Pinkie McCartney

The morning sun shone through the window in soft arcs, providing a certain warmth that glimmered over both you and Ringo's bodies in the otherwise cool bedroom. The white duvet that had begun the previous night enveloping both of you was now a tangled mess between arms, legs, and your bodies laid loosely over one another: the drummer spread on his back, and you against his left side with your own back facing him.

Ringo was the first to awaken to a single stream finding its way over his eyes, stirring him from his slumber with a slow groan. The arm that wasn't trapped beneath your shoulders reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes and subsequently brush his bangs back from his face. Still sleepy but awake enough to open his eyes halfway, he turned his head towards your unmoving frame and watched how the yellow light danced over your shoulder blades and arms and sent a warm reflection off of the satin of your nightgown. He smiled to himself, pleased with the sight, and subtly wriggled his trapped arm out from under you. Now with both arms free, he turned onto his side and lifted his head to rest on bent arm and look over you from above. His chest pressed into your back and his right hand reached over your shoulder to brush your hair behind your cheek so he could get a better look at your resting face. For a girl always ready for the next task or event, it always made him happy to see you so content as you slept.

Ringo's hand moved from behind your ear and brushed further down your skin, following the curve of your neck and shoulders until he found your waist and settled his hand in the soft curve. Meanwhile, he moved his face into the nape of your neck to press soft kisses to the warm flesh, earning a soft hum from your throat. As he moved his lips further down your shoulder and bicep, you slowly began to stir without bothering to opening your eyes. "Morning, love." He murmured with a gravelly voice against your arm before lifting his head ever so slightly to hold a longer kiss over the back of your shoulder. You smiled to yourself and yawned, turning with a slow groan to lay on your back and face him. "Morning, Richie." You replied. Ringo still laid on his side facing you, the hand on your waist moving with you to now rest on your stomach and create small circles over the white satin. His other hand came down to lazily scratch your scalp, a move he employed regularly to earn a sweet sigh from your lips that very closely resembled a moan. "You been up long?" You asked and stretched your arms up over your head, whining instinctually as you did so before allowing your right arm to fall behind your lover and the other to rest on the pillow next to you. Ringo shook his head with a negative grunt and lowered his head to hover just above yours, his nose brushing over yours before you lifted your chin just enough to meet his lips and kiss him. He reciprocated immediately with a possessive gentleness, the hand on your stomach moving upward slowly and ruffling your gown with it.

You smiled against his lips with a chuckle and raised your left hand to hold his face. When Ringo finally broke the kiss, you both stayed close: foreheads pressed together, noses crossed, and lips parted only by a couple inches. "'M starvin'." He muttered with his fingers now settled between your breasts, feeling your heartbeat on his palm like a familiar metronome. You rolled your eyes playfully. "Well lemme wake up, I'll make you--"

"Nah." Ringo interrupted, allowing his hand to travel further up your chest to find the center of your collarbone and follow the line to the strap of your nightgown where he slowly moved it off the edge of your shoulder and down your arm. "Got sum'n much better in mind. Ya lay there 'n' look pretty."

You felt a blush creep into your cheeks and bit your lip, the arm that had been resting behind ringo now pressing flat against his bare skin and moving up his back with light scratches. You certainly had no complaints whenever Ringo got like this, but it did get you unusually flustered: you weren't used to "laying back" in any scenario. He loved taking advantage of the rare occasion he could catch you off guard, and this was one of those times: no responsibilities, no publicity, and nowhere to be.

With a smile that you felt in the negligible empty space between the two of you, Ringo brought you back into another slow kiss where your lips overlapped in a soft embrace and his tongue flitted over your teeth and lower lip. Meanwhile, he had been able to slip both gown straps off your shoulders and now grasped the center of the hem to drag the thin dress down your chest. You sighed into his mouth as the smooth material moved down your bare skin until it reached your navel, his skillful hand moving across your now exposed waist and to the side of your breast before his lips pulled away from yours. Still, they never left you.

In an almost painfully slow progression, Ringo dragged his lips down your chin and beneath your jaw, encouraging you to lift your head so he could access your throat and continue his leisurely attack on your flesh until he reached the center of your chest. There, he lifted his head just enough to gaze down your body and back up to your eyes where you met his eyes with wordless need. He chuckled and placed a kiss above your nipple with a smile, repeating on the other breast and dragging his tongue flat over the hardened bud. "A beautiful sight, y' are." He breathed over your skin to earn a whimper from your parted lips. "Rich, you're being cruel." You insisted with a whine tinged voice. The drummer didn't stop his languid movements, though, moving his tongue and the edges of his teeth over your breasts and stomach until the skin was marked all over with his mouth. When his mouth finally reached the gown bunched up at your hips, he gripped it between his teeth and pulled it down to your knees where his hands took over and, with your help, removed the item entirely and threw it somewhere else in the room. With Ringo's face positioned between your thighs, all that remained between the two of you was your thin panties already soaked with your wetness.

He bit his lip at the sight and dragged a hand from your knee up the inside of your thigh to tease your heat. His calloused fingers moving so smoothly across your soft skin made you shiver, and his lips trailing kisses behind them only made the wait more torturous. "Richie baby," you whimpered, "c'mon." Your hand reached down to tangle in his hair, attempting to pull him closer, but he stayed exactly where he was and nipped at your inner thigh as a warning. "I'm savoring my meal, darlin', and ya know I don't like t' be rushed." He spoke in a half growl that made you shiver and loosen your grip on his brown mess of hair, but never let go of him. At that, Ringo smiled against your skin and toyed with the lace hem that hugged your hips. "Thatta girl." He cooed, once again resuming his slow progression of kisses against your thighs and leaving hickeys scattered in his wake as he bit and sucked at the sensitive skin and earned the sweet whines and moans he so desperately craved from you. Once you were wriggling and writhing beneath him was when Ringo finally began the main course. His tongue dragged over your thigh and to the bottom of your mound, moving in a slow line over your clothed slit that made you groan. When he reached the top he bit the hem of your panties and pulled down, his fingers hooking under either side on your hips to guide the fabric down easier until you were fully exposed to him and the cool air of the bedroom.

"There we are." Your lover sighed at the view and raised a hand to press just below your navel. Meanwhile, he lifted his mouth from your knees to hover just above your heat and exhale over you, watching your teary eyes and trembling lips for the shaky "please" that inevitably fell out. With a pleased smirk, he let his tongue fall out of his mouth and lowered his face against your cunt, pushing his tongue in and creating a steady suction with his lips. He didn't move at first but the contact alone was enough to make your back arch and a cry of pleasure wrack through your body immediately. "F-fuck! Oh.... god, Rich--" You began to moan but choked on your own words when he began to dart his tongue between your folds. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his shoulders and reached a hand down to his upper back, digging your nails into his skin and earning a moan that vibrated through your body. Your free hand shot up to your mouth, allowing you to bite down on the flesh between your thumb and index finger and attempt to ground yourself before you fell apart too soon.

Ringo was only encouraged by your attempts to slow down and began thrusting his tongue with a hungry fervor inside of you, fucking you ruthlessly with nothing but his mouth and his prominent nose rubbing against your clit with each movement. That was pretty much it for you: with that consistent pace set, the drummer kept a watchful eye on you as you writhed beneath him like a woman possessed. "R-Rich I'm g--onna..." The hand that previously attempted to silence you now tangled back in Ringo's hair and held him in place, allowing your broken moans, whines, and squeals to flow freely until you released with a body-shaking orgasm over his face.

You scooped up the binder of Paul's mad writings in your arm and grasped the edge of the drink caddy in your free hand, carefully lifting both items from their place on your cluttered desk and carrying them through the back of the office. You stopped at a few offices to drop off orders with a smile before finally making your way to the end of the hall where the studio resided. Leveraging the binder's weight against your forearm, you tapped the door with your knuckles and waited for the familiar sound of Paul's soft Liverpudlian accent. "Come in." He called. You responded by pushing the handle down and opening the door with your back. "Good morning, sir, how--" you began only to be silenced by a slow finger being raised in your direction from the other side of the room. Once you set down the binder and remaining teas, you realized you had been welcomed into a small group working on Paul's newest project. You didn't hesitate in trying to make yourself as little as possible and slipping into a corner, watching the process in silent awe.

You only had this position for a few weeks at this point, but even you knew being allowed to watch this little game occur was a rare honor amongst workers not directly involved in the creation of his music. The most likely explanation was that the men had expected you to leave immediately and simply failed to notice your continued presence; the alternative was that Paul and his posse had suddenly decided a subpar secretary was worthy of watching the process. Regardless of the true nature, you hid away and eyed each of the musicians pick away and test out different chords until they began to file out and take their cups with them. Your continued presence earned you some confused looks, but no comments.

Paul was the last to do so. In fact, he hardly stirred from his place seated behind the music stand where he scribbled down lyrics and glared over the strings of his guitar. "Bring me my tea. Will ya, love?" He finally muttered after a few minutes.

The sound of his voice jolted you out of your stupor, and you hurriedly jumped to your feet to grab his cup and the binder. "Yessir, sorry for the disturbance before." You kept your head lowered as you scurried over to the older gentleman and set both items at his side. When his calloused, veiny hand reached out to grab the cup and lifted it to his lips, a small grimace appeared on his face. Yours, however, immediately dropped. "Something wrong, sir?" Paul gave a deft chuckle and placed the cup back down. "Bit cold... and missin' the soya milk."

Shit. You had been late coming back with the orders in the first place and that threw you off, but you really should've thought to hand out orders when you barged in on their rehearsal... that was probably what earned you those strange looks. You bit the tip of your index finger and shook your head, scooping up the cup in your hand and spilling a non-negligible amount of the lukewarm liquid on your arm. At least you had room for his milk now. "I'll take care of it right away, sir, I apologize."

Paul looked you up and down with an unreadable expression-- a notion you had taken notice of in the few interactions you had with him-- and pulled a few tissues from a box nearby to wipe off your arm. The act took you by surprise, but you didn't dare deny it as his firm hands moved along your forearm. "Don't sweat it, love. But next time I might recommend coming in before we start playing around in here. The younger men here tend to be a little less forgiving about cold drinks than I." With that, he discarded the tissues and allowed you to depart with a strange warmth surging through your arm.

*****

In the following months, you had made a concerted effort to try to improve your performance around the office. But after eavesdropping on some discussions, you had little hope for your future in Sir Paul McCartney's work.

"I dunno how that secretary's stayed 'round so long." One girl muttered over her lunch.

"I know," the other giggled in response, "I don't think I've ever gone a day without a mistyped letter or my coffee either spilled or made entirely wrong."

"Don't you ladies worry." A man laughed. "She'll be out soon enough: he's never kept a girl at that desk longer than a few months before he kicks 'er to the curb, and I've seen ones that actually do their job get out sooner."

At that, you slunk away from the door with the heat of shame burning your cheeks. How could you ever believe you would keep this job with how incompetent you had proven to be? Your boss, Paul, seemed to ignore you for good reason and when you did see him, you only seemed to embarrass yourself. He might give you a smile and a wave when he came into the office, and it usually happened when you were drinking something and subsequently choked on it trying to say "hello" in return. Or if you passed in the hall, his arm might brush past yours and send shivers through you and, consequently, through the papers in your arm that may or may not fall in large arcs to the ground. The worst was when you would spill a coffee (a not-as-rare occurrence as it should have been) and Paul was around: he always insisted on helping out no matter how busy he was. It usually resulted in him pressing napkins to your arms, blouse, and skirt, the warmth of his palm pressing into you through the fabric and paper always managing to make you a stuttering, apologetic mess.

As you trudged back to your desk at the front of the office, you swallowed the lump forming in your throat and your pride: you had to get ahead of this. Even if you had to beg on your knees and work extra hours scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush, you were determined to keep this job. Honestly you didn't have much choice with how horrible the job market had become... if you lost this job, you'd be unemployed for months before you were able to snake your way into a minimum wage position eating shit for corporate executives every day.

With the rest of your workday, you drafted out a speech for Paul between phone calls and responding to emails so you could be prepared. When people began to shuffle out in small groups around 7pm, chatter rattling around in your head and shaking any confidence you had out onto the floor, you felt an impending sense of doom. Still, you knew you couldn't back out now if you really wanted to continue in your current position.

When you were sure the rest of the office was clear, you finally stood from your little chair and confidently made your way down the main hall to Paul's office. You've got this. You'll kiss up a little bit, make your value known, and be the first person to keep that goddamn desk under your name longer than four months.

When you finally approached the door your fist hesitated in front of the hardwood for a moment. But before you could back out, you forced your knuckles to rap three times and waited for the familiar sound of Paul's voice welcoming you to "Come in." You took a deep inhale and inched the door open to peek your head in, giving him a nervous smile when the two of you made eye contact. He was sat behind his desk, glancing over paperwork and only looking away from the small pile (which you recognized from filling out earlier) to look at you. "Good evening, sir." You spoke a little more gently than you wanted. In order to regain your confidence, you stepped fully into the office and straightened yourself out, brushing your hands over your skirt and quietly clearing your throat. "Could I have a moment of your time?" He motioned to the two seats opposite of him, welcoming you to sit down and relax, but you had too much on your mind not to pace.

"First of all, I wanted to tell you how thankful I am that you've given me this opportunity. Being able to work here with you and the rest of the team is an absolute honor--"

"Did ya come in 'ere to quit, Miss Y/N?" Paul suddenly interrupted. His voice wasn't angry or impatient, but rather measured in its cadence as though he expected as much. Your eyes widened and you hurried to sit down as he had directed you to before. "No, sir, I-- shit..." You trailed off before attempting to regain your confidence and original plan. "I came to express how thankful I am for your patience with me. I'm aware you may not be particularly fond of me, and I fuck up a lot, but you giving me this chance means the world."

Paul fully turned his attention away from the papers below him now and up to you, his eyes traveling across your facial features with furrowed brows. "What makes ya think 'm not fond of ya?" He asked slowly, standing from his chair with a soft groan and leveraging himself against the desk with an aged hand. You swallowed and shook your head, a blush of embarrassment crossing your cheeks. "I know secretaries don't stay around here long, and..." you looked away from him, a little embarrassed that the position you had hoped to hold of standing while he sat was now reversed. "And I see how you avoid me." You bit the inside of your cheek and kept your eyes ahead so you didn't have to face Paul, who was now circling the desk to be on the same side as you and sit on the edge.

You realized now the irony of your statement: while you stared ahead and attempted to ignore the situation in which you had put yourself, Paul sat over you with his full attention directed at your every move, look, and word. "Look at me." He directed and waited for you to listen. When you didn't, he sighed and leaned across the desk to grab the small pile of paperwork you had worked on earlier. It was certainly your work, but now that he held it in front of your face you noticed several words circled in red pen. Upon looking closer, every circle indicated an error: misspelling, incorrect grammar, missing or inappropriate punctuation, etcetera. "Shit..." The vision made you red in the face and hot from head to toe.

"Many other young ladies 'ave come in 'ere for this position. They gave out correct, hot drink orders, never spilled, rarely made a mistake, and never swore like you do." Paul explained calmly and placed the packet down in front of you, instead raising the hand to the far side of your face to guide you to face him. Despite your humiliation, you complied but kept your eyes down. "So why do ya think I keep ya around, love?" He wasn't asking rhetorically to shame you further, no.... he sounded like he genuinely wanted an answer. You swallowed hard and stared down somewhere on his button down despite him holding your head up, attempting to avoid the gentle confrontation.

He hummed thoughtfully and leaned down so you were eye to eye, now unable to avoid the contact he was demanding. With your eyes now connected, Paul sat back up but didn't pull his hand back from your jaw. "Yer a very beautiful, bright young lady." Paul began to explain when you still couldn't come up with a logical explanation for your continued employment. He laughed. "Too young for me, certainly," his hand remained steady at your face which now burned at his fingertips, "but I still want ya."

The statement hung heavy in the air, your heart racing a mile a minute as you attempted to process what he had just revealed to you.

Paul gave you a soft smile, understanding that a big change had just occurred between the two of you. "If ya no longer wish to continue 'ere with this information, I can provide you stunning ref--" Before he could finish, you pushed yourself from the chair you had previously been glued to in order to close the space between the two of you and pressed yourself lips to his. He was taken aback at first, but quickly placed his other hand on the other side of your face to hold you like a precious item in his calloused touch.

Despite his age, you could taste the youth in his hungry mouth that yearned for every inch of you. You planted one hand on the desk beside Paul's hip and the other on the side of his neck, allowing the tips of your fingers to card through his soft grey hair. His teeth dragged slow over your bottom lip, asking silently for entrance that you happily allowed. With both your mouths now open, your tongues mingled desperately and swallowed one another's tastes: his dark and sweet while yours was light and soft. It was a contrast you would savor and follow wherever Paul led you-- at this point in time, he was sliding off the desk and walking backwards into his own chair that you happily pursued. You both parted from one another only when he sat down, his legs spread and one hand patting his lower thigh. "Sit down, love." He invited, an RSVP you were more than happy to fulfill.

You slowly sat down on his knee, your legs turned in between his own where he could lay his hand and caress the skin that became exposed as your skirt hiked up. His other hand that had previously been welcoming you reached behind you, at first pressing his fingertips over your shoulder blades and neck before he reached up into your hair and curled into a gentle grip. You gasped and placed both hands on his chest, your faces now mere inches apart as he inspected your reactions. "Fuck. Sir..." You breathed the title like a little prayer, a sound that Paul obviously adored given the hand on your outer thigh now moving between your legs and further up. "Yer such a pretty lil thing, darlin'," he cooed, leaning into your ear and smirking against the skin of your neck, "it's a shame you can't keep those dirty words out yer mouth." His voice turned dark, a change that sent a shiver down your spine and made you eager to please.

As his mouth worked down the side of your neck and his hand inched to graze just lightly over your wet heat, you forced out an olive branch. "Let me-- let me make it up to you, sir." One hand moved to his cheek while the other slid down the front of his torso, attempting to get his attention.

It worked. Reluctantly, Paul pulled his lips away from your marked neck and chuckled, giving you that same look-over he always did that now made all the more sense to you. Without ever taking your eyes off of his, you slid your body down between his legs and lowered onto your knees so you were halfway below the desk, your face directly in line with the tent growing in his slacks. His hand never left your hair but followed your movements with a pleasant firmness as you sat below him.

There was a constant heat radiating off of both of you that was much more noticeable from down here. You swallowed the excited lump in your throat and placed a hand on the inside of either of his legs, laying your cheek against his thigh before pressing a slow kiss against the tight material of his groin. He sighed almost reverently at the sight and massaged the tips of his music-torn fingers against the back of your scalp to encourage you, a sensation that made you weak in the knees and had your own hands moving zealously to first unbutton and then unzip his black slacks. You pulled back the material but it didn't provide him much relief with his boxers still separating the two of you; a fact you had secretly counted on. You smiled to yourself and placed your lips over Paul's clothed tip, earning a muffled groan from the elder boy biting the inside of his cheek to hide his impatience. Raising your eyes back up to his, you exhaled a hot breath and pressed your tongue flat beneath his length and earned yourself a glare past Paul's reddened cheeks. "Yer cute, but don't get me angry, love." He warned and tugged your hair again as an admonition.

You let out a soft gasp and nodded, pulling back your wet mouth to allow both hands to come in front of you. They started at his lower abdomen, following the line of his pelvis on either side down to the center of his stomach to grasp the band of his boxers and hook your fingers beneath the material. Slowly you inched the band down his hips to first reveal the base of his cock, a sight that already made your breath hitch, and moved further and further down until the rockstar's full length was on full display and stood in your face. You gasped at the sight and swallowed hard, earning a chuckle from Paul who had no delay using his grip on your hair to pull your head closer so it landed directly on your face. You whimpered and squeezed your eyes shut before lulling your tongue out of your mouth and laying it lay against the underside of Paul's cock again. You began at the base and slowly moved upward at a steady pace, smiling when your eyes opened upon reaching the head and seeing the struggling expression on Paul's face. His mouth cricked into a grimace at one side while both brows furrowed in the center of his face, but the entire time his eyes never left you. "There y'are, beautiful girl." He praised between gritted teeth and pushed his tip between your lips. You let your bottom lip fall with the weight just a little before you opened your mouth and fell forward, Paul's firm grip in your hair helping to leverage you.

You moved slowly at first, closing your lips around the head and flicking your tongue with a soft hum to earn a shuddering groan from Paul's chest. He obviously had very little patience remaining for you, though, for not long after he tightened his grip and pushed you down in one fell swoop nearly to the hilt. You choked and raised your hands to press against his body: your right palm against his navel and the left on his inner thigh. You felt the wiry hair below his belly button brushing against your skin, a delicate sensation directly conflicting the discomfort of adjusting to the bassist's cock in your throat. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes while you choked and whined around his size, sending vibrations through his body. Still, he looked down at you with that same beautiful look and a heaving chest. "Much better use of that mouth." He cooed, reaching down with his free hand to wipe your tears away with his thumb. "Yer doin' so well for me, love, I think you've earned a reward." After pulling your head back just enough to let his length sit on your tongue, he moved his shoe between your legs and pressed it to your soaked mound, only your thin panties separating you from the sensation. You whimpered and moved your body down to meet the flat toe, rolling your hips in time with your mouth to earn shaky moans and whines from your throat. Paul moved his hand with your movements, directing you all the way down every 10 times or so like a melody on repeat. Every time he held you in place, you held your hips down against his polished shoe.

The two of you moved in a perverted harmony until the movements began getting sloppier, at which point Paul took over your head movements and you began to move your hips in short spurts of long drags and hurried jolts. When you heard sweet, deep moans finally beginning to emit from your boss' chest, you knew it wasn't just you who was close. Feeling his own climax approaching, Paul pushed his foot up again at a new angle, moving in time with you and watching you fall apart in pleasure before he finally stopped moving your head and moved his own hips one, two, three, four, five times and finally releasing down your throat. You choked but did your best to swallow all you could, stuttering your hips over his shoe until you finally reached your high and came back down.

When Paul finally caught his breath and saw you slouching beneath him, he pulled your head back and off of his length to see your face beautifully fucked out: eyes fluttering, cheeks stained, and lips dripping in spit and cum. "God, ya really are just gorgeous like that." He praised, releasing your hair only to lower his hand to your chin to guide you to lay your head on top of his leg. You smiled lazily up at him and watched from the corner of his eye as he clothed himself again. You had certainly made another mess in the office, but once again it seemed that Paul would forgive you pretty easily.

The older man helped you back up onto your feet and say you on the edge of the desk, using a tissue to clean your face. You felt his now familiar, calloused fingertips through the thin fabric and smiled: mostly to yourself, but also for the handsome musician servicing you. "Have I made my argument well enough?" You teased, placing a hand around his wrist and stroking the veins on the back of his hand with your thumb.

Coffee and John's studio in SoHo had quickly become synonymous for you after becoming his assistant. It seemed every other night the two of you ended up staying at the studio until the sun was nearly rising: John playing endlessly in the back, and you swallowing cup after cup trying to stay awake and get ahead on the seemingly endless paperwork that flowed onto your desk. Despite having around a decade and a half on you, the guitarist's energy never faded and yours was almost completely depleted around the midnight mark (leaving anywhere from one to another four hours of work on your plate).

Tonight was no different, although you had lasted a bit longer than you expected; glancing at the round alarm clock on the corner of your desk, you saw the hour hand move begrudgingly to the one as your head lulled helplessly into your cupped hand. The empty coffee cups ("fallen soldiers," as John had grown to call them) littering your desk had been drained of all their use and you had tired of the heavy taste on your tongue hours ago despite your continued chugging. You lifted your heavy head just enough to hear John's muffled strumming through the wall and sighed, taking the sound as permission to just close your eyes for a little bit until you could focus enough to sign another page.

*****

You awoke to a metronomic tapping inches away from your ear, causing you to jolt awake and quickly rub the sleep from your eyes to see John standing over you. Fuck.

"Thought it was a little too quiet out here." He teased lightly. You turned red at the comment and glanced at the clock again to see you had only been able to sneak around an hour of rest this time before he figured you out. He usually didn't mind if you took a nap on these late night expeditions since he wasn't even the one to insist you stay with him in the first place (it had felt wrong to leave him alone, and it was part of the job description to be present whenever he was in-house), but you still felt the familiar tinge of embarrassment whenever you got caught doing something you weren't supposed to. "So- sorry, Mr. Lennon," you stuttered and shook your head, "I, er, can't quite keep up with you with these... late night sessions." You knew it sounded like an excuse and hurriedly attempted to recover yourself with another comment, but John slid his hand across the desk and placed his fingers against your forearm to quiet you. The minute contact certainly did the trick and he chuckled, watching you stutter over your words for a few moments before finally admitting why he came out to get you. "Ya seem t'have some difficulty staying awake out here all alone. How about ya come join me for a little bit? Y'know, just ta wake ya back up." He offered, a bit more like a demand than a question. You nearly protested, but the calloused hand laid over your wrist made a lump in your throat too large to do so. Instead, you glanced between the frames of his glasses, your desk, and the studio door before nodding in agreement.

"Lovely," he cooed and slid the hand down to take yours, guiding you from your desk to a standing position and finally back to the studio.

This room was always your favorite of the entire loft: the various instruments lining the walls, the inherently quiet nature of it only broken by purposeful music, and of course the smell of John's 4711 Eau de Cologne lifting lightly through the air. It welcomed you in and easily led you into a piano bench in a corner where you could see everything, expecting to watch John play. Instead, he watched you and reached behind him to grab a guitar to offer to you. "C'mon, I didn't bring ya back 'ere for a free concert. "

You chuckled breathlessly and shook your head. "Oh, no." You said immediately, earning you a raise of his brow. You bit your lip and darted your eyes around the room, attempting to find an excuse written on the walls. "I just-- I don't know how to play." You murmured timidly while biting at the edge of your thumb. John cocked his head ever so slightly and stepped closer until he settled on the bench to your right, his leg swinging over the side so he could face you. "Lemme show ya, then."

You turned your face towards him with a stunned look that earned a laugh from the star, a sound that usually made you relax now making your already tense body solid as stone. You attempted to come up with some reason you shouldn't let him teach you, but his gaze was so intent and his words so earnest. Against your own nerves and fears, you sighed and gave a short nod. He laid the guitar in your lap and used his left hand to lightly grasp your far shoulder, pulling it back with an ease only allowed by your weakness for his presence so your own leg went around the bench and your back was to him.

You stared down at the instrument and moved your hands to grasp it like you had seen John do so many times: your left hand wrapping sweetly around the neck and your right arm laying over the body with total ease. Of course when you did it, it was much more tense and infinitely less effortless, your fingers trembling over the strings as though you might shatter the entire guitar with one touch. John chuckled from beside your right ear, a sound that made you realize just how close he-- your boss-- had gotten, and how his warmth spread from your neck all the way down to your tailbone. His hands moved slowly, almost in a ghostly manner, from your shoulders down your arms to meet your hands where they were. "D'ya feel how tense y'are?" John muttered in your ear. "Instrument's more scared of you than ya are of it." His left hand left yours only to run across the fretboard of the guitar, a nearly-silent twang playing out behind him. "She'll never be sweet f'ya if she don't feel loved. Ya have to be loose, fluid, listen fer the sounds she yearns to play 'n' play 'em." He placed his fingers in a formation you had seen him do a million times and only now took note of where exactly each digit was placed, your redirected focus incidentally making you relax just enough to move when John said, "Mind strummin' that fer me, love?"

You averted your eyes from John's hand with a heavy blush and looked down at the large hole in the body where the strings floated freely. With a deep breath in, you placed your fingers at the top and let them fall as you exhaled. The sound that came out was heavenly and reverberated throughout your entire being, making you crick a small smile into the corner of your lips. You felt a warm exhale of air on your shoulder as John's hand dropped further down the neck. "Good job, we might make a musician outta ya yet." He teased while patiently slipping his left hand into yours. Your breath caught in your throat and you nearly got up to run away from the new feeling, but his slow and steady movements assured you all of this was for you and kept you in place. John waited for you to relax back into the new position before guiding your hand back up the neck to the very top two frets. "We'll start slow, yeah?" You felt him readjust so his head was now over your left shoulder, allowing him to watch your hands move together more closely. With his own steady fingers, he guided your diffident ones: your index landed on the top fret, second string. With that one in place, he moved your middle finger to the fourth string on the second fret and your ring to the third string in the same section. Then, he pressed gently on your knuckles. "Hold that there," he commanded gently, "only let the tips of your fingers touch the strings-- she's very sensitive." His voice held a certain tone that you couldn't quite identify... teasing? Coaxing? Whatever it was, it spread a warmth through your chest. "Now, strum just like you did before." He pulled his hands back to rest just above your knees and you repeated the deep breath as you played each string individually into a full-bodied chord that rang out through the room. It wasn't quite as sharp as John's had been, but it was your own.

Your smile had turned bright now, standing on its own proudly as you giggled. "I did it!" You turned your head to the side to face him, excitement evident in your expression. "I did it, I--" Mere seconds after turning, you realized just how close you and John were in the course of this practice and especially now, his nose nearly touching yours. You froze in place, your eyes darting over every inch of your employer's visage to take in the details up close: his square jaw stippled with five-o'clock (or, 2am) shadow, brown hair messily laying over his forehead, circle-framed glasses guiding you to soft hazel eyes hooded by heavy brows that drew down is sharp, aquiline nose to his thin lips.

You couldn't help the quiet gasp that escaped your parted lips, realizing how every feature created such an entrancing image that now stood so close your breaths nearly became one. "Mr. Lennon--" you began only to feel a hand lift from the leg of your jeans and grab the neck of the guitar to remove it from your lap and place it against the leg of the piano. "John." He stopped you, looking away only to make sure the guitar was secure before returning all his attention to you and placing his hand on your right bicep. "Miss Y/N," he spoke so precisely, each syllable cutting through your mind as his hands moved certainly up and down your arm and thigh, "I'd like to teach ya more. Would ya like that?" He questioned, moving in just enough so the tips of your noses brushed over one another.

You were stunned, but the warmth of his touch and smell coupled with the heat growing in your stomach overwhelmed any real fear you had. When you realized you hadn't responded, you nodded in small, quick spurts that earned a deep chuckle from his chest. The hand that had rested at the connection between your shoulder and bicep rose up to brush his fingertips over the corner of your chin before sliding up the side of your jaw to cup it. "Words, love, use 'em." He cooed, a mocking tone slipping in as his thumb rubbed against your cheek.

You choked on the sounds at first, but hurriedly worked to swallow the lump in your throat and respond through your humiliation. "Yeah-- yes, John, please teach me." You whispered in reply.

He smirked down at you and closed the distance remaining over your shoulder, your lips meeting in a heated embrace that made you yelp. John used the arm around you to close any remaining space, his hand moving from your lower thigh up to your abdomen with a pleased hum. His touch was gentle for your comfort but firm, obviously accustomed to using much less restraint with women but well aware that you were not the usual lay. Your opposite hands moved to land on top of his-- not quite guiding him as much as you were expressing your own insecurity. John was not only your boss, but incredibly important and certainly much more experienced than you were. What if you underwhelmed him? He had to have been with dozens if not hundreds of other people, and you were hardly able to hold a guitar: much less your own in an intimate setting.

John felt your hesitation and pulled away from the kiss to shush you. "Didn't I say I was gonna teach ya? Just sit back and lemme take care o' ya." He cooed, a certain huskiness now present in his voice that hadn't been there before. You searched his eyes for impatience and found only a quiet hunger waiting for you to welcome him to feast. With a tight swallow, you nodded before remembering his command from earlier and following up with a short "Yes please."

The musician smirked in response to your reserved eagerness and moved back in to kiss your lips sweetly before dragging his lips across your cheek and down to your jaw, sucking small hickeys into your skin that made you melt into his embrace. With your back still against his chest and his arms still wrapped around your stomach and right-side jaw, your hands slid down his arms as you slowly relaxed and noticeably opened up your stance so your own arms were further away from your body. John took each opening as an opportunity to push further: to kiss further down your neck and graze his teeth against the skin, or drag his upper hand from the side of your face to sway sideways just above your clothed chest. Meanwhile, his other hand slid further down to rub your inner thigh, the sensation of his firm hand against the fabric of your jeans creating a heat in your core that earned heavy breaths from your lips and coaxed your legs open to allow him in further.

"What a good girl yer bein'." John whispered in your ear and nipped sweetly at the lobe. You shuddered at the words, encouraging him to play with the top button of your blouse. "Ya wanna move onto the next lesson?" You nodded hurriedly, no longer having the gall to be ashamed of what you wanted. "Yes.... please, John." You whined.

Although John was tempted to make you beg-- the sounds you made sounding so sweet to him-- he couldn't be so cruel: not the first time, at least. He slowly unbuttoned your blouse as he had begun before and pushed the material open until it hung uselessly off your shoulders, at which point he redirected his attention to your now exposed torso. His head reached over your shoulder and rested there, eyes glancing lazily between your chest where his hand groped and squeezed and your face to watch for reactions.

You whimpered and moaned breathlessly, back arching into his touch and hands grasping desperately at John's arms. When the hand that had been squeezing your inner thigh suddenly pulled away you whined, but John quickly hushed you and pressed a finger to your lips. "Open." He commanded. You turned only your eyes to look at him and he smirked, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Don't worry, we'll get to that soon. Until then," he pressed a second finger against your lips, "open."

With a sudden and light pinch of your nipple by John's other hand, you gasped and he took the opportunity to push the two digits into your mouth. You whimpered at first, but couldn't deny the act had sent a surge of heat through your body that encouraged you to accept the intrusion and suck on John's fingers with a moan.

The artist watched you in awe, amazed by how beautifully you responded to him. "Good girl, just like that." He praised, his hands mirroring his words with sweet touches. "Go ahead and use your tongue, darling," and when you obeyed, licking and swirling your tongue around the digits with a drawn out moan, "atta girl."

When he felt you had worked enough, he used the hand teasing your breasts to reach further down your body and unbutton your jeans, working them and your panties down just a couple inches before pulling his fingers from your mouth and replacing the hand at your chest. The now wet fingers pulled away from your swollen lips and slowly lowered into your pants to pass over your already soaked cunt. "Well, aren't you an eager lil' thing?" He teased.

You gasped and laid your head back on his shoulder, earning a soft chuckle from his throat that made you whine. "Shh, yer doin' very well, love. Ya think yer ready?" He cooed, reaching his free hand up to brush your hair from your face. You nodded in response, your timid demeanor nearly dissipated in your desperation. He pressed the two fingers against your entrance but didn't quite push them in yet, his teasing nature now showing. "Now, ya know to use yer words, beautiful."

"Please." You choked out, reaching a hand down to grab his wrist and attempt to force his fingers inside you. "Please, John, I'm-mm ready."

John smiled, the image veiled in sweetness but hiding a devious hunger. "There we are." With that, he slowly slipped his middle finger inside of you to the immediately sound of your gasps and moans. It was a strange sensation at first to have someone else touch you like this, but when he moved so perfectly and knew exactly how to curl his fingers to get that certain spot it was hard to deny the lewd sounds falling freely from your parted lips. Thanks to how quickly you adjusted, it didn't take long for John to add a second finger and make you cry out his name. "John! Oh god, p-please don't stop!" You whined, one hand squeezing his wrist and the other reaching up and behind you to curl into his soft hair. It seemed he enjoyed the sounds you made because every time you moaned or whimpered, he thrusted his fingers deeper and curled them directly into that sensitive bundle of nerves that even you couldn't usually locate.

In no time, you felt a knot forming in your stomach and an unbearable heat rising through your being that John only took as a sign he should continue at his current pace if not go faster. When your back arched, breath caught, and moans became shaky, John stayed as cool as he always had been and kissed at your jaw. "Come for me, Miss Y/N, I wanna see you perfectly undone." He growled in your ear.

That was all it took. In just a few more of John's precise thrusts, you convulsed with a cry and came all over his fingers, your hand tightening in his hair and soft sobs escaping your lips. John moved his kisses to the corner of your mouth with a soft hum, continuing with quiet praise as you rode out your orgasm on his now slowed, skilled hand. When you finally caught your breath and saw clearly, you realized John had begun clothing you again and brushing your hair back with his free hand. "I think," he spoke in a gentle voice when he realized you were back in the land of the living, "I'll be adding these lessons to your job requirements. What do you think, love?"

Standing on the side of a long stretch of road beneath the cloudy skies of England, you watched in awe as George's black 1980 Porsche 924 Carrera GT appeared on the horizon and sped past you in a matter of seconds. The force of the vehicle racing through drew the skirt of your dress up in a draft that begged to follow after him and nearly stole the tan sun hat from your head, making you hurriedly shoot your hand up to hold it still.

When he reappeared from the other side and came to a skidding stop mere feet in front of you, you clicked your finger on the stopwatch and smiled down at the cocky driver who peered out the window with his elbow out to stare at you. "Well 'ello, gorgeous. Who left a pretty lil' thing like you out there all alone?" He teased with a smile, nodding his head back into the car to motion you to hop inside. You rolled your eyes in response and leaned down to kiss his warm lips before walking around the monster of a modified model to pull open the door and fold inside. The familiar smell of leather and George's cologne filled your nose as you settled into your seat and flashed him the numbers on the tiny screen. "32.3 seconds-- best time yet, Earnhardt." You jabbed back and placed the stopwatch inside the center console. George coolly placed his left hand on your upper thigh and squeezed. "Fangio, love. We're an F1 household despite your best efforts."

"Who says?"

George glanced at you from the side of his eyeline and revved the engine, giving you a chance to quickly buckle your seatbelt before he tore off down the empty roads like a light. While his right hand gripped the top of the wheel, the other slid down to your knee to find its way beneath the hem of your dress and move back up the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitched in your throat as you looked over at him, but his eyes never left the road. "George, stay focused." You warned.

"Oh I am, darlin'. Don't worry about me: I can handle a naughty girl... like the Carrera." The musician-turned-racer could be cruel when he wanted, and this was one of those times. The back streets were clear of all other vehicles, so it was obvious that the heat rising in your face and stomach was not caused by a fear of George's negligence; rather, it was the assuredness with which his hand moved along your skin and squeezed possessively to remind you who exactly controlled this ride he had the two of you on.

Trees, fields, and signs sped past your window in streaks that seemed to hypnotize you, pulling you deeper and deeper into a trance of speed and desire egged on by the rumble of the engine and your lover's touch until you finally demanded, "pull over."

The guitarist hardly gave you a glance before he obeyed and whipped the car around onto a hidden side road, his permed hair becoming the slightest bit tousled from the force. "What's wrong, love?" He questioned. Before either of you could come up with a further line of question or answer you unbuckled and climbed over the seats to cradle George's lap, hold either side of his face in your hands, and press a hard kiss against his lips which parted immediately to accept yours. His eyes shut and crinkled at the corners in satisfaction, a notion mirrored by the hands moving up from your thighs to your hips and rubbing circles in the skin.

He was deceivingly elegant in his movements while yours were hungry: hands dragging his face closer to yours, hips moving downward, tongue darting between his teeth, and breath flowing freely into his mouth as though you were feeding him oxygen and needed none for yourself. While you weren't quite sure what had led you to this place: George's sexy car? His possessive touch? The competitive nature of his international F1 versus your (disrespected) American NASCAR? How quickly he had obeyed you? It didn't matter now that you had him here.

Without your noticing, one of George's hands had left your hips and slipped out from under your dress, instead snaking its way between both your heaving bodies until his thumb and index finger sat beneath your jaw and around your throat. He pressed down on either side of your neck just enough to get your attention and halt your movements, at which point you pulled back and stared at the messy driver breathlessly. Both of your lips were swollen, faces hot, and heads of hair alive with static, but George's eyes just darkened at the delicious sight. "Backseat. Now."

The second his grip loosened, you nodded and climbed between the two black leather seats to get in the back bench seat, laying back and watching him climb out of the driver's seat to get in the passenger's and pull the seat as far forward as it could go so he could get in and give the two of you as much room as possible. It was certainly cramped, but you could never have been more thankful to be looking up at the man crawling over you. His arms now extended on either side of your head and one leg bent between yours and the backrest, his other extended on the floor of the car. At this angle his dark permed hair fell over both of your faces and covered you both in a near privacy curtain as you reconnected again, the hand carefully placed at your throat now keeping you at bay and making the kiss slow and sloppy like George preferred.

But, as you preferred, your hands reached between the two of you and found the lowest buttons of his shirt, beginning to undo the fabric and moaning into his mouth when he squeezed in response. It certainly didn't stop your movements, which succeeded and opened up his shirt to reveal his torso to your greedy hands that hurriedly moved to caress every inch of him. The guitarist chuckled against your lips and pulled away to look down and see you smirking proudly. "You 're one sneaky lil' minx." He growled playfully, to which you only looked down at his chest and sighed. "I know what I want."

George raised a brow at that response, squeezing the thumb and index finger around your neck to get your eyes on his again. When you finally made eye contact with him, you heard a zipper and felt movement below but didn't dare look away. Even when you felt his free hand reach back up underneath the skirt of your dress and grab the edge of your panties, working then off of your hips and ass with a bit of force until they were down to your knees, you didn't look away. The only indication that you were aware of anything except George's eyes was soft gasps and whimpers begging for him to move faster.

"I know what I want." He purred back almost to mock you, running his middle and index finger over the slit of your vulva before sliding them inside of you without warning. You gasped "George!" breathlessly, his name sounding like a prayer from your throat. His fingers curled skillfully and aimed to earn more beautiful sounds from your lips, which now formed to spit into your hand. You reached down between the two of you to find his already hardened length and wrapped your fingers around it, moving up and down every time he curled his fingers. You now moved in unison, your hot breaths intermingling and fogging up the windows of the modded car to be totally yours.

Once he felt you had been sufficiently relaxed-- and before he could be pushed to the brink-- he pulled his digits from inside of you and instead wrapped them around his cock to line himself up with your entrance. He looked away only once to make sure the two of you were in sync and then immediately returned his attention back to your face. "Ready?"

You nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, fuck yes." He smiled and leaned down to kiss you, squeezing your throat just enough to excite you before he pushed in altogether. You let out a long, drawn out moan into his mouth and wrapped both arms around his neck, your hands moving to curl into his soft brown hair. Once the initial burn was gone, a soft hum played through your body and George took the hint to pull back and slam inside again, repeating the motion on a steady basis that he had learned over the years.

Once a comfortable tempo was found, George pulled away from the kiss to admire your fucked-out frame. With each thrust you jolted upward and whined, eyes half-lidded but never leaving his face. "God, you're beautiful like this." He cooed while holding your jaw in place. You nearly hid from the comment but had learned after years of loving him that it would never be allowed-- nor would you truly want it to be. Instead, you released a hand from his hair and lowered it to his cheek and finally down to his chin, pulling him back into a loving kiss. "It takes a NASCAR girl to do it like this, Harrison." You teased, and he laughed.

His movements would never get sloppy, but you knew the signs of his climax: snappy thrusts, heavy breathing, and delicious whimpers as he buried his face in your neck. When that finally began and he bent into that damned spot that sent you spiraling every time, you knew it was nearly time. You wrapped your arms back around your lover and whispered his name over and over, both of you moaning and gasping lubriciously until his back arched and you both came: him a shuddering groan of your name and you with a squealing moan into his shoulder.

Three hours.

Three goddamn hours and he hadn't looked your way once.

At first it made sense(!), and you didn't mind it much. Paul had explained that he would have to make the usual rounds as you approached the grand entryway and he gave you a kiss to your forehead. "Y'know how it is with these types, love, they can't wait to get their five seconds. But..." He began, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with a soft smile, "I'll come find you with the rest of the band in ten, and we'll spend the rest of the night together dancing and getting wasted. Yeah?"

You had smiled back at him and reached a hand up to rub his cheek. "We'll miss you, darling-- we're not Wings without Paul." You sighed dramatically and gave a quick peck to his lips. "But I suppose we can make do for a few minutes. God forbid the Denny's and I get the party started without you." With that he opened the door for you, the McCartney's entered the party, and you went your separate ways.

You found Denny Laine and Seiwell almost immediately, and a few minutes later Henry McCullough had drinks in all your hands. Ten minutes passed before you realized it, and you didn't even glance at a clock until it was half-past and Paul still hadn't come around. No worries: there were a lot of people to please and a lot of rooms to get lost in, so if he hadn't finished his impromptu interviews and found the four of you yet it wasn't that surprising. Besides, you and the boys were having fun sipping the free cocktails and dancing to the music playing below the consistent murmur of conversation in the meantime.

Around an hour in you had begun to get annoyed. Usually, Paul would have come to find you by now to at least apologize and grab a quick drink with you, but he was nowhere to be found. To soothe your rising anger, Denny Laine offered you a joint and the two of you went to the gazebo in the backyard to smoke it and try to talk about anything else except your spouse who had inexplicably left you in the dust for the entire night.

Fifteen minutes later, you were substantially intoxicated and insisted on returning to the house to dance despite Denny's lazy whines insisting you both sit with your high and just enjoy it. "I'll enjoy it more if I'm not wallowing, Dens." You grabbed his hand to pull him off of the gazebo bench with a effortful groan, earning a laugh from both of you once he was on his feet and you were heading back to the house with your arms linked together. When your lover was away, having friends like him meant the world.

The dance floor began with a few familiar faces popping in and out of your vision as you spun around, the alcohol-weed mix giving you a sweet, floating sensation that made the sweat on your brow and heat in your extremities a fleeting memory. Song after song flew by in a flash until you realized around the two and a half hour mark that you were one of the very few people left on the dance floor.

At that realization and another look at the clock reminding you that you had, once again, not felt Paul's hand slip around your waist once that night, the heat in your fingers pooled in a sickening flood to your stomach and your fluid movements slowed to a snail's pace. You were all alone. He had left you alone.

It was a switch flip in your heart from freedom in music to imprisonment in a crowd of people. In your rush to enjoy the high, you had lost your band and no longer had the energy to find them. In fact, your mind quickly spiraled into telling you the boys wouldn't want you to find them anyway: they would've come to you if the wanted to just like Paul, and not a single one of those fuckers had done so. Maybe it was the cross-fade-- and realistically it most certainly was-- but in your heart you felt you were isolated in a house filled top to bottom with shiny happy people unbothered by your loneliness.

That dangerous heat in your abdomen shot up to your face in a moment, daring tears to escape your eyes. Rather than crying, you escaped the emptied dance floor to the bar and grabbed another drink to finally retire to a comfortable corner in which you could sit. Solitude was dangerous, but with that glass pressed to your lips and the smoke playing in your temples, it never tasted better.

You sat there watching strangers file out of the building for half an hour before you felt a warm hand brush over your shoulder and begin to massage your neck tentatively, as though it had something to apologize for. "What're ya doin' sittin' 'ere, love?" Paul spoke softly from behind you, leaning in to kiss behind your ear. "Thought I'd come down 'ere to see my girl dancin'."

You scoffed and set the glass down, smelling the same warm smoke and booze rising off of Paul that surely radiated from you. "I thought I'd see my husband in ten minutes. It's been..." you glanced up at a nearby clock and sat up straight to shrug off Paul's gentle touch, "three hours. So I guess we're both surprised."

You felt the rock star's stare boring into the side of your face, dumbfounded and embarrassed, but he didn't speak a word in protest. "I think the party's over. We shouldn't overstay our welcome." You stated while simultaneously holding back your tears: you couldn't make a scene here, and you certainly couldn't bear to humiliate Paul in public despite how much he had hurt you.

The bassist saw the look in your eye and stood up, taking your hand in his and guiding you onto your feet so the two of you could return to your home.

*****

It was a silent ride, and even when the two of you entered the house around 3am neither of you spoke for a few moments. Instead you walked straight for the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of water, bending over the counter and staring into the small pool in hopes it would give you some answers on how to move forward.

Paul approached you from behind, slipped a hand around your waist, and pressed his chest against your back, his movements hesitant and prudent indicating he knew (in spite of his ego) how badly he had messed up. Because of his ego, he tried to skirt the real conversation. "Even at a private party, producers and paparazzi still manage to be endlessly fuckin' nosy."

You spun around to face Paul with a fire in your eyes, making his grip loosen but his arm still hang loose around your waist. You were so angry with him. You wanted to pound on his chest and scream and yell and push him away, but at the moment you could barely hold back the hot tears streaking your red cheeks. "And yet you'd rather spend the whole goddamn night running-- running back and forth between them rather than just seeing your fucking wife." You choked out, your hands being thrown up left and right at the thought of how incredible it all was. Paul reached a hand up to wipe your tears away but you immediately shut it down. "No!" You spoke, not quite yelling but still stern. "Ten minutes, McCartney, that's what you told me and I believed you. At half an hour I would've been happy. At an hour, or two, or two and a half, I would've been happy to see you. But it took everyone else leaving for you to want me."

You pointed to your chest and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Tonight, I was your last choice. All I wanted was one dance, and you couldn't even give me that!"

Paul hadn't stepped away from you the entire time you spoke despite your attempts to dismiss him. Instead, his gaze darted between each of your eyes and his fingers rubbed light circles into your skin that you barely even noticed in the heat of your anger until the moment he spoke.

"I can now." It wasn't spoken immediately, and it wasn't more than a gentle murmur off his lips, but it was more of a real promise than you had been given all night.

Now that you were really looking at him, you could see the sorrow in your lover's eyes. He was never good at apologies and, in fact, rarely doled them out to anyone, but those three words he had just spoken showed the most remorse you had ever seen from Paul in all your years together.

You sighed and allowed his hand to rise to your cheek, wiping away the tear-stains with the pad of his thumb before kissing the spot gently. You rolled your eyes dismissively, but the small smile playing on your lips gave you away immediately. "One second, love." He murmured and stepped away to pick out one of your favorite albums on the slower side to put on the turntable.

He returned with a sheepish expression and approached you again, his hands even more hesitant now that he had to face you after such a tumultuous night. But after all of it, he was beyond thankful to be able to put his arms around your waist and lay his head on top of yours. You sighed and turned your chin in so the two of you were bent into one another, your arms resting upward on his shoulders and extending behind his back. No matter what transpired between the two of you it always felt so natural to be back in his arms and swaying in your kitchen again.

The bassist hummed along to the music in a natural harmony while simultaneously rubbing small circles into your hips with his calloused thumbs. You mirrored his movements by bending your arms at the elbows and curling your fingers into his messy mullet, hiding a subtle smile in his chest that he felt but didn't dare point out and risk scaring you away.

"Y'know," He murmured as the first song faded and the second began, "I never stop thinking about you. Whether we're together or apart." His words were plain and sweet, but sent the heat of anger that had sunk to your stomach in a floating wave out through your extremities. It frustrated you how easily his voice relaxed you when you wanted so badly to hold onto your wrath, but his warm embrace and unusually apologetic demeanor was like a spell cast over your heart, mind, and body. You nodded and rested your head against his chest, listening to his heavy heartbeat and breathing in his familiar scent which bled through the weed and tequila undeniably playing in the air.

As the song continued his right hand moved sweetly up your side in a slow, calculated motion. Specifically, the back of his hand ghosted over your waist, rising over your ribcage, and over your underarm to guide you to spin to face your back towards him. You obeyed the silent command with a giggle and raised your arm over your head to slowly lower it again over the back of his head and bring the two of you into a reversed embrace where his face rested comfortably in the nape of your neck.

With the new position found and his hand falling back down your body again to now hold your abdomen in close to his groin, you slowly lowered your hand from his hair to his cheek where you felt the familiar stubble of his face. "Hello, my love." You whispered and turned to face him. Paul smiled in response and, after glancing from your shining eyes to your parted lips, pressed his mouth to yours for a gentle kiss that you couldn't help but reciprocate.

Your free left hand reached behind Paul to pull his body closer, index and middle fingers just barely snaking under his shirt and the waistband of his slacks to feel the bare skin of his torso against your fingertips. He shivered at the cool sensation of your touch-- a direct contradiction to the warmth radiating from his body. You felt a smirk against your lips and, seconds later, Paul did the same to you by slipping a hand between the buttons of your shirt. You jolted and yelped in response, playfully tapping the hand at his cheek and glaring at him. "I didn't do it to be funny." You spoke between clenched teeth and a smile.

"No," He responded and kissed the tip of your nose, pressing his fingers further, "but it got the response I wanted."

You rolled your eyes and spun back around in your husband's arms to face him but neither of you stopped swaying. Instead, both of your arms wrapped around one another in your original formation: his resting on your waist, and yours on his shoulders. You danced like this for a while, comfortable in one another's embrace, before his right hand reached up between yours and cupped your cheek in his palm. You could see words forming in his throat-- ones that were largely unnatural for someone with his power and poetic tongue-- until he finally found the courage to choke them out. "I'm sorry, love, I should've done this with you a whole lot sooner."

Classes were over, the sun was out (a very rare occurrence), and your hometown of Liverpool was bursting with life and music. As you stepped out of your red-brick Georgian home--one of many in a long road of repeated architecture-- the distant sound of an outdoor concert traveled into your ears and drew you further from your yard.

There was something familiar about it. You couldn't tell if it was a voice you knew, a band from your childhood, a genre you listened to too frequently, or even just the familiarity of hearing an accent that reminded you so much of home, but it brought you closer without your even realizing it.

By the time you had reached the venue and grabbed a drink from a local vendor, catching a glimpse of a sign advertising the new band on display "The Silver Beetles," it was too late to turn back. Grabbing a poster from a nearby pile, you nestled yourself within the crowd to enjoy the live performance and saw the very last face you loathed to see: that of the bastard, John Lennon.

You had known him in secondary school against your own will. He was an asshole teddy boy with an inability to focus and a total streak of mean. While you were focused on your studies and completing practice runs for the O-level exams, John was goofing off and doing all he could to piss away the chances being given to him. Still, it was hard to deny his musical talent even back then, and especially now that you both had matured into your respective talents and roles.

That's why, in spite of yourself, you didn't try nearly as hard as you should have to escape the tight crowd which you had shouldered your way into and now stood stuck. You noticed a few other handsome lads in matching uniforms around John and wondered how he had possibly convinced them into joining his ragtag group, eventually settling on brainwashing as the only answer.

The next hour of leering at the stage and scoffing at John's performance went by pretty quickly. You had made passing eye contact with him a few times throughout, but in the same way you might make eye contact with a stranger on the street where both of you catch a glance and move onto the next best thing. You had grown immensely since school, you assured yourself, there was no way that dolt had recognized you. Even if he did, you would never give him the time of day and he was surely too busy to distract himself with idle bullying.

How wrong you had been.

The second the music ended you turned to the side of the stage and began to elbow your way out of the crowd, earning grumbles and the occasional heckle in your direction that quickly faded into the overlapping conversations. You had reasoned that, while everyone else moved in a herd toward the back, you would escape by hopping out of the side of the barricades and get home before drunks filled the hot streets. The end was in sight, though: only a few more heads before you could grab the cool metal bar, hop up, and hoist your body over to be standing face to face with "John." You hissed through clenched teeth.

"Y/N." He responded with a cool indifference, circling you like injured prey upon which he was waiting to pounce. "What brings y'back to Liverpool? Of all places, I wasn't expecting to see you staring up from under me as your first welcome back." He sneered, immediately taking note of the flush in your cheeks. It seems no matter how much time had passed, he knew exactly how to push your buttons.

You stood still but searched with hurried eyes for a familiar face to save you from the growing predicament. You soon found, though, that the crowd had emptied with a fervor urged by a sunny day and shoulder-to-shoulder proximity. As far as helpful faces, you were alone.

"I'm visiting home." You replied with an impatient curtness in your voice, clutching the now crumpled poster to your chest. "Unlike you, some o' us actually got out this place. Or do ya have too much brain damage from all 'em scuffles to remember?"

A crink appeared in John's face, indicating a tenseness in his jaw as he swooped in closer and snatched the paper from your grasp. "Hey!" You yelped and reached out to grab it again, but he quickly stepped back and held his arm up out of your reach to display the poster in its entirety. To avoid embarrassing yourself further, you stood back again and pulled your arms back into a tight cross over your chest.

You hadn't really looked at it before, but now you were forced to see every detail. The poster displayed their new name as you saw it before above a picture of John and the three unknown boys he had played with only moments earlier. Below that were their names and a very wide opening of dates... all in Hamburg.

"Wasn't you the Quarrymen?" You jabbed trying to regain your dignity, but John just chuckled. "The way the quarries look now, they're made for prisses like you. Not worth keepin' th' name."

"A quarry? Me?" You pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the center of your chest and laughed demeaningly. "Besides, I'm not sure namin' yerself after some bugs is gonna get you much more traction."

"Obviously I'm not only 'getting out,' I'm doing it a whole lot better th'n any you wankers and quicker." He snapped back and moved in so he was towering over you in an attempt to intimidate. But unlike your schoolgirl days, you weren't going to stand down; no matter how much your stomach flipped and your heart raced.

John stared down at you with a fire in his eyes and the poster still jammed in your face, expecting you to cower or even attempt some comeback so he could have an excuse for a fight. When you stayed silent but stood your ground, something in his gaze changed ever so slightly. His pursed lips turned up at one side into a smirk and he ever so slowly lowered the poster back to your hands that stayed at your chest. Where your palms pushed against your beating heart, the paper laid on the backs of your hands and his own hand pressed over it all. He could easily push you over and send you tumbling into the barrier behind you-- and honestly, it would have been nothing out of the ordinary for the teddy boy-- but instead he nodded his head back and to the side as though to invite you somewhere. "You don't believe me about the quarries, eh?" He chuckled and you shook your head without ever taking your fiery gaze away from his. "How's about a deal? You let me show you them holes is nothin' but a fairy garden now, and I'll leave ye alone the rest of th' summer."

You raised a brow in suspicion, unsure of his offer but pleasantly surprised by his sudden change in demeanor. "And why would you do that? You've never in all these years been a lad to let go of a fight."

John pulled both his and your hand away from your chest and motioned for you to follow him. "Because even more than a fight, I like proving a bird wrong."

*****

Against your better judgement you followed John through the familiar streets of your hometown, watching the ivy-covered homes repeat themselves over and over in a way that would make a stranger fear he was leading you in circles. You knew better, though: each street had its own unique sound, energy, and smell (for better or worse) that led you further from the center of town and away into the less dense suburbs.

Eventually, you both had wandered deep enough into the village of Woolton to see the tell-tale abandoned cranes indicating your approach to the old quarries. You pointed a thin finger at the sky and gave John a disapproving glance from the side of your eye. "That doesn't give me much hope."

"I don't know," John began without turning his gaze towards you, "I think it's pretty similar to ye: head in the clouds, rusty, thinkin' she's above everyone." He jabbed. You stopped in your tracks without another thought with wide eyes and tight fists at either side of your hips. You didn't say a word; simply turned on the heels of your brightly polished pumps and began to walk in the opposite direction.

Before you could get more than a few steps away, you felt a firm grip on your wrist and whipped your head around to face John with a fire in your eyes. "If you just brought me out here to insult me-" You snapped.

"Oh, quit your whinin' and let me show you the damn garden." John groaned, but he sighed and softened just slightly. "C'mon, what's the point of not being Th' Quarrymen if I can't prove it's as preppy as you are now?"

You both stood there in silence for a moment, the fire in both your eyes seeming to smother the other's until yours had reduced from a wildfire to a small flame. "Fine." You slipped your wrist from his grasp with an ease that was only allowed by John and brushed both your palms over your pleated skirt to flatten it out. "But this better be worth it. And stop callin' me preppy: we're not in second'ry school anymore." You huffed gently and turned your nose up to now take the lead.

In no time John had fallen in step at your side and you both reached the edge of the quarry, looking down to see he had, in fact, been telling the truth. Down below, you saw what used to be a wasteland of dust and sandstone turned into its own little Garden of Eden.... or, at least, what a quarry in the U.K. could afford in terms of Eden. All you could do was stare.

"We could go down." John offered after a moment. "If y'want."

*****

After a few tumbles and a lot of scowls at John after he laughed at your reluctance to get dirty going into a quarry, you both finally reached the bottom of the sunken city. The edges were lined in a thick layer of lush green grass dotted with thick bushes and fresh saplings just learning to take root. As one looked further into the center, the grassy landscape fell off in a small step lined by rocks. This led to the remnants of the sandstone dust you had been familiar with, which now only remained as a thin, circular walkway surrounding a beautiful garden centerpiece. You moved in slow steps between each ring until you reached the outside of the innermost garden, admiring the composite to find it filled with a diverse selection of native flowers, brush, and saplings. How had they turned scorched earth into its own little world untouched by suburban Liverpool? Your fingers brushed gently over the leaves and a smile instinctively grew on your glossed lips.

"What did I tell you?" John spoke up from behind you, his arms crossed over his chest and his head turned to the side to appear unamused. "Preppy."

You turned only your head back towards him, a tense disappointment building in your chest. "They took this waste of space, turned it into something amazing, and all you can take from it is preppy?!" You now turned your whole body towards him and closed the remaining space between you with a few steps. John turned to face you as well and chuckled, his coif snapping forward with each of his movements in a way that made you take him a little less seriously. Why had you been so afraid of this bloke all of secondary school?

"D'ye just say things t' piss me off?" You snapped at him, pressing the tip of your index finger into the center of his chest. "You ain't some badass teddy boy anymore, John, and I'm not a scared li'l chick you get t' push around." You laughed incredulously and flicked your hand upward to hit his coiffed hair, keeping your arm elevated to give yourself greater height. "I've always been above you, and ye hate it. So whaddya think now, Johnny? Do you still think you could take on this prep?" You sneered.

The Angry Young Man stared down at you as you raved, his eyes unreadable but his jaw tensing and untensing in that familiar way it would when he was ready to pounce on someone. Somewhere deep inside you felt that same teen girl retreating at the sight, but now you only moved in closer so you were mere inches apart. Finally, a voice arose from somewhere deep in John's chest. "Now?" He spoke in a tone filled with gravel. "I want the quarry girl to show me what she's capable of."

The next few moments flew by in a flash. Your hand that hovered over John's head shot to his hair and clamped down, pulling both your faces together into a furious engagement. As your lips locked an teeth gnashed, your other hand moved to his white t-shirt and grasped a handful of the thin material in your palm to pull the rest of his body closer to yours.

John's movements stuttered at first, surprised by the fervor with which you took his challenge, but he hurried to recover and wrapped his arms around your torso. His hands moved to grasp the bottom of your tucked button down and crumble the fabric into his palms until the warm skin between your top and your skirt was free for him to explore. You both were angry, hungry, and seen only for the rapacious creatures you both were in the shadows of this secret quarry.

Your feet stumbled over each other, attempting to find somewhere for the two of you to continue your intimate war without breaking the sloppy embrace until one of you tripped-- who it was, it was unclear-- and you both fell into the cushioning brush of the centerpiece garden. Although you usually would have screamed, or pushed him away, or even laughed, neither of you could remove yourselves from the lust nor the wrath of the situation to acknowledge the comedy of the act. Instead, this was a divine welcome mat to desecrate this holy place with your entirely unholy contempt for one another.

John broke the kiss with heaving breaths and leveraged himself over your body, not getting very far before the hand in his hair yanked him back downwards and he easily obliged to dive further down into the crook of your neck. His mouth was not kind: rather, it attacked the supple flesh with swollen lips and wolf-like teeth gnawing dark hickeys from your ear down the center of your collarbone. "You are one sweet tastin' bird for how sour you act." John jabbed as his hands made quick work of the pathetic white buttons keeping your dignity in tact.

"Shut the fuck up." You hissed and pulled his head back up so you were face-to-face again.

You lifted your head and parted your lips to catch John's lower lip between your teeth, pulling back down toward the earth in a slow motion and earning a prolonged groan from the young man as he followed. You tasted the slightest hint of metal and darted your tongue forward to get a better feel of it, running the tip over his trapped lip and laughing gently between your teeth. The sensation sent a shudder through John's body that encouraged him to dig his fingers into your now exposed waist and move his calloused fingers up your sides until he reached your bra. He moved his hands behind you and unhooked the material to remove both top pieces at once, and when he was ready to take them off your shoulders you released his now deliciously broken lip.

God, he looked beautiful like this.

The same thought ran through his head as he discarded the first two pieces of your clothing and did the same to his own leather jacket and white t-shirt, sitting up over you to do so. "Fuck," John began with a dark chuckle and used the back of his hand to wipe a drop of blood from his bottom lip, "never thought I'd say I let a prep get one over on me." Sat between your thighs, he looped his left hand behind your knee and pushed it towards your chest, causing your previously clean and ironed skirt to now sit wrinkled and disheveled at your waist.

His other hand landed harshly on your right thigh to the sweet sound of a gasp from your lips. He hushed you and gently rubbed the same spot before running his fingers up your leg, pushing the other side of your skirt up, until his fingertips were finally on your skin again. He moved in a slow slither from your navel and up the center of your torso, between your breasts, and rested to cup your jaw. "We'll make up for that though, won't we, doll?"

The hand that had pushed your left leg up now moved between your thighs to cup your clothed heat, moving in a slow up-and-down motion so two of his digits just barely teased your soaked slit. You groaned and reached down between the two of you to grab his groin, but never moved your leg from its bent position. In fact, you moved your calf to rest around John's waist. "If you don't start taking this seriously I might change my mind, Lennon. Pick. Up. The. Fucking. Pace." You seethed through clenched teeth, putting a teasing yet firm pressure on his already hardened length through his pants.

It didn't take long for John to make his decision. Once his own pants were unbuttoned and his boxers pulled down enough to unveil his hardened and desperate length, he reached back between your legs and pushed your panties to the side with a sigh. Despite the great temptation to make another jab at you verbally, John instead tightened his grip on your jaw ever so slightly and pressed his hot tip against your wet folds. You both shuddered without realizing it and, to try to hide the fact you had done so, he pushed inside and leaned over you with a long groan.

Your hands moved hurriedly to run over John's body and face, one snaking behind his back once he was close enough and the other raking through his now destroyed coif. "Fuck." You murmured. His thrusts were not endeared but rather animalistic, and your reactions were equal in response. Nails dragged across his exposed back and your fingers tightened to pull his face back towards yours and past it so your lips were pressed to his ear. "You're much prettier when you're all domesticated like this for me instead of fighting." You cooed, demeaning and seductive all the same. To your pleasant surprise, the words encouraged the guitarist to move quicker and even earned some reluctant moans and grunts from deep in his chest. You kissed down his neck to mirror the marks he had left on you before, both your movements becoming more and more intense and dissimilar until a final climax of heat, violence, and unbridled desire shot through both of you simultaneously.

John's hand shot up to cover your mouth as a scream of delight rang out from your throat, reaching its destination just in time before he found a place on your shoulder to bite down and muffle his own cries of pleasure. You both shook in unison without a word to be spoken for an eternity, years of tension flowing between and away from you in this quarry garden made go just the two of you.

By the time you came to, you looked around to see that half of the centerpiece had been torn apart by the carnal scene. Flowers lay torn up, twigs snapped and saplings bent at unnatural angles, and you and John lay at the center of it all.

It seemed that your presence alone had made the quarry proof of teddy boy destruction that ran rampant everywhere John seemed to go. Even in a place that had been reclaimed by beauty and proper society, John-- no, you-- had returned it to its natural state of decay once again.

Turning your attention back to the man who had brought you here in the first place, you saw the damage you had done to one another in every hickey, scratch, and swollen lip. John noticed your gaze on him and chuckled. "See? Just like I said: quarry was just like you." He mumbled and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his discarded jacket along with a lighter, slipping a single cigarette out and lighting it with a puff.

You peered out at the boys from behind the stage curtains, the deafening screams of the nearly-sixty thousand fans making it pretty much impossible to hear the music at any point in the set... let alone Paul's voice. Still, it didn't seem to stop him from bouncing around and singing at the top of his lungs alongside John.

It was the first time The Beatles-- or anyone, for that matter-- had played a stadium, and you were beyond ecstatic for your adorable lover who now had the honor of closing out the show with "I'm Down." If it weren't for the howl he made into the mic, you might not have even realized it was the final song until it was too late. You watched with stars in your eyes as these four Liverpudlians who you had seen go from nothing now sweat and shake in uniformed gear as tens of thousands of Americans cheered unintelligible nonsense all for them.

Once they waved goodbye to their adoring fans and came back to the hush provided by the stage walls, you welcomed Paul with a soft smile and a kiss to his cheek where his hair stuck.

"How'd ya like the show, babe?" The Beatle inquired, half paying attention to you and half to the other boys laughing and muttering around him as they worked out where the after-party would be.

"Oh, you mean all the singin' birds? I quite liked the million canaries squawkin' away. You were alright too." You teased with a smirk, giving the other three members a congratulatory smile and a nod as they passed you both to change.

Paul turned to you with a half frown and seemed to search your face for more information, but you gave nothing more than a laugh. "Wha-at?" You giggled and leaned back on a large amplifier. "I'm just doin' your last song justice, ain't I? You need some more practice in humility, lover." You reached up to mess with his bangs, which now laid flat against his sweaty forehead, but his own fingers reached up to intertwine with yours and push both your hands back to the amp so your bodies were now close. It was a slow, calculated movement, as were many of the things he did you had come to realize.

The heat of the performance still radiated from his core and every hot breath he took, his eyes moving slowly between your eyes and across the backstage. Your gaze followed his and found the two of you were alone. "I s'ppose you told them--"

"We'd see 'em at the party later?" Paul finished your sentence without a moment's hesitation, his other hand not preoccupied with yours moving to cup your waist. "I had summin' to deal with here that obviously hadn't had the chance to enjoy the show like all the other.... birds, did you call 'em?" His fingers danced lightly over the fabric of your colorful shift dress.

"You got another name?" You shot back in a playful tone and pulled your hand from his so both could reach up to begin unbuttoning the beige uniform wrapping his torso. To your relief, he didn't resist: everyone really must've been gone.

Paul hummed thoughtfully and used his now free hand to reach up and cup your cheek. The movement made your own hands pause for a moment and your gaze raise up to meet his, where you found a long-awaited hunger beneath his sweaty brow. "Jealous."

The hand that rested on your cheek moved forward ever so slightly to allow his thumb to brush over your lower lip and pull it down as his face moved in closer to yours. Your breaths now mingled indiscriminately, and your body seemed to scream as loudly as every man and woman in that crowd had moments earlier.

You both stood like that for a few moments until you finally moved one hand from the second button on his chest and up to the back of his neck, hurriedly pulling the boy in for a heated kiss. Although he laughed at the switch in your demeanor, he didn't deny you the attention and allowed your lips to meet.

The slow, deliberate plays the two of you had been making were out the window in a moment, lips smashing and teeth clacking against one another as your bodies suddenly became one. If the other boys were taking this time to cool off, Paul was just getting hotter and taking you down with him.

Your hands moved with desperation now as they unbuttoned the blasted uniform that dared to keep you from seeing and touching your lover however you pleased, but Paul reached a hand up to lay over yours and pause your movements. He pulled away to stop the kiss and earned an inadvertent whine from deep in your throat.

"Weren't you just laughing at me a moment ago?" He teased, pulling both his hands away from you to undo the obnoxiously large buttons and take off the jacket. You tried to come up with some kind of snarky comeback, but you could do that once your main objective had been achieved.

Beneath was another shirt: a black button down. This he unbuttoned but left on and tucked into his pants, leaving his glistening chest exposed and you in awe. Paul noticed and moved back toward you, his hands moving deftly behind your thighs and looping beneath both of them. He nodded his head to motion you to jump up, and with both of your efforts you were now sat on top of the amplifier to be almost equal in height to him. "There we are." He cooed, his palms now snaking up your back to find the zipper at the top of your dress.

The bassist's hands moved painstakingly slow as he undid each of the zipper's teeth and allowed the fabric to fall off your shoulders on its own. You allowed it to fall halfway down your chest before you reached your left hand to the right shoulder and pulled it off, doing so to the opposite side so it bunched in your lap and you both were left admiring the other.

"Paulie..." You began but were unsure where exactly you were going to go with the gentle call. Luckily for you, he knew. He always knew.

Paul brought his hand to the right side of your neck and welcomed you to rest your head in his gentle grasp, his lips moving to the other side to leave soft kisses behind your ear that grew in intensity as they moved down your jaw. His other hand reached behind you to make quick work of your bra, unhooking the two clasps and pushing the straps off so your breasts were fully exposed to the cool August air and his body heat. You gasped at the combination of sensations and reached a hand up to grasp his wrist, but he didn't dare stop.

"Keep making pretty noises like that and I might have to fuck ya right here." He growled against your skin and allowed his teeth to graze the flesh.

You chuckled breathlessly in an attempt to mask a whimper and reached a hand up behind his neck to card through his wet hair. "Y-yer a real Shakespeare."

The boy moved to the base of your neck and bit down in response to that comment, earning a yelp and a moan from you that made it impossible for him to deny the tightness in his slacks. "What did I say, beautiful?" He confirmed and moved his lips further down your form, making sure to worship every inch of your body from your lips to your navel.

You let out a shaky laugh and watched as the rock god got on his knees for you, taking your dress the rest of the way off with a reverence that seemed oxymoronic to the power he held on that stage. It made you feel powerful, even as he marked you every few inches as his.

Using the slant of the amplifier as a lean-to, Paul knelt down so his face was between your thighs, kissing and licking long strips along your flesh like you were his prey. The sight made you weak and, for a moment, you looked away. But with a gentle yet firm smack to your hip, Paul regained your attention and smiled up at you. "There y'are, my pretty thing." He cooed, his arms hooking beneath both your legs and his fingers grasping either side of your panties.

With the help of you lifting your trembling hips Paul slid your already soaking panties from your heat and off of you, the hunger in his eyes almost making you nauseous.

You knew he wouldn't allow you to look away, but watching him so close to your most desperate parts and refusing to give you the satisfaction of immediately diving in was driving you insane. "C'mon, hurry up." You urged with a whine.

Paul frowned and looked you in the eyes, but never moved away from the mere inches he hovered from your heat. "Now, babe, you know that's not how ya ask for things." He kissed just below your belt before moving lower, licking a long, slow strip over your heat but never breaking skin.

And yet, you broke.

"Paulie," you whimpered, "Paulie, please, I need you."

And with that he gave in, feasting on your cunt like it was his last meal. Your head fell back and your hand instinctively reached forward to brush his bangs from his forehead and maintain a firm grip on his hair. Moans fell freely from your parted lips, and his tongue moved in a practiced dance throughout your heat as though your sounds were a song he knew all too well.

His arms, still hooked around your thighs, led your legs to rest on his shoulders and you were more than happy to wrap them around his back in a firm embrace. Between your moans and squeals came desperate calls for your lover, who responded with hums that reverberated through your core and left you breathless.

He didn't need verbal warning of your climax, for he knew your body better than anyone else and signaled it with a tighter grip on your thighs that pulled your bodies closer together. In just a few more darts of his tongue between your folds, you released on his face and he lapped up every last drop like a gift from heaven.

You panted and whined as you came down, looking down at Paul to see a prideful smile playing on his wet lips. "Yer a freak." You laughed breathlessly.

"And we ain't done yet. I still have a promise to hold up, don't I?" The cheeky bassist replied, standing so he was face to face with you again and kissing you to allow you to taste yourself on his lips. "Get on yer knees fer me, sweetheart." He whispered, and you obeyed immediately.

Sliding off the amplifier, you crumbled to your shaky knees before Paul and stared up at him as he unbuckled his pants, wasting no time in opening his slacks and pulling down his boxers just enough to allow his hardened length to become exposed.

You looked up at the egoistical man standing over you, the smirk on his lips making you no less hungry for him. Although his pride was sometimes frustrating, it was admittedly one of his most devastating attractions.

You reached up both hands to grasp the base of his cock and began stroking, your lips moving to his tip to kiss and lick the most sensitive part the way you knew would frustrate him most. It certainly worked, for moments later his palm was at the back of your head guiding you further down. "I'd suggest not teasing me if you want to get fucked, doll." He growled, measured if not impatient.

You hummed in salacious compliance, earning a chuckling groan from his throat that encouraged you to move your head in a steady up-and-down motion without ever taking your eyes off of his. If there was one thing Paul loved, it was eye contact.

You kept your pace for a couple more minutes before Paul pulled you off, earning a few heavy pants from you and a satisfied smile. "Oh, you liked that did you, babe?"

You nodded and stood up with his hand still in your hair, gently guiding you to your feet. You both laughed breathlessly and kissed with a delicious fervor as he pushed your back against a nearby wall, the cool metal earning a gasp from your lips. The Beatle once again hooked his arms beneath your thighs and hoisted you up so you were leveraged between his body and the wall, and he was now looking up at you. "Tell me if ya need to slow down, yeah?"

With that, he lined himself up with your entrance and slowly pushed in, earning a shuddering whine from your throat as your body lowered onto his cock.

"Shhh, that's it, you're doing so good for me." Paul praised, one arm now wrapped around your waist as the other hand stroked your cheek. You lulled your head into his hand and reached both your own hands up to his neck to pull him in to a deep, slow kiss, pressing your sweaty bodies together into one.

Once he was all the way in, you both stayed like that for a moment before you nodded and pulled away to kiss the shell of his ear. "Go, baby." You whispered breathlessly and pulled him close. In an instant, he was slamming into you and you both entered your own little world.

Your moans were his, his groans became yours, and every word one of you said bled into the other like a language only the two of you could speak. His thrusts, at first measured and serene, eventually became hurried and unsteady. "F-fuck, baby I'm close." He murmured into the nape of your neck, his arms and your arms indiscernible from one another as the embrace tightened.

"I know-- I know, me too... fuck, don't stop!" You begged.

With a few more long and dedicated thrusts, you both came together: Paul moaning into your neck and you into his ear with a few gentle whimpers to attend. He gently lowered you to the ground and led you both to sit, allowing you to recover together in a mess of sweat, appendages, and heat.

"So..." Paul began after a few minutes of silence, you now sat cradled in his arms, "I'll ask you again. How'd ya like the show?"

You turned to face him, well aware that your face was now just as messy as his had been when he had come off stage before. And you smiled. "I loved it."