”

She opens her eyes and looks at him and the intensity he’s looking at her with kicks her heartbeat into high gear, thrumming so hard she can hear the blood rush in her ears. “Okay,” she says softly. Again, he makes no move away from her.

“It’s a bad idea,” Pope mumbles again, more to himself this time than her. He drags his fingers lightly from her cheek to her neck and traces over her collarbones.

The touch makes her shiver, goosebumps erupting over her skin at his feather light touch. It’s in that moment, that touch, that she realizes she’s wet. It’s almost a foreign feeling to her. It was rare for her to find a man that piqued her interest, and especially one that wanted to touch her so gently, the way that she needed.

Maybe that’s what it was that drew her to Pope: the juxtaposition of his nature. On the surface, he was rough, calculated, a ticking time bomb or a fierce guard dog ready to pounce when needed. But she had seen his softer side too, only when she cracked the surface enough for it to come bubbling out. His gentle touches, his soft voice in conversation, the intimate way his fingers were rubbing over her skin—as if she was something delicate, something to be cherished.

“We can stop,” she says. Her eyes flick down to his chest, pointedly not meeting his gaze. “But I want you to touch me.” The words are hard for her to get out. She finds it difficult, scary even to ask for something she’s never really had: a man touching her. “Nobody ever really has before,” she admits.

She watches that information process through Pope’s mind, seeing the way his eyes seem to focus as what she’s actually saying dawns on him completely. His eyes meet hers.

“Where do you want me to touch you?” He looks almost as nervous as she is when he asks this. She opens her mouth to answer, then seems unable to and looks back at his chest, cheeks growing red. He tilts her chin up with a gentle finger, forcing her pretty eyes to meet his. When he speaks, his voice is low, comforting. Intimate. “If you tell me what you want, I’ll give it to you.”

She takes in a sharp breath, searching his eyes. When she determines that he means what he says, she says nothing, just takes his hand from where it’s drifting over her collarbone and moves it to her inner thigh. His hand feels warm and strong and her stomach twists with the desperate want she feels for him. Delicately, as if she’s unsure, she brings her hands up to rest on his neck. Pope shivers with the contact, eyes fluttering closed for a split second.

“Okay,” he says, rubbing little circles over the soft skin of her thigh. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

She nods in agreement. “Okay.”

In devastating slowness, he drifts his fingers up the inside of her leg towards the apex of her thighs. He presses his fingers over her bikini bottoms and she gasps at the pressure. He starts slow, painfully slow, moving his fingers up and down over her clothed slit. He applies a little extra pressure when he reaches her clit and she lets out another breathy gasp, eyes fluttering closed. He continues over her clit, rubbing small circles with added pressure so she can feel it through the thick fabric of her swimsuit. Her hands move to grip at his shoulders and she squeezes, her legs falling even further apart.

“Pope, please.” It’s two words, just two little words that send him hurtling into the stratosphere. It takes all the strength in him not to pull her bikini bottoms off right then and there and fuck her on the bathroom counter. He wants to more than anything. He wonders what she’ll feel like wrapped around him, what she’ll sound like when he pushes in and she feels all of him in what Pope has now confirmed would be the first time. But he doesn’t. That’s not what she needs right now. And Pope’s top priority in this moment is what she needs.

He pushes her swimsuit bottoms to the side and rubs over her clit, the direct contact raking a moan from her lips.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs.

Something close to shame bubbles in her chest at this, embarrassment that all it took were a few light touches to have her this desperate. She looks away from him but before she can focus her gaze on anything else, Pope’s free hand moves to her chin and forces her eyes back to his.

“Not a bad thing,” he says. His voice drops. “It’s a good thing. Means you want me.”

“I do want you,” she sighs out. Her hips jolt into his hand and he grips her hips to keep still for him.

“Gonna put a finger in, okay baby?” Pope asks. He leans his forehead against hers. “Look at me.” She does. “Is that ok?”

“Yes,” she gasps out. “Yes, please.”

He presses a finger just barely inside and meets resistance.

His voice is calm even though he feels anything but. “Relax. Let me in.”

She does as she’s told, letting her body go limp in his grasp and his finger slides into her. He gives a few slow pumps before he curls it upward. Her body goes stiff again as she lets out a high pitched gasp.

Pope places a soft kiss on her neck, then whispers, “Shh, we gotta be quiet.”

She nods and he leans his forehead against hers again. He adds a second finger and the stretch she feels burns ever so slightly, but the delicious pressure drowns it out. Her stomach starts to tighten in a foreign feeling, but it doesn’t feel bad.

“Pope,” she gasps. “Pope, I think I’m—“

He shushes her again and then she’s clamping down on his fingers and gasping into his neck. Her legs shake as she comes, toes curling, hands fisting his t-shirt as she feels it move through her whole body like an electrical current gone haywire. Pope touches her through it with light little circles on her clit until she becomes still again with a shudder. She wraps her arms around his neck loosely, mind still foggy and Pope holds her like that.

Just for a little bit, he promises himself. Just for a moment.

They sit together quietly on the couch for the remainder of the party and when everyone is gone and the house is trashed and she’s asleep on his shoulder, he doesn’t move her. He covers her with a blanket and lets himself doze too, the feeling of her skin against his a strangely calming sensation.

She wakes alone on the couch in the middle of the Cody living room. There’s the tiniest bit of an ache between her legs, but it isn’t painful. Her cheeks heat up as she thinks about the events that transpired last night. She pushes the blanket off of her body, briefly thinking about how nice a gesture it was for Pope to cover her up. But the fabric of the couch next to her feels cold and rough, so unlike Pope’s warm skin, which is what she wishes she was waking up next to.

Groggily, she makes her way into the kitchen to find three of the five Cody boys eating breakfast. Pope is leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee. Craig is shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. Deran is fighting sleep from his seat at the counter.

Craig greets her with a “good morning” that’s much too cheeky for this early. She pours herself some coffee and greets them. Deran acknowledges her with a grunt and Pope gives her a very shy, almost uncomfortable smile that his brothers don’t notice.

“So,” says Craig, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “What did you think of your first Cody party?”

She hesitates. “Well…it was—“

Before she can finish her thought, Pope jumps in.

“She got caught in the middle of a fight by your creepy friends and then shoved down on the concrete,” he snaps. “What do you think she thought?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” says Craig, as if taking offense to Pope’s words. “They were just—“

“They had an all out brawl almost on top of her. You know—“

They bicker over each other for a moment before Deran finally raises his voice enough to be heard.

“I am too hungover for you both to be this loud,” he growls out, putting his head into his hands. His brothers quiet down

After a moment of silence she finally answers Craig’s question. “It was pretty fun,” she says, trying to keep her voice light. “There was just a lot of…chaos.”

Craig shrugs. “No more than usual.” He takes a drink of his orange juice. “I swear though, somebody was getting fucked in the bathroom.”