millie

It had to have something against you, that was the only explanation.

Perhaps you had done something to anger it, to provoke the monster inside to unleash its wrath and direct it at you. Maybe it was karma for that time you finished check-out at your local grocery shop, and didn't give the change to the homeless man outside.

In your defense, you were in a rush, and the few dollars had been pushed into the depths of your back pockets in a hurry.

But you should have given him the change, you would have given him all of your money if that cleansed your karma.

The fire alarm had blasted its deafening howls at the wonderful hour of two in the fucking morning—and you suppressed the urge to cry with it as you kicked off the sheets of your bed and stomped to the door. Angrily.

Three times in one week.

Three times had the fire alarm gone off—three fucking times had you not gotten off. It sent your nerves into overdrive. Every fiber in your body was tense, buzzing with frustration. Your mind no longer worked properly, there was not a single thought in your head that could even resemble sanity.

You were spent, uptight. Fired up. Deeply and infuriatingly.

The past week had been Hell. Capital H. Like the place they send your soul to suffer for eternity. Someone should call the Devil and tell him if his Underworld was ever at capacity, they could send the rest to live in your apartment complex. There was no difference.

Maybe this was the Underworld, and the Devil was the one causing you to suffer.

You wondered if the Devil fucked good.

Probably. Most likely. Unfortunately.

Half of the week had left you exhausted. Passed out the moment your head hit the pillow. Every other day you worked at the Office of Worst Kinds of People (a staff of only business men), and you had repeatedly run out of patience and will to live.

When you had not been swamped with work, you found yourself alone, in the solitude of your own apartment.

The quiet was driving you insane.

Every single one of your friends had been busy, whether with their own jobs or vacations. You didn't have a boyfriend, despite how much you found yourself needing one right about now. You were lonely.

It was you and your steadily growing collection of adult toys—except, you didn't get to be with them either.

How was it even possible that every moment you had to yourself, to get the release that would hopefully lift your shitty mood, the fire alarm protested by screaming its discontent.

Its pleasure was your displeasure, you were sure of that.

Oh, how you wished you could have gotten your shit together and downloaded the dating app your friends had begged you to get. Or even gone to a club, a bar—even a fucking strip club—just to get laid.

Fuck, you needed to get someone inside of you. Soon. Hard and fast.

"Aren't you cold?" Aaron, your next door neighbor, asked from your immediate left. Your head whipped to the side, to glare at him while you mentally sewed your mouth shut. It took everything in you to not snap in his stupidly handsome face.

Apparently, by the looks of him, he had better instincts when it came to urgent situations. You know the questions that are like 'what three things would you grab if there was a fire'? Yeah, Aaron seemed like he had his things figured out.

First of all, he was actually wearing clothes—and not a cropped tee and frilly, ruffled shorts that made your ass look amazing—mostly because it didn't cover anything.

Second of all, he had a bag slung over his shoulder. Which you guessed was actually useful stuff, and not the initial image that popped into your head of sex toys and bondage equipment.

Third of all, he didn't seem to mind being hauled out of the comfort of his apartment in the ass crack of—not even dawn.

Of-fucking-course you were cold. It was two in the fucking morning and your shit had been scared out of you by the infuriating fire alarm—which, also, most definitely, had it out for you.

And not 'out for you' in a good way, like it had whipped out its boner just for you. Because if that was the case, you wouldn't have been as cranky and frustrated as you were.

You would have climbed it, that was how desperate you were.

Pride was long lost and it would be a fool's mission to search for it.

"It's fine," you lied, lifting and dropping a shoulder to really sell the act of indifference. The urge to cross your arms over your chest and rub some warmth into your skin was increasingly hard to resist. You wished someone else would rub warmth into your skin instead.

Maybe the cold would seep into your bones and extinguish the burning between your legs. Hopefully.

"You're in a bad mood tonight," he clicked his tongue and chuckled, almost more to himself than you, "here, take this."

The world seemed to slow as you watched him reach for the zipper of his jacket. One inch was all it took, it slid down one inch to reveal the column of his throat and panic struck you.

"Stop," you gasped but it sounded more like a whine, an open palm stretched out to shield the sliver of skin from your vision—from the wrath of the demon in between your legs, "if you undress any more, I'm going to fucking jump. God."

"Fuck," your voice lowered to a whisper, to direct your words to yourself, as you dragged a hand down your face, "I need to get it together." This was getting out of hand. You had to get your shit together before anyone in the sea of people around you ended up the a danger zone.

"Three fucking times this week," you closed your eyes and sighed, "I just—need to get laid."

Aaron stilled as you continued muttering to yourself. He just stood there, unsure how to react, close enough that the warmth of his body caressed your skin in a way that drew goosebumps—far away enough that he wasn't in immediate danger of getting pounced on. Yet.

You met his unreadable gaze with an apologetic wince, "sorry."

Shit, you must have come across as an insane and desperate whore. Which might have been true, but that was not the subject of panicked discussion here. Aaron was nice, he always offered to help carry your stuff if you were struggling. Was always helpful if you had trouble with your car.

And he always appreciated your baking. If he wasn't home whenever you had made a batch of cookies or muffins or whatever, you'd shoot him a text and he'd knock on your door as soon as he got back.

Aaron watched out for you. He didn't deserve your shitty attitude.

He chuckled, a dark sound, rough and raspy. Like his throat had yet to fully wake up from slumber. Your thighs pressed together without your consent—and you knew he noticed. Apparently, your brain and your body no longer conversed before decisions were made. What a team, right?

"Can you wait until they let us back inside, or?" he purred, a playful smirk toying on his lips. As if the idea of it was amusing and not an actual fucking issue. But the urge to wipe that infuriatingly sexy look off his face vanished, as soon as his words sunk in.

Did he think you were joking?

The sticky mess practically dripping down your thighs was not funny, at all. It was embarrassing and annoying, and extremely frustrating. The idea of being this... aroused in the parking lot with every single resident of the complex present—it honestly kind of turned you on even more.

"It's not funny," you grumbled under your breath, arms folded over your chest to try to keep from shaking. Whimpering. Somewhere in between glaring at the asphalt under your shoes and picturing a giant orgy in the parking lot, Aaron had slipped his jacket off.

"Didn't say it was," he bit back a grin as he hung the jacket around your shoulders, "but only if you bake those cookies again." The scent of him waved around you, the heat of his body lingering inside the fabric now seeped into your skin.

"Are you making demands for sex?" you huffed a laugh, both unbelieving and intrigued, as you clutched the jacket tighter, "we'll fuck if I make you cookies?" Was it sad that you really hoped he meant it?

Maybe, but you did not give a single shit. Dick was dick—and he was absolutely not the ugliest person to be dicked down by—nor was the request anything but it's own win.

He was fucking gorgeous, in a dark and mysterious way. Like you'd never know if he was plotting your assassination or fantasizing about his cock deep in your throat—which was all the more attractive.

Not to mention, he liked your baking so much, he was trading sex for a batch of cookies.

This is what capitalism could have been.

Aaron chuckled, shrugging with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes, "give and take, right?" Oh, he was absolutely onto something, that man. And, soon, he could be onto you—if the firemen could just get their fingers out of their asses and let you back inside.

"How could I ever refuse such an offer?" you licked your lips and smirked, reflecting the smug expression forming on his face.

The stairwell door stood directly across from your apartment, pushed against one end of the hallway. On the middle wall was Aaron's door. His apartment was the biggest on your floor, save from the exact mirrored layout on the opposite end.

It was longer than yours, stretching further out than most of the other apartments.

You halted at the familiar crossroad, tilting your head as you studied the two doors with feigned indecisiveness, "mine or yours?" It didn't matter, you did not care at all. Not even a little bit. All you wanted was to get pounded so hard, you wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a week. And then some.

"Mine," he stated, decided, keys jingling in his hand as he unlocked the door. He held it open for you to enter, then closed it shut behind you.

Aaron kicked off his shoes and dropped his keys onto the console table, before turning back to look at you with a devilish smirk on his face, "can I get you anything?"

"Yeah, a dick and a bed, please and thank you," you mumbled as you hung up his jacket on the hooks, then snorted, "actually, the bed is optional." Anywhere would be acceptable, you thought to yourself as you sat down on the floor to untie your shoes.

Why the hell did you decide on converse? An even better question, how the hell did you manage to put them on while rushing out of the building?

"Well, I was thinking a glass of water or something," he mused, taking a step closer to where you knelt on the floor, "but, since you asked so nicely..."

"I'm going to scream if you don't touch me now." you glared up at him after pushing your shoes out of the way, barely restraining yourself from sinking your teeth into his thighs like a fucking vampire. They were right in front of you.

He seemed to really enjoy your snappy words and lack of composure, or perhaps he was the Devil himself come to prolong your suffering—might as well been as he didn't move an inch. Aaron just tilted his head down, filling your vision with his tall body and satisfied, smug expression.

However, you were a woman of your word. So, you took a breath, intent to actually scream your frustrations out—but the moment your lips parted, his cock hit the back of your throat.

You hadn't even noticed his pants coming undone, or his cock being whipped out—not until he was pushing past your lips with a groan and his hand tangled in your hair to keep you in place. He was careful, despite his grip on your head, his pace was slow and easy.

But slow and easy was not your style. Slow and easy would not do fucking shit to the volcano of horny you had transformed into.

Grazing your teeth lightly, in warning, a reminder of who really had the power, then you relaxed your jaw entirely. Offering the space of your mouth for him to use freely. Roughly, hopefully.

Aaron did. He fucked your throat until tears were streaming down your face. Until you had snaked a hand down your shorts and fingered yourself—until you had gotten so close you trembled—and that was when he pulled out.

Seconds before release could wash over you.

You tried your best to not sob as he lifted you up to your feet, a smile on his lips, his hands on either side of your face. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his thumbs brushing away the tears that stained your cheeks, "how many times, sweetheart?"

"What?" you shook your head in attempt to focus on the question he had asked. The gesture was so gentle, you almost passed out from the shift in energy. But the fire in your veins burned with threat and promise of eruption. Every cell in your body was tense, every fiber was screaming for the release you had been denied way too many times now.

"How many times do you want to cum for me, sweetheart?" Aaron repeated casually, like it was the most common question. His hands traveled down your sides, to your waist, under your shirt. His touch was like gasoline, fuel to what was brewing in your lower stomach. You shivered as his thumb grazed your peaked nipple, moaned as he pinched it between his fingers.

"Three?" he suggested in the absence of your answer, his hands cupping both your breasts firmly, "or more?" The smile on his lips seemed even more devilish as he tilted his head to the side, studying your dazed expression. A predator watching his prey. Fuck, it was hot.

"Three," you managed finally, nodding absentmindedly at your own confirmation, "fast, please. I'm going to explode if I can't—"

"I know, come on," Aaron relented with a chuckle, dragging you through the living room, to his bedroom.

The moment your feet crossed the threshold, his lips were on yours. Hungry and claiming. His tongue darted into your mouth with a force that stole your breath away, that had you wishing to never need air again. There was nothing slow and easy about him anymore.

He was all fire. Consumed by a demon of his own.

His mouth traveled across your jaw, biting the soft skin down your neck. As if he was teasing himself, refraining from devouring you entirely. If vampires were real, you would gladly offer your own neck if it felt like this.

Your hands tangled in his hair, clawed at his neck—anywhere you could reach, you scratched. Every thought in your brain evaporated as he groped your ass. Harshly. Everything about him was demanding, every touch on your body was an act of claim, every bite on your neck was a mark.

Then, he stepped back, out of your grasp, to rake his gaze down your body. He was appreciating the sight, drinking in the state of you. His cock was pressed against his lower stomach, the tip glistening with precum and the remnant of your spit.

You clenched around nothing at the thought of him inside you, how big he was in your mouth and how deep he fucked himself down your throat. How good he'd stretch you out. How you had promised him three orgasms.

Aaron clicked his tongue and tilted his head, "as much as I would love to fuck you in those shorts," he purred lowly, almost growling, "if you want to keep them in one piece, I suggest you take them off. Now."

You did not need to be told twice—not when the look on his face alone had you shivering with anticipation—the sound of his voice echoed through your bones, vibrating your body with the melody. His eyes darkened with something you could only assume was a warning sign, as his own clothes decorated the floor alongside yours.

The moment your shirt was off, he threw you on the bed, his hands gripping your hips to pull you to the edge as he positioned himself between them. His cock twitched against your thigh as he leaned down, face hovering inches above yours with a predatory look in his eyes.

"Sweetheart," he purred, in a way so condescending, you couldn't help but squeeze your thighs around him, "how would you like your first one?"

Fuck. In the dim light of his bedroom, with the gleam in his eyes, he looked every part of the Devil you had imagined.

"Don't care," you breathed, grinding you hips against him, "would jus' like it right now." The ache was consuming you, the desperation was at an all time high. You could practically feel your head emptying, and filling up again with images of him. No thoughts, it was all a burning need for Aaron.

"Guess it's my choice, then." he mused, a satisfied smile on his lips.

Then he was gone again, rummaging in the closet on the opposite side of the bedroom, returning with a blue—tie? You shuddered, breath hitching with a small whimper as he stalked for you. Slowly.

With a nod of his head, you pushed yourself backwards until you hit the headboard. Without exchanging a single word, you lifted your arms and he tied them together, securing you to his bed. You were at his mercy—and, God, did it turn you on.

Aaron was everywhere. His hands spread your thighs, his mouth devouring your breasts. Then his hands snaked up to replace his mouth, and his head lowered between your legs. He blew, air fanning across your folds—before he settled.

You moaned as his tongue danced around, plunged into you, pushing every button that ensured you would explode in no time. He rolled your nipple in between his thumb and pointer finger, the other hand moving down to your lower stomach, to press you into the mattress.

Your hips bucked, or tried to, against his hold. Tried to both push yourself into the feeling of his mouth on you, as well as away from it. It was dizzying and breathtaking, too much and yet not enough. The tie around your wrist dug into the skin, to keep you restrained as you pulled.

His groans were muffled by your thighs, vibrating around your clit. The sounds of him consuming you like it was everything he'd ever wanted, it sent you barrelling for the edge. Tumbling rapidly for the pleasure you had been denied for a week, as if it could be ripped out of your grasp any moment, and this was the only chance.

Your thighs shook with the intensity of your approaching orgasm, your whimpers turned into breathy moans, then small screams—until his fingers plunged into your mouth, and you unfolded. Drowned in darkness, the abyss of bliss.

It hurt so fucking good.

The sound of a wrapper ripping open did not register in your dazed state. You didn't register much at all before his cock slammed into you. In one movement.

Aaron wasn't giving you the moment to catch your breath, or to adjust to the size of him. No, he was a man of his own word, and he was intent to collect the debt you owed him. In his own pace, hard and fast, unrelenting.

It didn't take long for the sensitivity to melt back into desire. For the pain to reshape into a mind-numbing pleasure.

"Fuck," you gasped, eyes rolling as he hit the deepest spot inside of you over and over again. Both of his hands gripped your hips to hold, to use you as his anchor—and you hoped there would be bruises. Prints of his fingers, marks of his claims. Tattoos of the memories.

Aaron looked like a god above you. A disheveled, sexy god. His hair stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat as he pounded his cock deeper. Rougher. His eyes were wild, like he was in a crazed state and the urges had taken over. As if he had been possessed. He fucked like it, too.

"Wan' touch you," you managed to breathe, back arching off the bed with another forceful thrust. Your jaw was slack with the intent of forming another sound, yet none came out. Nothing but gasps could be heard. Gasps and skin slapping—and his deep rumbles that almost sounded like praise—but you couldn't make it out over the buzzing in your body.

The pressure lessened around your wrist and you pulled them free, grabbing his shoulders instead. Raking your nails down his back as he leaned over you, fucking you harder into the mattress.

Aaron bent your leg, your knee pressing against his chest to allow him deeper. His hand moving to your throat. It was a light hold, but firm enough to restrict the airways. You were shaking again, moaning pathetically as you clenched around him. The pressure around your throat was dizzying in the best ways. Intoxicating.

"Give it to me, sweetheart." his lips brushed your ear, his tone so demanding—you obeyed even before his words registered.

Everything was on fire. A delicious flame threatening to consume you as your body went numb with the force of your second orgasm. Skin buzzing with electricity, legs shaking around him as it swallowed you whole. A scream stuck in your throat, hindered by his tightening grip.

The world started to fade, the edges of your vision darkening. The abyss stretching endlessly— "Don't you dare," Aaron muttered somewhere far away, followed by a small sting on your cheek.

You gasped at the pain, the haze clearing up again to find his dark eyes staring down—at you.

He clicked his tongue, in what sounded like disapproval.

"I'm not done with you yet," he stated, a fake sweet smile growing on his lips, as if that would make it easier for you, "we had a deal. I'll fuck you until you give me—" he halted his words to move his hips, dragging himself out and pushing himself all the way back in, "—how many?"

"No, m' can't." you whimpered as tears rolled down your cheeks, his thumb swiping them away gently. Every slow thrust of his cock rubbed against your walls, you shuddered as he bottomed out, whined as he rolled his hips.

Aaron cooed, condescendingly, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, "but I know you can."

His pace picked up, slowly increasing to give you a chance to follow, until he was pounding into you again. Hammering while kissing away the tears on your cheeks, fucking you like his life depended on it, while gently stroking your hair. The contrast of his actions confused you enough, distracted your mind enough that your body melted into him. To give him what he wanted.

"Good girl," Aaron purred in your ear, snaking a hand around your thigh—"look at you," he hummed with appreciation, continuing his distractions to keep you focused on his voice, as his thumb started rubbing circles on your clit, "always knew you'd be good for me."

You mumbled incoherent noises, shuddered as new waves of pleasure jolted through your sensitive cunt, cried as he hit that very spot again. He was getting close now. His breath turned ragged and his hips were faltering, snapping with desperation for his own release. But he wasn't going to let himself, not until you gave him your last.

With a sob, your third orgasm washed over you, and Aaron followed with a groan of your name. A string of curses, along with coos of praise, as he came.

By the time you had reentered your body, regained a sliver of composure in the comfort of his arms, the sun had started to rise.

His curtains were open and you were curled up against him and admiring the view. The sky turning pastel, pink melting into a light purple, over to blue.

"You can see straight into my bedroom from here," you mused, a soft smile spreading on your tired face at the revelation. The bed was perfectly in line of sight with your bed, you could even see your sheets on the floor… You snapped your head around, gasping, "how much—"

Apparently Aaron had followed your train of thought, he understood instantly. "Only when you don't close your blinds," he grinned, not bothering to hide his amusement as he watched it sink in, "speaking of, maybe you should close them more often."

"Aaron," you raised a hand to cover your mouth, a panicked giggle escaping from your lips, "I never close my blinds." Yet, despite the horror of knowing you had been watched in the not-so-private privacy of your bedroom—which was absolutely your own fault—it also sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. Pooling right between your legs.

He had watched you.

And you didn't hate it. At all.

"Do you have anywhere to be today?" he whispered into your hair, his breath fanning the shell of your ear. You shook your head, biting your lip as his nose brushed down your throat, to your shoulder, "no, why?"

Aaron lifted his head and smiled sheepishly, "you still owe me cookies."

The shift at the bakery had been a slow one, but you were enjoying the serene atmosphere of the late hours, more so than reminiscing the absence of chaos. New York City could be a lot—it was a lot sometimes—but you wouldn't have it any other way.

He had been sitting at the counter for the past hour, the mystery man. By himself, a cup of coffee nestled in between his large hands—the third one since he had walked in. Which was insane, considering the day had come to an end, but you weren't one to judge.

The city was bustling with insanity, it was practically the standard.

A handful of customers had come by the small shop during the hour he had occupied the stool. Some to pick up their orders of mini cakes, some to simply offer their greetings; to bid you goodnight, or to have a nice weekend. It was a Friday ritual. You'd chatted with them when they did, a smile bright on your face, despite the exhaustion weighing on you.

It was your favorite part about the city, the people. The close community, the support and appreciation. The air was filled with love. It made every fight for your dream worth it.

"When do you close?" The handsome stranger asked, a gleam in his eyes to accompany the small smile on his lips. You had been eyeing each other in silence for a good while, simply existing in the same presence. Enjoying the calm.

Neither of you had bothered the other. He had savored his nth serving of coffee while you had cleaned the counter, while you had written down the orders for the following day.

Without satisfying him with an answer just yet, you reached under the counter to grab a bottle of whiskey—from the 'mini bar' you had made one night—when all of you and your friends had been hanging out in the bakery after closing for the day. It was nice to have somewhere to be, to drink and have fun, that wasn't any of your crammed, overprized apartments.

The upstairs neighbors didn't mind, because the upstairs neighbors were you and Hazel, your trusted second in 'cakery-command', as she had called it.

You poured the amber liquid into one of the handful crystal glasses your bakery now had stacked beside the bottles of alcohol, and placed it in the open space between his folded hands.

Your friend had thrifted them after he had decided your bakery-slash-apparently-now-also-bar needed something of the actual variant to serve alcohol in, and not just coffee cups. You didn't care enough to argue.

Then, with a glance to the clock on the wall, you decided you had tortured the man long enough.

"We closed ten minutes ago," a soft laugh spilled from your lips as you poured yourself a glass of the same drink. It hadn't exactly been your intention to not kick him out, it had just happened. His presence was comforting, somehow. Alluring, even.

The man stiffened slightly, as if he was uncomfortable with the idea of keeping you from closing your bakery. Keeping you from going home. You weren't, you would've told him as much if you had been.

He seemed to realize that, as his shoulders relaxed, dropping from where they had been by his ears, with a small sigh. A breath of relief, or content, or discontent—you weren't entirely certain.

Then, the sigh turned into a chuckle. He eyed the crystal in his hands, swirling the liquid around, his brows furrowed but the amused tilt on his lips reappeared, "a bakery and a bar is—different."

You met his gaze with a laugh, your expression reflecting that of his, "this is New York City, handsome, anything is possible." With that, you raised your glass in cheers, and downed the content. The stranger you had just called handsome, watched you, for the entirety of a heartbeat, before he mirrored your movements.

A comfortable silence stretched as you refilled the drinks.

"So, what brings you here?" you supported your chin with the palm of your hand, studying the mystery man with curiosity. Appreciation. The man wasn't from the city, that was blatantly obvious. He carried a certain kind of authority that you didn't see much, at least not inside of your cozy, little shop.

If you would guess, you'd say he was from the capital, or somewhere of the similar sort.

"To New York, or to your bakery-bar?" he tilted his head to the side, studying you with the same intensity, curiosity as you did with him.

You shrugged, lifting the nearly empty drink to your lips, "both."

There was an easy flow to your conversation, as if he matched your tempo. As if his mind went the same direction as yours, the same pattern of waves, without knowing.

Almost a spiritual connection. You wondered what he would think of that, being spiritually connected to you. If he would go off about pseudo-science, or if he would leave it. Not care about your beliefs or not-beliefs.

You weren't exactly spiritual, or religious for that matter, but you could enjoy a little tarot reading. Offer up a prayer in hard times. It was natural. Human. Everyone believes in some things, and not in others.

The man in front of you seemed like the type to let you figure it out for yourself, not indulge in subjective debates that didn't really matter outside of one self. That was a sexy character trait.

Almost as sexy as altruism.

"Work," he answered, simply, "we leave in the morning." There was a hint of disappointment fluttering somewhere in your stomach, at the thought of not seeing this man you had never met before, again. Ironic. You drowned the feeling with the rest of your drink, not entertaining it for longer than necessary. Which was nothing, it wasn't a necessary feeling at all.

You hummed, nodding with understanding as you reached for the bottle again, "shouldn't drink too much then, should you, handsome?" Despite your own words, the warning laced underneath them, you filled both of your glasses.

"No," he agreed, a twitch on his lips, "probably not." Still, despite his own words, he raised the crystal once again, and clinked it against yours.

"What's your name?" the handsome stranger asked quietly, being polite more so than anything.

Names. Such a powerful thing to give a stranger—a thing to ensure you became more than strangers.

A dangerous thing, in a city like New York. In general. Especially when time wasn't on your side, when there was nothing more than this moment to share.

You found yourself trusting the man, at least to an extent. After all, you were drinking with him, alone, in your still-not-closed-and-locked bakery. And he had yet to reveal himself as a serial killer.

So, you offered him a piece of your life, in some way more intimate than simply your name, and filled his glass for the fourth time. He thanked you with a small smile.

"They call me Spice," you bit back a grin, leaning forward on your elbows, "guess why." His hands, folded around his drink, were inches from yours on the wooden counter. So close, you could feel the warmth rolling off his fingers in waves.

The man hummed, lifting his drink to his upturned lips and met your gaze over the rim, an amused twinkle gleaming in his dark, rich eyes, "your uncanny resemblance to one of the Spice Girls?"

You laughed, wholeheartedly, honestly, "yeah, which one?"

The stranger had no idea what any of the Spice Girls looked like, you would bet on it. It was blatantly obvious, just by looking at him.

Pressed suit, tailored, hugging all the right places of his tall frame. Straight tie, perfectly centered. Nothing was amiss, unaligned, disheveled. He was the personification of uniform.

It made you wonder what it took to mess him up, just a little. If he would freak out if you lifted your hand and ran it through his short, dark hair, ruffling it. How he would react if you untied his tie.

"Got me there," he scratched the nape of his neck and chuckled, airy and deep, before folding his hands in front of him again, "why do they call you Spice, Spice?"

His low voice sent shivers down your spine, in a good way. The words echoed in your mind with a reminder of what you had planned to do a drink ago, but forgotten to.

The man didn't look like one to have a sweet tooth, but the bakery was closed anyway—and the leftovers wouldn't be sold tomorrow. So, you decided there was no harm in it.

Turning your back to him, despite how little you wanted to drag your gaze from his handsome face, you grabbed a mini cake from the display case. Then, a small dessert fork from the drawer underneath, a blue napkin from its holder on the counter, and placed it all in front of him.

"They say my spice cake is something else," you tilted your head to the side and licked your lips, watching the man scan what was in front of him, "the New York Times called it 'a must have; a wonderful bite of love that leave you wanting more', if I recall correctly."

You did recall correctly, it was the best day of your life—the article was printed and framed by the door. He didn't seem to have noticed it on his way in, which gave you all the more room to talk about it. Humbly, of course.

He only hummed in response, hesitantly picking up the utensil to try a bite. The fork looked tiny in his hands—through the state of your hazy mind, you found the sight delightful.

However, the silence that followed had you on edge. Gripping the wooden counter. It was like standing in front of a jury, only more intimidating. The jury could be persuaded with a fancy garnish, or a swirl of buttercream, he didn't seem so—easy to please.

You usually didn't really care if people liked your cakes or not, but suddenly, you couldn't quite grasp why, you found yourself hoping he did.

His unrevealing expression caused you to bounce on your feet, growing desperate for his verdict.

Finally, he met your waiting wide eyes, a satisfactory smirk on his lips, "they were right."

Relief washed over you, for reasons yet unbeknownst, and you smiled, "good." It was good, both the cake and the fact that he liked it. You found it comical, that you had somehow became infatuated with the man sharing the counter. All it took was lingering glances, a few drinks and hearing his deep chuckle, you wanted more.

But the day was over, the man was leaving in the morning, and you had to close up the bakery sooner rather than later.

Though, you let the handsome stranger finish eating first. With you watching, intently, mesmerized by every lift of the fork. Every swallow that had his throat bobbing. It must have been the whiskey, or perhaps you had grown delirious with exhaustion, but you swore his eyes had darkened under your stare. His grip had tightened, his shoulders stiffened slightly.

"Can I take you home?" he had asked the moment you turned back to him, after cleaning up the last bit of evidence there had been someone here. You met his questioning gaze—he looked almost hesitant to ask, as if he understood the implications, the dangers, of a stranger walking a woman home.

You didn't care about the implications. Any moment with him, any more of them, would be worth the potential risk. The man was leaving, you'd never see him again, so what harm would it do to prolong your time in his presence?

"It's a short walk, unfortunately," you gave him a half-smile as you passed him to lock the door from the inside. Flipping the sign to 'closed', you reached over to switch the main lights off, before you made your way back towards him.

"But yes," you stepped in between his spread legs, reaching behind him for the keys you had dropped on the counter, meeting his gaze, "you can walk me upstairs."

A hand around his wrist, you dragged him behind you through the kitchen. Out the door leading into the small, crammed hallway. Your keys jingled as you locked it, slightly shaking with anticipation, or nerves—you weren't entirely certain. Checking it a second time, a habit you had after forgetting to lock it that one time. Despite nothing happening, you wanted to be on the safe side. Especially with the insurance you had.

You glanced over your shoulder, hiding a smile as you licked your lips, and made it for the stairs.

The door to your apartment barely opened enough to let the two of you inside before it was slammed shut, your back pressed against it, his lips on yours.

It was all heat, a shared impatience and desire. His warm tongue tasted of whiskey and your spice cake, a wonderful combination of flavors. It made you lightheaded, dizzy. You resisted the urge to pull away from him to write it down, to study the taste of his mouth, to figure out how to replicate it.

You didn't care if it would sell as cakes, you wanted to have the opportunity to feel this again.

But the kiss was too good, too burning, to cut short. You didn't want to waste the time you had with him, like this, on indulging in the menial tasks you did every other day. This was special, a once-in-a-lifetime. Never before had you brought a stranger up to your apartment, never before had you wanted to the way you did now.

Hands tangled in his hair, his on your hips, your waist, under your shirt. Any sliver of skin he could touch, his hands were. Calloused fingertips, rough on the soft flesh of your ribs. His thumbs caressing the band of your bra before slipping under.

He groaned lowly in appreciation—you swallowed the sound and answered with your own.

You smiled as you pulled on his tie, laughed as he winced at the rough movement. It came undone, hung around his shoulders as you worked on his button-up. Fingers ran down his chest, appreciating the lovely sight of him, as he shook the fabric off.

He was about to fold his shirt, likely roll his tie with it, but time wasn't on your side and he seemed to agree—every moment was passing too quickly.

His pace turned as impatient as yours. Clothes were on the floor, even despite his compulsion. You were more important, more dire to indulge in. His hands reflected the revelation, pulling off every piece of fabric obstructing his view of you, hindering the feeling of your skin against his.

Bodies flush against each other as you stumbled for the bed. Hands everywhere, lips everywhere. Heavy breathing as the temperature rose. You pushed him down, to sit with his back against the headboard, to straddle him.

Knees on either side of his thighs, he pumped himself once before you sank down on him. No words exchanged, only sounds of appreciation, of approval. Skin slapping and sloppy kisses. Desperately trying to feel everything all at once.

You rode him until your legs grew tired — then he took over. Without a word needed. His grip on your hips tightening to lift you up, to slam you down. He stretched you out wonderfully. Setting your skin on fire. Every nerve in your body burned for him in that moment.

"Not much of a talker are you, handsome?" your hands tangled in his hair, tugging his head closer so you could press your lips against his. His hands held firmly on your hips, aiding the pace you had wordlessly agreed to.

"I like to appreciate art," he purred against your lips, a groan erupting from the depth of his chest as you rolled your hips again, "—much rather take my time to feel it, not talk about it."

You nodded in understanding and threw your head back, your hands on his shoulders to anchor as you bounced harder. Faster. Less controlled as you chased the pleasure coiling in your stomach.

"I appreciate the feeling, as well," you managed a smile in between heavy breaths. The indication wasn't lost on him. He returned your amused expression at your own joke, smiling sheepishly, boyish. Drunk on the feeling of you—as you were of him.

There was nothing else, nothing outside of the two of you. Only you and him, your skin against his, tightly clenched around him. His hold on your waist unrelenting, lifting you and slamming you down onto him as your noises increased in volume. As your pleas became a choir of bliss, together.

You pressed your lips against his as you shook around him, as your orgasm tilted the world and took you with it.

He cursed, for the first time that evening, when he came inside of you.

And then, there was silence.

Small smiles, tiny kisses. His fingers in your hair, your head on his chest. Lazy strokes of affection, mindlessly caressing touches.

You fell asleep within minutes.

The stranger was gone before the sun rose. No sign of him, no evidence of your late night activities—except for the pile of folded clothes on your dresser. Along with a small piece of paper, folded in half on top.

A business card with a written note on the back, and a hundred dollar bill.

For the whiskey and your time. A.H. P.S. Those cakes really are something else. I like the Spice. Next time in NYC?

You bit your lip to suppress a smile and flipped the card over—your jaw fell to the floor.

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION SSA AARON HOTCHNER

"Oh." you flushed a bright red. It's not every day you accidentally sleep with an FBI agent.

And, honestly, you hoped it wasn't the last.

Thankfully, it wasn't.