Chris Evans

“Shh shh shh,” Ari cooed, his hand on your belly giving a gentle pet before it slowly started to descend. 

You gasped sharply as his touch slid between your thighs, as he cupped your cunt through your jeans and panties as his teeth caught your earlobe and gave a warning nip. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Ari husked. “You won’t fall victim to my usual methods. It would be such a waste, and I have a much better idea for keeping you occupied and out of trouble.”

You could only whimper and squirm as Ari–this man you didn’t even know, who you had only just meant mere moments ago–popped open the button on your jeans and stuffed his big hand down the front of your pants and panties like he had every right to.

His fingers were thick and rough as they teased along your cunt. When his touch glanced off your clit for the first time, you gave a startled cry that had you going rigid in Ari’s lap.

“Oh, I liked that sound, sweetheart, give me another.”

His touch grew more intentional then–more wicked. It seemed like it took him no time at all, and barely any effort, to have you creaming all over his fingers and begging him to make you cum. 

Because it had been so long since you had been touched like this–especially by someone who knew what they were doing, who was so confident and scary in a way that made your body tingle. 

You could feel the rock hard length of Ari press along the small of your back, and you could only imagine the way he ached, but still, he kept all of his focus and intent on you.

“God, look at you, honey, you’re like putty in my hands, so needy and desperate for it, huh?” 

You whined at the deep baritone of Ari’s voice, at his seductive words, at that delightful pull pulsing deep within you, feeling like a live wire as pleasure and the cusp of ecstasy danced all along your body from head to toe. 

You arched your back in desperation, shameless now as you rutted against Ari’s touch, moaning loudly and without reserve as he shoved two thick fingers deep inside your cunt and began to rub along your sensitive walls.

Sounds that could only be described as primal and desperate began to fall from your lips as you curled your fingers into Ari’s thick thighs beneath you, inching closer and closer to the height of your pleasure. 

“You wanna cum, sweetheart?” Ari rumbled against the curve of your jaw.

“Yes!”

“You gonna be good for me?” he asked. “You gonna promise to keep that cute little nose where it belongs and out of our business?”

“Uh huh,” you replied without hesitance, not really comprehending Ari’s words but also willing to agree to anything in this moment if it meant getting what you wanted–being able to cum, to completely unravel in the best way. 

His fingers went at you harder, making you keen and bow against him. Just before you fully ascended, only a swipe or two of Ari’s thumb against your clit away from falling apart entirely–from surrendering to the type of toe-curling pleasure you knew you’d remember for days–Ari stopped. 

“Nooo!” you whined as his fingers suddenly retreated from you entirely, leaving your poor body taut and woefully, horrifically unsatisfied. 

“Only good girls get to cum, and you gotta earn that privilege, trouble,” Ari husked against your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your warm cheek before he shifted you off of his lap then poured himself to his feet. 

You gaped up at him in utter shock–in visceral betrayal–as Ari adjusted the bulge at the front of his jeans before shooting you a smirk and wink combo. 

And then you could only stare after him as he turned and sauntered out the back door of your business, leaving you dazed, angry, and mourning the loss of what you knew would have been an incredible orgasm.

“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath, glowering at the memory. 

And yet–you hadn’t stuck your nose where it didn’t belong since. 

You weren’t sure if it was from fear and self-preservation, or if maybe you were hiding and didn’t want to draw any more unwanted attention your way. 

Maybe you had learned the lesson Ari and his boss had wanted to teach you. 

You crumpled today’s high tea menu in your hand at the very thought–being schooled, by anyone, let alone a couple of criminals. Then you frowned as you quickly tried to straighten out the wrinkles in the beige paper. The color of it, and the font printed on it, were a play on a book, since that was kind of your schtick.

Books & Brews. 

Aka your baby. Your dream business that spawned from a combination of two of your passions–tea and books. 

It was such a niche and novelty sort of business, that you hadn’t been able to secure any investors when you were first starting out. No one had believed in you and your dream except you, which honestly only made it all the sweeter now that it was such a success. 

All it had taken was a couple of online influencers having high tea in your cute little shop, and raving about the food, tea, and book selection, and you had pretty much gone viral overnight. 

And never looked back. 

That was why you were so mad about the utter bullshit that had moved in next door. 

This was a nice neighborhood. Safe. Family friendly. You had repeat customers that you loved. You hosted kids’ birthday parties, bridal showers, all types of milestone events. 

If word got out that the fucking mob had moved in next door, you knew it would pretty much be a death sentence for Books & Brews. 

“Ugh!” You tried to shake that thought–and all the thoughts like it–from your mind. Because then you would get mad. And start to spiral. You would get stupid protective over your business and all of your self-preservation would go out the window. 

And now you knew what happened when that was the case. 

So! Screw organized criminals and their unwanted neighbor status. 

You had a successful dream business to run.

Speaking of… the little bell over the front door cheerfully jingled the arrival of new guests, and you straightened from leaning against the checkout counter, a smile already curling your lips. 

But it instantly fell as you watched two figures step inside your shop. Although one was a total stranger to you, the other was familiar as hell–because it was Ari.

You hated that your first thought upon seeing him was that he was so ridiculously hot. So big and beefy. His worn denim button up shirt bulged with his muscles, his dark, wiry chest hair sticking out the top where quite a few buttons were undone. He was wearing another pair of those criminally tight jeans and–

Stop staring, you internally screamed at yourself when you caught sight of Ari’s arrogant smirk. 

Because he had totally caught you ogling. 

You made a face at him before rounding the counter, puffing up a little as your narrowed gaze shifted from him to the man beside him. 

He wasn’t as tall or thick as Ari, but he was no slouch either in his obviously expensive suit and equally handsome features. He had fair skin, dark floofy hair that was perfectly styled, and a thick beard that was just as neatly trimmed. His eyes were an electric blue, and although they glittered with amusement as they met your fiery gaze, there was something about them that was too hard to be genuine. 

Despite the charming smile spreading across his lips, there was an air of ruthlessness to him that you could see from a mile away. 

And you knew that this man, he was the boss. Of Ari. Of the new “business” next door. Of an entire mob empire you wanted nothing to do with. 

You also knew that he–and Ari–were ones not to be messed with, but they had your hackles rising so quickly, that it was like all logic evaporated from your brain as you marched right up to them, crossed your arms over your chest, and stared Ari’s boss down without care. 

“You’re not welcome here,” you said firmly, giving yourself a mental high five at how confident you sounded. 

The stranger’s eyes only twinkled more, a quiet chuckle spilling from his lips as he ignored your statement entirely and introduced himself. “Andy Barber,” he didn’t try to shake your hand, instead looking away from you as his gaze drifted around your small shop, which was a little quiet at the moment.  

“What a… charming little place you have here,” he observed, and you knew just from his tone and delivery that he didn’t mean it as a compliment. 

He meant for it to be condescending–to insult you and your business and put you in your place–but it had quite the opposite effect. Instead, it had you firing off your sassy response before you could think better of it–or realize just how closely Ari was watching you, awaiting your reaction like a teacher surveying their student’s progress. 

“Certainly more charming than illegal activity and shady business associates,” you smiled beatifically, meeting Andy’s suddenly steely gaze without flinching. “But what’s a little murder and mayhem, as long as you don’t get caught, right?”

“Careful, neighbor,” Andy tutted, but his lips were curled in amusement, his eyes flickering with a hint of respect as he watched you. 

For some reason, you got the sense that Andy wasn’t used to people mouthing off to him, that it was a rare novelty in fact, and he was actually enjoying it as you death stared him and tried to turn him away from your doorstep. 

Him. 

“We’ll stay for lunch,” he decided instead, stepping past you and picking the empty table of his choice without waiting for your response. 

“You need a reservation,” you huffed, spinning on your heel and storming after him. 

And, okay, while you did appreciate reservations, especially for larger parties, you never actually turned anyone away. 

But today, for him—for both of them—it was an exception that you were willing to make. 

“As luck would have it,” Andy hummed, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I have my reservation right here.” He pulled out his wallet, flipping it open and plucking out a few crisp hundred dollar bills before tossing them on the edge of the table in front of you. 

Which only made you seethe more. 

“I don’t want your blood money,” you whisper!hissed, aware of the two small parties across the room, enjoying their high tea service. 

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Andy smirked at the way your nose wrinkled at the pet name. “I left my blood money wallet at home today. That’s legit and legal revenue.” 

Clenching your hands into fists at your sides, you were just about to tell Andy where he could shove his legal revenue when you suddenly felt a searing heat at your back. 

“Be nice, trouble,” Ari murmured against your ear, his big hands falling to your hips and giving a warning squeeze that had you gasping and your body instantly lighting up at his touch. “Or else.” 

You spun around, smacking his hands away from you before trying to shove him out of your space. “I am at work! Maybe that aspect of your life isn’t important to you, but to me, it means everything, and I don’t need you pawing me in public, asshole.”

Andy’s bark of laughter surprised both you and Ari, and it also gave you a reason to look away from the scary displeased look Ari was aiming your way. 

“And here I thought she’d be cowed and welcoming after your visit the other night,” Andy smirked, plucking one of the fancy linen napkins from the table and arranging it over his lap. “Seems like you have some more work to do, Levinson.”

“Seems like.” Ari gritted, giving you a look so dark it had a chill racing up your spine as he shifted past you and sat in the seat across from Andy. 

For a moment, you were frozen, both from their combined audacity, and that look Ari had given you–a look that conveyed you were in deep shit and had your stomach sinking with regret. 

Which is why you could only stare at them dumbly for a beat–these two big, scary mobsters who were sitting in the middle of your cute, cozy tea shop bookstore, looking so painfully out of place that it was almost funny. 

Almost. 

Thankfully, the thick tension in the air was alleviated as one of your servers who tended to this section bounded over, looking excited to have a table to wait on. You forced a smile to mirror her own, stiffly nodding as she asked if these gentlemen were ready to be served. 

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” you muttered, ignoring the watchful stares of Andy and Ari as you turned on your heel, intending to stalk away. 

And maybe hide in your office until they were blessedly gone.

But the sound of Ari’s gravelly voice gave you pause, his words making your insides somehow wilt and flutter at the same time as he promised,  “See you soon, trouble.”

Feeling your mouth go dry, you didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him, but you did low key hate yourself as you all but scurried away. 

Desperate to be away from Ari and his boss, you cleared the main floor in record time before ducking down the back hallway. Once you were in your office, with the door shut tight behind you–and locked for good measure–you felt only the tiniest bit of relief. 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you sank back against the door, trying to get your rapid heart rate under control. As you felt anxiety–and something else, something that felt very much like anticipation–buzz along every inch of your body, you purposefully kept your gaze away from the small, worn sofa where all of this had started. 

And you tried like hell to shove down all the sinful, shameful memories of Ari that just the mere thought of it conjured in your frazzled mind.  

Raise your hand if you’re still in enforcer!Ari’s chokehold 🙋🏻‍♀️

—

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“I sent Barnes,” Steve replied with an angry tone. He hates to hurt women, but his mother left him no other choice. “He gave her a warning. I think she got the message.”

Sarah clicks her tongue; her eyes never leave her son’s face. “Did you follow my order or go against it? Again.”

Steve sighs deeply. He sent Bucky to scare the women talking trash about you, not to harm them. “She got the message.”

“You already said that,” Sarah replies, her eyes narrowing. “I told you to brand that woman, not to scare her. I wanted that vile person to feel your wrath. You should’ve made clear that no one messes with Steven Grant Rogers’ wife.”

Sarah twirls around, gesturing to the butler to close the door behind her. She won’t let Steve anywhere near you if he doesn’t prove you are the most precious thing in the world to him.

“Mother!” Steve yells from outside the door. No one, not even the toughest men, dared to deny him. Sarah slammed the door right into his face (more like ordering the butler to do so), making Steve look like a scolded boy. “You can’t treat me like this. She’s my wife and belongs to me!”

“You look like shit,” Bucky comments. He looks his friend up and down, snorting loudly. “I see you are still missing your wife. So, she won’t be home anytime soon?”

“Not now, Buck,” Steve bites back. He huffs and turns around to stare out of the window. His eyes scan the beautiful garden you created without any help. Your roses are in full bloom, and the strawberries are ready for harvest. “She’s abandoning her garden too. Maybe I should call her and tell her about it. Y/N can’t let her flowers die. That’s cruel.”

“Desperate measures, huh?” Bucky laughs about his friend’s problems. The problems he caused himself. “I told you to stop indulging in other women’s attention. Y/N should be the only woman on your mind, and in your bed.”

“I never cheated on my wife!” Steve twirls around to push his friend against the wall. “I’d never touch another woman. Women like them are leeches, hungry for money and social status. Y/N is not like them.”

“Oh,” Bucky cocks his head. “Did you find this out on your own, or did your mommy tell you so, Steve?”

“I knew from the beginning,” Steve huffs and turns back around before he hurts his best friend. “She’s a wonderful wife, loyal, beautiful, and graceful. She’s not into shiny things like the others.”

“I wonder why you give these women attention when you have a beautiful one by your side. She’s not just an accessory, you know. If you don’t change your ways, you will lose your wife. Listen to your mother and start making amends.”

“I tried,” Steve angrily replies. “I chased these women out of town, and you took care of Cecelia. She’ll never harm Y/N again.”

“You didn’t let me take care of her,” Bucky snorts. “Your mother gave you an order, and you ignored it. Yes, I made Cecelia shit her pants, but that’s all. She should be walking around town, wearing a scar across her face. A warning to any bitch daring to mess with your wife.”

“You sound like my mother,” Steve hisses his friend’s way. “I don’t like hurting women, Buck. I don’t cross that line.”

“Whoever hurts your wife pays for it, Steve. These are the rules. You promised your wife on your wedding day to always protect her. So far, you have failed. You are the one hurting her every time you ignore her and talk to other women.”

Steve remains silent. He stares out of the window, missing the warmth of your presence and the way you filled your home with light. “I fucked up.”

“You are telling me…”

“Steven, go home,” Sarah tells her son once again to leave you alone. This time he won’t budge. He stands his ground, demanding entrance to her house.

“Mother, with all due respect, I’m taking my wife home. I want to make amends, but I can’t do so if she hides at your house.”

Steve steps inside, ignoring his mother. He wants to bring you home and won’t stop only because his mother tells him to go home.

“She’s my daughter-in-law, and I won’t allow you to disrespect her even more. Go home and learn how to knock before you expect forgiveness,” Sarah says, stepping between Steve and the hallway.

Steve opens his mouth, ready to argue, but the words die on his tongue when he sees you standing at the end of the corridor. You are wrapped in a blanket, your face missing the softness he loves so much.

He just looks at you, and all the arrogance drains from his face.

“Doll,” he says.

“Don’t,” you say quietly. “Not like that, Steve.”

Sarah folds her arms over her chest. “You heard your wife.”

Steve swallows, unsure how to react to those two fierce women. Men have begged him for mercy in the past, and now, he experiences the same fear, standing in his mother’s house, afraid of losing his wife.

He sighs deeply, disappointed in himself. “Y/N.”

You don’t move closer. “What do you want, Steve? Aren’t there enough willing women out there?”

“I want to apologize.” His voice cracks when he looks at you.

Sarah huffs, still refusing to let Steve pass. “Then do it properly.”

A laugh escapes your throat. You can see the fight in Steve, the need to control the situation. But then his eyes drop to your hand, no ring on your finger. Your wedding band is gone.

He gasps loudly. Steve didn’t think you’d ever take the ring off.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “For ignoring you. For making you feel unwanted when you were the only person in that room who should’ve mattered.”

You want to say something, but your voice fails you.

Steve takes one step forward.

Sarah’s face softens for a moment, but she doesn’t speak.

“And I’m sorry,” Steve says, his voice rough with emotion, “that I made you fight for a place that has always been yours.”

You don’t smile as expected or give in. All he gets is a huff. “Your nice words won’t fix what you broke, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve says, averting his gaze. “Please tell me what to do.”

You scoff. “That’s a new one. You want to grovel?”  

His head jerks upward.

You take a deep breath before telling him, “How about you admit what you have done? Not because your mother called you out. Because you hurt me.”

“Doll, I was wrong because I hurt you. My behavior is unforgivable. I shouldn’t have looked for confirmation in other women,” Steve says, his eyes full of regret. “Please give me the chance to show you that I can change.”

“And?” you reply. “Is that all?”

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He lowers himself to one knee.

Sarah stiffens while you inhale sharply.

Men like Steve Rogers don’t kneel. Not for enemies. Not for stronger opponents. Not for anyone. But now this powerful man kneels on his mother’s polished marble, eyes glued to your face.

“And I will spend the rest of my life proving that I’m worthy of your forgiveness,” he says. “I won’t force you to come home, but I’m asking you to give me a chance to rebuild what I destroyed.”

You look at Sarah and then at Steve, weighing your options.

“This doesn’t change a thing, Steve.”

“What do you want?” Steve slowly gets back up, hopefully looking at you. “I’d do anything for you.”

“I want you to respect me. Not only behind closed doors but also in public. It doesn’t matter if I’m there or not, Steve. If someone talks shit about your wife, you defend her. If some women want to touch you or chat you up, you turn them down.

“Consider it done, Y/N.”

“Oh, you’re not done, Steven Grant Rogers. You’re starting on square one with our relationship.”

He grits his teeth and says, “Accepted.”

You sigh deeply. “Go home, Steve.”

Steve’s face falls.

“Please let me come back tomorrow. If only for a few minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” you say before turning to leave.

Steve watches you walk away from him. He lingers for a moment before he walks out of the house alone.

Part 6

You look out the window, just above ground level and watch the sky. You can see the churning storm in the clouds. The next rumble shakes you but you don’t hesitate. You punch through the pane. Then you wait as it passes.

On the next keel of thunder, you clear out the shards jutting out of the frame. You have to time your next move as well. You push the wooden night table over to the window and step up. You don’t look back.

You push yourself up until your toes are no longer on the table. You haul yourself through, wriggling in the narrow frame. For a moment, you don’t think you’ll fit all the way through. Panic pumps through your veins.

You drag yourself across the grass and mud. You stay on your stomach, crawling breathless through the sheets of rain. You keep low beneath the moonlight and the glow of the bulb on the side of the house. You move slow, cautious of the censors on the cameras.

Inch by inch you wade through the storm and the threat of pursuit. You get to the fence. You can’t risk climbing over. You turn and put your feet on the lower slat. You kick in tandem with the thumping sky. Finally, it comes free.

You roll under, soaked in muck and rain. You don’t care. You just keep going.

You don’t dare sit up until you get to the row of trees and brush along the dirt road. The leaves droop in the downpour. You get to your hands and knees and follow the trim of overgrown grass alongside the beaten road.

When all you can see is darkness, you get to your feet. You’re worn and filthy, exhausted already. You know you still have far to go.

Your bare feet pang with the jab of sharp stones. You shuffle along, shivering, soaked. The rain slows as you twitch at the noise of unseen critters.

Your eyelids sag and your shoulders too. You hug yourself as only the sound of the gravel beneath your feet fills the void of the dead storm. A mist of rain remains but the sky is quiet, only a tremor of lightning pulsing off in the distance.

Go, go, go.

You slump along, each step more painful than the last. The sky softens and the horizon lightens. You hear a thrum off in the distance. You look back. You’re not as far as you thought. You turn and throw yourself into a ragged sprint, though you can’t move much faster than when you walked.

No, no, no, he’s coming. The engine roars through the fields. You break off from the road and cross through the tall crops. The tall stalks move with you, batting you back as you fight them off with blind flails.

He’s coming! Faster, faster. The crush and crunch of tires and the rev of an engine strangles you. Your chest and lungs burn. You pump your arms as you stagger through the wall of unplowed harvest.

You hear the stalks behind you thrashing down as they’re crushed. He wouldn’t! No, it can’t be.

The sudden glare of lights makes you scream and a crack of agony goes through your left leg and hip. You shriek as your leg is crushed beneath the tire and the crank of the gears halts the metal beast.

You lay on your stomach and sob. You can’t move your leg but you’re too afraid to even try. You’ve never felt this kind of pain.

The car door opens with a groan and boots hit the dirt. You listen in dread as he approaches. Cole sticks his toe under your stomach and flips you over. You wail in sheer torture as your leg drags limply from the socket.

“Honey, I told you to get some sleep.” He bends his knees and squats beside you.

“Please, please, don’t hurt me.” You beg and gnash your teeth. “My… my leg.”

He hushes you and pets your cheek. He tuts as he shakes his head. His hand trails down your neck. He brushes down your side to your hip. He squeezes the dislocated joint and you roar.

"You shouldn't have done that," he tuts.

"Please, I-- I'm..." you heave and claw at your chest. "Scared."

"Scared?" He scoffs. "Of what? I thought you understood."

You wheeze, nearly gagging from the pain.

"All you had to do was be good. Keep me happy and I'll keep you happy, honey." He pushes on your hips until your body spasms. He grits. “I’m easy enough to please when you listen.”

He hooks his arms under you and lifts you. You cry out again, latching onto him only to keep from screaming even louder. You’re blind from the pain, completely senseless as you jostle in his grasp. 

He lays you down unkindly in the back of the truck. He shows no concern as he pushes your crushed leg out of the way of the door and slams it. You sink into a senseless void as you feel his weight in the front of the cabin and he sighs.

You exhale and look up as you sense movement. He puts his jacket over a hanger then tugs at his bowtie. Your eyes wander around the room. Dark hardwood and ivory curtains. The bed has canopies draped from the tall posts and the edges of the pillow cases are scalloped. From what you’ve seen of the massive house, it’s all intricately decorated. Nothing is out of place… but you.

He slings the bowtie over the bottom of the hanger and unbuttons his vest. Petals from the corsage still on his jacket flutter down to the carpet. He strips off the vest and you watch how his shoulders strain his white shirt.

He hangs the vest too as you stare at his thick neck and the neat trim of his beard. Your ankle bends. As you fix your stance, your heel clunks and draws his attention. He looks at you and you wince.

“Relax,” he says as he pulls free the tails of his shirt from trousers.

You nod. He nears as his shirt hangs slack. He stops in front of you and takes your hand. He peels off the lace gloves, tugging each finger delicately. He strips them both away and sets them aside. You tremble.

“Honey, please… relax.” He says again.

You’re trying but you can’t even say so. Your chest is so tight. This is the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with and you just met him five hours ago.

He takes your hands again. He kisses each knuckle, each time looking at you. Your hands are heavy like stone. He squeezes them, rubbing his thumbs along the back.

“Re-lax.” He insists.

You curl your fingers and straighten them. You just can’t get the tension out. He lets your hands fall and gets even closer. He traces the off-the-shoulder neckline down to your body and trails down to the skirt. He pinches the fabric and purrs.

He drags his hand around your hip as he circles you. He stands behind you. You shiver. He undoes the top button of the dress. You gasp.

He continues down the buttons, plucking each one free of the loop. He stops halfway and grips the fabric. He jerks you.

“I’m tired of repeating myself.” He growls. He yanks and the rest of the buttons scatter as the dress slackens entirely. “I said relax.” He pushes the bodice down to your waist. You pull your arms free of the sleeves and squirm. “I’m being nice.”

“I’m sorry,” you eke out and clasp your hands in front of your lacy strapless bra.

He shoves the dress until the skirts heap around your ankles and calves. You look down as you twist, the lacy thong high on your hips and exposing your ass and most of your pelvis. He touches your bare back and drags his touch up your sides. He squeezes and growls.

“You said it. You made the vow.” He drawls into your hair. He reaches to touch the gem-covered clip. “You said you’re mine.” He strokes down your cheek and opens his hand to frame your chin. He nuzzles the rim of your ear. “So why are you acting so scared?”

You shake as he presses himself to your back.

Even for him, the first avenger, there are things that elude him. There are those moments that make him feel like that scrawny kid in Brooklyn taking his licks in the back alley. Like her.

He sits on the low stone wall, staring across the green plains of overgrown grass waving beneath the evening breeze. Across the distance, he sees her small figure as she takes down sheets from the line. Among the pollen and dander, he smells only her.

She doesn't know he's watching. She can't see as far as him. She can't hear his heartbeat like he can hers.

He traces the edge of his shield. His cowl sits him, he can feel his hair askew. He smooths it and sniffs. He rubs together his gloved palms and feels the gash on his knuckle. He squeezes until it stings.

"I'm gonna make her mine, all mine," he whispers as he grips tighter.

But how? How does he cross that barrier? How does he approach without scaring her?

He pops his finger out of the socket with a stifled grunt. He grits his teeth and stands. He pushes his head back on his neck and picks up the shield. He flicks it around without a thought, flinging it in a curve that slices the air.

He doesn't flinch as it comes flying back at him. It cracks him in the shoulder, putting it out of place, renting through the outer layer of armour. He huffs and catches the shield before it hits the ground.

You heard it as you sat and sorted beans from the garden. They all did. The familiar horns and canter of horses. The visitors dismounting at the monastery that shares the same plot with the convent. You hear the monks have lamb and red wine.

The other sisters share looks across the table. You squirm and stare at your plate. You aren’t hungry. Not since you heard his voice carrying from the yard.

Supper finishes and you clear the table with the other sisters. No longer bound to silence, they whisper. You hear the name that keeps you on edge.

You scrape off the crumbs and put the leftover crusts in a basket for the paupers. You wipe clean the wooden plates and stack them as Sister Eleanor giggles at Sister Dawn. Sister Brenna hushes them and chides them to take extra prayers at Compline.

You drift through the remaining prayers and evening chores. You know the walls and floors of the convent well enough to walk them with your eyes closed. Your hands are forged to each task without effort.

You retire to the hard bed of an oak plank. The night keeps you awake outside as the usual creak of branches and snaps of twigs by nocturnal creatures has you imagining more treacherous trespassers. Then the low jingle comes and you are entirely alert.

When the Duke arrives to visit in one of his pilgrimages with the monks, he never fails to send the signal. And you never fail to heed it. The one time you did…

You listen to the sisters around you. Life in the convent doesn’t allow for much rest so when it is had, it’s done deeply. You rise and pull on your robes and veil. You keep your head down as you raise your skirts above the slumbering bodies and cross the room.

The corridors are so dark you can take only small steps. You reach the kitchen door and let yourself out into the moonlight. You don’t look back, only ahead. You go to the mule’s house behind the monastery and whistle in imitation of a sparrow. You wait for the return.

Nothing. Perhaps you imagined it. Or perhaps you are too quick. You shudder and push through the door. Your body readies for what is demanded of it.

The scent of straw and donkey fur meets your nose. You lean into the door to close it. You listen to the sleepy huff of the beast in his pen at the other end of the stall. You turn and search the slivers of moonlight for movement.

Your nerves tangle and your heart clutches. Something off. Something is out of place. You turn and suddenly you’re shoved back. You stumble into a stool as hands clasp onto your sides and keep you from tumbling over.

Lord Rogers chuckles and nuzzles your veil.

“Sacred sister, you’ve missed me,” He growls as he squeezes through your habit. “You’ve no idea how I’ve longed for our reunion.”

Your flick your lashes and gulp. If only he knew the same dread as you do. If only he feared so much for the mark upon his soul and yet, he has no such vow to keep. He is a noble, he is a man who can buy forgiveness. You will repent forever in this world and the next.

“My lord.” You whisper.

“Lamb, please, I long to hear my name upon thy sweet lips.” His mouth grazes yours and his breath clouds hotly.

“Steven…” you murmur as his hands run down to your skirts. 

He presses his lips to yours and growls. He yanks at your habit as you cling to him to keep from falling. He turns you and traps you against the planked wall. His beard tickles your skin as he sighs into you.

It is not a new realisation that creeps up on you the fateful Saturday afternoon; but it hits you with a fresh blissful intensity nevertheless.

It’s one of those lovely moments you and Steve got up to sharing lately, precious time in precious company, yet spent each wrapped in your own pastime. It’s a sweet kind of intimacy, comfortable and comforting, even in your relatively new love: being together, breathing the same air, mostly in silence, this time in one of the Avengers’ garages providing a surprising sanctuary on a warm weekend.

You, every now and then sharing a sentence you just read, one you particularly liked or simply made you laugh or think of him or you two together; him, working on his bike, hands smudged with a streak of grease here and there:

And therein lies the problem.

You’re reading, comfy on one of the armchairs which is there just for occasions like this.

Steve is working on his bike, crouched of laid or bend, arms bare to avoid smudging a sleeve.

You’re failing your task spectacularly.

Steve, on the other hand, is excellent; he truly is wonderful at working with his hands.

It’s been a while since you shared a line you enjoyed.

Steve’s not complaining. He is distracting though.

Your gaze, instead of focusing on the page to feed your mind with vivid images and new thoughts born out of the story, keeps wandering to him, the solid lines of his muscle, the tendons and veins on his forearms, his dextrous fingers.

Steve hasn’t noticed. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just being too polite. Or he’s too pleased to point it out.

You catch yourself blatantly staring. Your eyes and mind zero on one single thought, on one single object.

Steve’s hands.

The skin on his palms is roughened by battle and hard work, his knuckles a constellation of little scars scattered across, for not even his enhanced healing can keep up with how often he splits, or bruises, or breaks them when fighting for a better, safer world. His skin is scraped from where he reaches for the world that would fit with the idea of how things should be through the thorny paths of reality, over and over again, for he wants to believe and wants to do his part.

They are hands of a man who fights every day.

They are hands of a man who has taken lives.

They are hands of a man who has protected millions more and inspired others to do the same.

The touch of those hands is the most tender you have ever felt, soft even where the skin is hard, flesh warm and pliant where it meets your skin, fingers careful and meticulous where they hold a pencil or a brush to capture the beauty he sees all around him instead of choosing to only see the pain and wrongdoings; delicate, dextrous and decadent where they play your body to create symphonies of gasps and moans and keens of his name.

His grip is strong, palms broad, made for as much violence as for cradling; long fingers of an artist praying to his muse. A few visible veins rise, trailing up his forearms and enormous arms, the vulnerable paths you sometimes trace with your fingers and can now only think of tasting on your tongue, inhaling the aroma of his skin and salt of the sheen layer of sweat you know he can work when making love to you.

You’ve forgotten to breathe, throat and core tight and burning, memories and not-so-shy manifestation of your desires filling your head, fingers digging into the cover of the book you’ve long forgotten to pay attention to.

The vein running over the thumb edge of Steve’s hand shifts under your gaze, hypnotizing and alluring, making you lick your lips.

The warm, amused and slightly concerned voice sounds from a terrible distance – criminal distance, you deem, once you realize where it’s coming from, who it’s coming from – as it calls your name, clearly not for the first time.

You blink, the ghost of a taste of Steve’s skin lingering on your tongue, the corners of your lips rising on instinct.

“Hm?”

His eyes, however tinged with concern, are just as beautiful, but they inspire softer thoughts rather than sinful ones. You try to focus on those, trying to clear your head, drowning in the lovely sea of blue with a drop of green instead, breath not quite restoring as he rises to his full height; another criminal distraction.

He can hoist you up, you already know as much— the wonderful heights, literal and figurative, he’s made you reach with your back pressed against the wall, one hand squeezing your thigh, the other cradling your face to lick his name off of your mouth-

“You okay, honey?” he asks, sweet.

You blink again, not quite innocent, shifting in your seat.

“Yes, of course. You done?”

He instinctively wipes his hands on a nearby rag, not catching the smudge on his forearm and you ache do to it for him.

“Almost… you zoned out on me, more than usual. Are you really feeling alright? Have you drank enough water today?”

I have, and yet I’m feeling thirsty. Parched, in fact, but not for water. Hand me some?

You gulp, tearing your gaze away from the way one of his thumbs rubs over the other over the cloth with a herculean effort, met with the brilliant blue full of light and genuine, innocent care again.

Tell me, his soft smile coaxes, the wish to know your thoughts to contemplate them or stock them away for later as sincere as maddeningly attractive.

Your lips part with an inhale and a shaky exhale, your heart pounding as you consider whether to answer his wordless plea and answer truthfully.

You lose the battle before it can even start.

“I… I like your hands,” you confess, your own hands fiddling with the cover of your book, something you’d scratch anyone’s eyes out for if you saw them do so. It’s soothing though, especially as it gives your eyes something to look at, heat flushing your face at your admission.

Somehow, admitting it out loud feels more compromising than some of the positions Steve’s lovely hands has arranged you into and there have been quite a few.

“Oh?” he hums curiously, and you can feel his gaze tracing your face like a caress, looking for any further explanation. “Uhm… thank you,” he adds when none comes.

It’s just after one breath, one of his and one of yours, when you cave easily; because you know Steve won’t think less of you, or so you say so to yourself.

“I-“ you sigh, releasing the air slowly, eyes slipping shut. “I really… like your hands.”

Steve understands at the speed of one realisation per ten beats of your frantic heart.

“…oh.”

When you dare to look at him, there’s a faint blush in his cheek, the tips of his ears turning an adorable pink, his smile a little shy, gaze downcast.

“Good to know,” he says and you know he means it even as he turns back to his work.

You finally breathe even as you can hear the wheels of his mind turning madly while he’s tightening whichever things needs tightening on his bike.

Steve acts at the speed of a one heart-stopping action per your mind getting nearly settled from overthinking your confession.

He wipes his hands decisively and properly this time, already stalking to you as he tosses the rag somewhere you couldn’t care to look.

His skin still smells roughly of grease, but it’s his touch all your senses plunge into, broad palms cradling your face most deliberately, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, fingertips caressing behind your ear, tipping your head up just slightly for the perfect angle to kiss you wholeheartedly and--- your brain is melting and words stop making sense.

Steve turns your body into a something pliant, eager and entirely his, one kiss at a time, breaks for air a lot more necessary than needed. It’s impossible to not be hyperaware of the brush and press of his fingers which seem more generous than usual, tingly heat spreading through your skin and veins all the way into your heart and lower stomach.

When you head spins enough for you to worry you might lose balance where you’re sitting, he retreats, brushes his nose over yours with a smile you taste and feel rather than see, one of his hands moving to your hip to steady you instead and the circle he draws there is a bit short of soothing and all the more sinfully warm.

“Careful, honey. Can’t have you falling.”

You can hear the unspoken cheeky ‘for me’ but you forgive him, because he too sounds a little breathy and at least half as affected as you are and as he goes back to fixing his bike, he offers the perfect view of his hands at work again.

For a moment, you watch unabashedly, knowing that trying to read is an entirely lost cause.

Then, when you can’t bear the smug broadness of Steve’s shoulders and puffed out chest, you hide the heat radiating off your face, burning especially where his hands have cradled your cheeks and jaw and hip, behind the book completely.

You don’t have the faintest idea what you’ve been reading about and what you’re reading now, or whether the book is even in English.

You think Steve knows as much.

You bet he also knows he’s ruining your underwear one pair at a time by being himself and pulling stunts like this.

You’re hundred percent sure that the loveable bastard is proud of it too.

You love him anyway.

“Love you,” he says as if he can read your nearly empty mind and all you can do, when you remember how words work, is to have the same fall from your kiss-swollen lips.

He doesn’t mention it.

He doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make fun of you – because of course he doesn’t— but you can tell he’s thinking about it sometimes when his gaze gets absent as you lie on his chest on the couch, snuggled into him like he’s your favourite blanket, your hands toying with his, his fingers toying with yours.

The wheels are still loud in his head, but they are but background noise drowned out in his soft love and quiet smiles and little inside jokes whose number is increasing as the light and yet suffocating overwhelming sensation of love keeps expanding in your chest.

You almost think he has forgotten at times. Which is a ridiculous notion not only because of his eidetic memory.

You might not have one of those yourself, but having been embarrassed and swept off your feet by a dizzying kiss all the same after your confession, you do remember that exactly two weeks have passed when it culminates at last.

You’re spending a quiet date night in, cooking and baking, delighting in making something together and seeing the tangible outcome of your efforts.

Enjoying making things with your hands.

And you have noticed, thank you very much, how dexterous Steve’s hands are, cutting the vegetables, his knife skills tremendous.

You have noticed too, how expertly his hands are kneading the dough, fingers digging in with gentle vigour, the tendons on his forearms working, veins rising before the dough does, the muscles on his arms straining just enough to highlight their alluring outlines.

If you could draw, you’d draw an entire set of studies on Steve’s hands and arms, alas you cannot and so you simply appreciate the sight all the more for it, attention diverted from the task at hand.

Steve’s had a content smile playing on his lips all evening, but when he leaves the dough to rise, washing his hands and turning to you only to catch you staring where his hands has been drying a moment ago, stray droplets of water lingering along the most prominent veins, long fingers slipping between the folds of the washcloth and the towel… you would swear one corner of his lips rises higher.

Two of those fingers slip under your chin like they were made to do exactly that for the entirety of your lives, tilting your head back just a fraction, kissing you on the mouth like the secret and most essential ingredient for the dough to rise is love.

There’s quite a lot of time before the dough is ready, flashes through your mind as your hands rise to Steve’s shoulders, the contrast of his warm skin and solid muscle and the soft pliant fabric of his t-shirt is divine and maddening; the way his large hand sprawls over your hip in a gentle but swift response is mostly the former, but you’re losing your mind anyway.

Several frantic beats of your heart and Steve’s lips gently slanting over yours and you barely bother to remember there is a dough, not caring for the logically terrifying power he holds over you when he cradles your face and kisses you more.

Deeper.

Softer.

Sharing a meaningful secret you’ve revealed and rewarding it tenfold, as you’re soon about to find out.

“Do you trust me?” he whispers to your lips, tone so serious it almost feels out of place in your blissfully domestic bubble, and yet so right at the same time.

With what? is the logical question that should have followed suit.

With all I am, is the only words making sense in lieu of asking.

“Yes.”

You seal your fate; Steve seals your promise with another kiss, dripping of gratitude and excitement.

Steve is careful with you, always has been.

You both fell as hard and fast, so you’ve been careful not to rush or otherwise mess it up; you work hard on communication, because you both had enough misunderstandings and miscommunications in the past and are dealing with those every day in your respective jobs.

Your yes is thus a little foolish and a little outlandish in that sense – but it the most truthful answer you can give.

Especially because Steve has been paying so much attention.

To the faintest hints of you being uncomfortable.

To you being hurt.

Or, Lord help him, to you being hurt by him, even if on accident.

He’s careful with his strength, incredibly mindful always, but he’s all the more careful with how he can hurt you as a person, not just a supersoldier.

You never not notice so; and so when you said yes, you meant it.

You always mean it.

You mean it now and your heart is racing when he gently pushes you to walk backwards to his bedroom, the coil of arousal having been stirring in your belly all night tightening, sending a fragment of rational thought through.

Steve knows all too well what he has been doing all night; because he has not forgotten in the slightest.

When his hands explore slower than usual, lingering like burning marks over your skin – and you wish he had dipped them in paint so he could leave true imprints of his touch, not only for your heart to remember and your body to be blessed, but for both of you to see the wonderful prove of his touches – when his fingers trace the lines and curves of your body and the hems of your clothes indulgently before you discard it, you feel in every minute contact how much he does so both for himself and you.

And it flickers in your mind, as long as logic can when his fingertips and palms and lips drive you mad with their slowly intent and most definitely sweet torture, that the whole evening has been nothing a carefully thought-through foreplay.

And damn has he been playing; but never with your heart.

Never with your trust.

When his lips part from yours with a wet pop, skin blazing with gentle fire, his pupils are blown as much as you imagine yours are; when the soft rope comes out with a quiet May I?, his gaze once again making sure you are on board, you might be surprised, but entirely willing.

It wouldn’t not the first time you’re at the mercy of Steve’s generous and teasing loving, hands tied to the headboard, but he has never used rope before. The material is not as silky smooth as the scarves he has used before and the rope’s length is stirring as much curiosity as arousal deep in your core; but as Steve cradles the back of your hand and guides you to feel the surprisingly unrough strings, you already know that whatever his plan is, he will try his damnest not to cause as much as the littlest pain.

You do gulp when he lays the rope on the bed, and with all but your panties left on, asks you to kneel on the bed sideways to the mirror.

Again, it is not entirely unheard of; Steve loves art and looks for beauty all around him and you have, much to your surprise, quite enjoyed seeing his body with yours, as unreal and all to perfect his is on its own; it warmed your chest and had your head spin to see and feel what being with you does to him, what you make him feel. How much he wants and needs.

Today feels different nevertheless.

His hands roam, tender and lingering, as does his gaze, long enough to have your skin flush and your breathing, already quick, hasten and turn thready, only for your nerves to be soothed by his lips and love.

By God, the way he looks at you erases all the worries the second they threaten to spurt.

Air catches in your lungs when the red rope – like a string of fate, you think with a shaky smile – is laid over your shoulders, Steve’s gaze flickering to yours.

“Is this alright, love?”

Do you still trust me?

You do.

It takes you a moment to find your voice as you have a faint notion of what is coming form in your mind and you find yourself stunned, almost feeling silly when you realize just how natural it seems for Steve to think of trying this.

Steve with his eye for all beautiful things and hands meant to create masterpieces.

Artistic bondage.

And when his fingers slip under your chin when you finally breathe a soft yes, clear enough to his liking, he turns your head towards the mirror.

Heat spreads all over your skin and seeps deep into your muscles and very bones, along with the loveliest of warmth, because it finally all fits together.

Because not only will you see the outcome of Steve’s talented hands’ labour, but you will have the privilege of watching him and feeling him create something wonderful; on your body, no less.

You meet his gaze in the mirror and find him observing your reaction carefully, seemingly more vulnerable and with skin more flushed than yours.

It’s not enough.

You turn to face him with an encouraging and the softest of smiles, your eyes a little glassy; whether from bliss already taking over or from being touched by how thoughtful he was, neither of you could tell and yet you both could. It was both.

“I love you. I trust you. Thank you,” you whisper, earning a small smile, a fraction unsure.

“Don’t thank me yet. I did not practice much.”

“I trust you,” you repeat and watch his chest, still clad in the grey t-shirt, expand with a generous breath.

“I love you too. The second anything hurts, if I pull too tight-“

“I will tell you,” you reassure him, reaching for his face to pull him for a kiss, gratitude and excitement, and perhaps, now knowing what’s coming, a side of cheeky and teasing since you face the very master of the art of that. “How do you want me?”

His irises flash dangerously, speaking volumes of rather general ‘a lot’ as he gives you a deliberately slow onceover, but he kisses you again to taste the small smirk in the corner of your mouth---and mirrors it

“Put your wrists slightly above your lower back, love, however feels the most comfortable… they will stay for a while.”

You do so.

He is not wrong.

He also has been very right thinking you’d love this; that you’d love seeing him do this.

You’re quick to avert your gaze from his when he gets into work, eyes trailing to the mirror when he ties knots on your back or too high on your chest for you to see directly. Your lips part as you marvel at the not all that quick but all the more precise, neat, and careful set of knots scattered over your torso, appearing one after the other, forgetting to breathe in as Steve’s fingers move with more and more ease.

Where the thin rope hangs lose, the pads of his fingers trace their lines; where a new knot appears, he presses with his thumb gently, tendons in his forearm moving in a hypnotic dance, a subtle question of whether the tightness is alright.

You’re not sure you’d be able to tell; your body and your mind alike are floating, your chest feels full enough to burst with every flutter of your heart, your underwear a lost cause as you are near damn sure you are soaking down your thighs.

Steve’s hands are a gift to turn pliant for, your body like clay for him to mould; the muse and artistic medium at once, his gaze and words caressing you as much as his hands and mouth.

Beautiful.

So good for me.

Comfortable, love?

Not too tight?

Precious.

Thank you for letting me do this, honey.

Thank you for being mine.

I’m yours, too.

I swear.

I swear you take my breath away.

All the praise and soft words in midst of sharp focus on his artwork and you, the two blending together in his eyes and consequently, yours.

When he’s done and finally sheds his clothes too, you barely have the time and headspace to admire the work when he kneels behind you and all your gaze is drawn to are his hands, one carefully tangled in the ropes on your front, while the other slipping over your belly to your ruined panties, one clever tug ruining them beyond saving if there any has been a chance in the first place.

The sight is divine.

His touch to your slick skin trailing where you need him the most is electrifying and blissful, heaven and hell aligned so perfectly you feel a sob threatening to spill.

You ride the wave of ecstasy before you know it, Steve’s sweetly sinful lips on your ear.

So fuckin’ gorgeous falling apart on my fingers.

So goddamn perfect at my mercy.

And at his mercy you are and he takes the opportunity and makes the most of it.

Yes, your hands get in a way a bit, grasping at every brush of his heaving abs pressed to your back when he enters you and fills you over and over again, easily despite his impressive length for he’s been preparing you for hours to no end, starting the moment you walked through the door, seducing your mind and body alike like never before.

Like no man before; the idea they could ever compare would have been laughable had you been able to laugh, had your breath not been stolen and punched out of you with every measured and powerful thrust growing sloppy after your third peak, on your knees, on your front, pressed to the mattress with no escape and feeling golden all over.

When Steve buries himself deep inside you, barely keeping on his elbows as his whole body sheaths yours, you catch a glimpse of his hands on you and the ropes and it occurs to you that one of the most beautiful things his hands can be is possessive, needy and all over you. The rope digs into your skin a bit at times, but it’s where Steve’s gripped you that you feel the most, a flicker of delight there might be an imprint or two after all even without paint.

You both pant and struggle to catch your breath as even his last minute thrusts cease, a few moments of Steve fighting not to crush you before you succeed in rolling you over in collective effort; boneless in post-orgasmic bliss, as clearly as you are, he still presses as close as possible, his lips, wet and sloppy and loving, peppering your skin with kisses and gentle, loving words.

Love you.

Thank you for trusting me.

You’re so perfect.

He moves with a curse on his lips to release you from your binds as soon as you hiss at a cramp in your arm; you miss his warmth so much you whimper and mutter for him not to leave. The supersoldier part of him comes in quite handy that moment, as he easily manipulates you on top of him just enough for you to find momentary relief even without untying you.

It is a relief to your muscles though when he finally cuts the binds in a few places, favouring freeing you quickly and efficiently rather than preserving the masterpiece of rope over your body.

You’d felt sorrier for it, hadn’t he muttered that the true work of art was unharmed, he hoped, and if you wanted to, he’d create another one some time. You nearly give yourself a whiplash with how fast you try to nod, earning an unfairly adorable laugh, with his eyes crinkling almost boyishly.

He looks at you, a mess himself, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, skin beautiful flushed and irises blown, and what you read in his face is nothing but love, undiluted safe for the little cheekiness you adore.

“You still like my hands then, I take it?”

You think about trying to scold him for downright fishing when the answer is obvious, but given how much he had humoured you, playing so thoughtfully into your kinks (and knots), you simply smile.

“Yes, Steve. I love them… and I love you.”

The smug jerk, the tender bastard, the wicked gentleman of yours grins briefly before his expression softens and he cradles your face carefully as you lay there, lifts your head like precious porcelain, and kisses you like he’s inviting the muses through your lips for the next time he’s already vowed to bring upon you.

“And I love you. More than anything.”

S.R. masterlist  // Complete masterlist 

Hello dear reader, thank you for reading!

It's been a while, again. I am aware I was supposed to work on other fics, but this one just jumped out out of nowhere (*cough cough* the nowhere being seeing a tumblr post about Steve's hands at the funny cosmic alignment *cough*). I hope you will enjoy reading nevertheless. I'm always happy to hear from you as interaction is love - but please, this was my first time writing referencing shibari, so forgive me any misconceptions and missteps.

I hope that as May blooms into June, life is being kind to you.

Ivy greets you as you pass by her pulling weeds from her garden. You wave, one hand still on your walker, and say good morning.  You continue on, leaning into the metal frame as you roll the wheels over the cracks.

You turn onto the main street and focus on the wooden sign jutting out from the center. You noticed a few weeks ago when it went up. The banner announcing the grand opening has since been disposed of. You avoided the furour of the exciting premier, knowing you would only get jostled, even lost, in the chaos.

Now you feel good enough to make it down. Not without real purpose. You desperately need to do a shop after procrastinating for far too long. 

You pause and wait for Len to pass in his dusty white truck. He gives a beep and a wave. Sometimes, he’ll drive you back home if he catches you on the way. He’s one of the nice ones; one of those who see you. Then there are those who pretend they don’t.

You cross and push your wheels over the curb. You can feel the inflammation in your hips already. You make slow progress along the crooked sidewalk. It dips at points and in places the grass along the edge is higher than the pavement.

You slow as you get close to the bakery and admire the handpainted calligraphy on the sign; Brooklyn’s Best Bakery. You stop in front of the windows and look at the baskets of buns and rolls on display. You can smell it all as the door opens after a customer.

You press on as a couple approaches. The man holds the door for the woman and follows her through. You try to catch the door after them and it hits your walker and knocks you back. The bell jangles above.

You wrench your walker away and let the door close. It’s not the first time it’s happened. You thought they would’ve seen you hurrying to get in after them. Of course, you can’t expect everyone to hold the door but you weren’t that far behind.

You angle and open the door, using your back to keep it open. You push on it and pull your walker close, turning it through the door. You grunt as you lift the wheels over the high step that leads inside.

As you roll through, the door swings shut and spurs you forward. You hit a shelf with the wheel and steady yourself. You check to make sure you didn’t knock anything over.

To your surprise and disappointment, there’s a line. Oh well, you have to wait. Other people exist too.

You join the line and turn your walker to sit on the seat, your bag dangling from the handle. You rub your hips and lean to the side. The last x-ray showed degeneration at the base of your spine and in your tailbone, a little in your hips.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice comes through.

You sit up but can’t see past the couple in front of you. The woman points to the croissants in the display as the man’s hand rests on her lower back. He doesn’t seem to be listening as he reads the chalkboard sign above the counter.

“‘Scuse me,” the same voice grits and several bodies shuffle apart in the queue. “Hey, you.”

You blink and look over, startled. You peek back, thinking maybe you didn’t see the mess you made after all.

 You twist back as a man approaches in an apron. The red fabric is dusted with flour and other ingredients. He’s tall, his shoulders broad, and a dark beard trims his jaw. He wears a short sleeve shirt over a tank top, exposing tattoos on his chest and arms.

“You,” he points at the man ahead of you. “That wasn’t very polite.”

“Huh?” The man ahead of you snorts. You think his name is Donny or… Dustin?

“You dropped the door on another customer.” The man crosses his arms.

“Who?” Wait, his name is Devin, replies hotly.

“This lady right here,” the man in the apron points at you. “I’m sure you saw her.”

“Dude, I didn’t see her–.”

“How do you know you didn’t drop it on her if you didn’t see her?” The man’s forearms bulge.

“It was an accident.”

“So now you did see her?”

“No. I… look, uh,” Devin turns. “I’m sorry, really.” As he looks down at you, you stand, feeling smaller than ever. “I didn’t see you and if the door hit you–”

“It did.” The aproned man insists.

“I didn’t see you and I’m sorry I hit you with the door.” Devin scoffs and looks at the man. “Happy?”

“Not really,” the man retorts. “Get your food and get out.”

Devin huffs again and shakes his head. He mumbles as the woman beside him shifts away.

“Excuse me?” The man in the apron drops his arms. “You wanna say something, make sure I can hear you.”

“I said you’re a fucking tight ass.” Devin retorts.

“Common decency is being a tight ass? Well then, you can just go.” The man grabs Devin by his hoodie and drags him between a set of shelves.

There isn’t much of a struggle as the cafe employee is much stronger, even if he’s not as heavy as Devin’s rounder build. He shoves the door open and hurls Devin through. He claps his hands then turns back.

“You’re more than welcome to stay and order,” he says to the woman as he approaches. “And whatever you’re getting,” the man stops by you. “It’s on the house.”

“What? No. It’s… okay.” You babble dumbly, surprised at being addressed.

“Not okay. Not in my joint.” He sneers.

“Um, okay, uh, thank you, sir. You really didn’t have to–”

“I did,” he says and offers his hand. “Steve Rogers. It’s my place, my rules.”

You lean back on your walker, keeping your hand on one side and shake his hand. He squeezes and you nearly dissemble in his grip. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, and utter your name out of courtesy.

His cheek dimples as he nods. “Pretty. I’m almost finished a batch of strawberry turnovers. That’s my recommendation.” He lets go.

“Um. May I get… a strawberry turnover, please?” You ask, too edgy to read the menu.

“Of course. Anything else?” The cashier asks. You know her. She works at the grocery too. Or did.

“No thanks. I appreciate it.” You take out your change purse.

“Don’t charge her,” the owner calls through as he brings out a tray of pastries and slides it into the display. “Comped.”

“Thank you,” you eke out. You put a tip in the jar instead.

“If you want to find a table, we can bring it to you.” He offers.

“Oh, it’s…” you swallow. “Okay.”

You don’t want to draw any more attention. You look around and find a table by the window. You stare at the chair. The wooden seat won’t be good for your tailbone.

You let go of your walker and grab the chair. It’s heavier than you expect. You drag it and it scrapes on the floor loudly. You keep your head down, straining to lift the feet off the wood.

“I got you,” a voice grits and someone approaches. It’s him. Steve. The owner.

“Sorry I… don’t want my walker to be in the way.” You let go as he takes the chair and moves it to another table.

“All good,” he assures you.

You roll your walker around and grip the handles as you sit, locking the brakes. You nod and thank him under your breath. You can’t look at him. You’re too embarrassed. You should’ve got the pastry to go.

“If you need anything else, let them know at the counter.” He says.

“You’re too nice,” you stare at the table.

He leaves and you fidget restlessly. You’re used to the sideways glances and kids pointing, asking loudly what’s wrong with you. You’re too young to be like this. You know that, they really don’t need to remind you.

You move your purse onto the table and take out your little notebook. You go over the grocery list you made before you left your place. Shoot, you didn’t write down oats. You used the last ones this morning.

Steps approach and the scent of freshly warmed pastry kisses your nose. You look up as Steve sets down a scalloped saucer with a gooey turnover drizzled in lacy icing. You smile and close your notebook.

“Oh, thanks. That’s sweet.” You murmur. “It smells… looks delicious.”

“Not a problem. You’ll let me know if it’s too sweet.” He says.

“Um, I’m sure it’s good.” You frame the dish with your fingers. “Thank you.”

“Enjoy.” He claps his hands together and backs up.

You shrink down and examine the dessert. You peel apart the warm pastry and nibble on it. You get some of the filling on the next bite and your cheeks pinch. It’s better than the danishes you get on clearance at the shop.

You eat slowly as you dare to look around. You always liked baking but it was hard for you to stand too long in the kitchen. You always kept to quick and easy meals. Anything you could leave in the rice cooker or just boil water to add. Sandwiches and soup were the best.

You hold up your sticky finger and lick your lips. You sit up as you sense someone coming close. It’s Steve. Again. He puts down some napkins.

“Thank you,” you say.

"How did you like it?" He asks.

"It was good."

He sets down something else. The paper bag crinkles as a peak of crust shows through the little plastic window in the bag.

“Saw it on your list,” he says. “Sourdough. But if you prefer rye…”

“That’s… too much. I couldn’t.” You wipe your fingers, your hand shaking a moment. “Really, I’m on my way to the grocery shop.”

“One less thing on your list.” He insists. “Really, I don’t mind.”

You crumple up the napkin and sit back on the walker. You zip up your purse and hang it on the handle. You push yourself to your feet and release the brakes.

“I do. I appreciate the turnover but that’s already too much. I’m okay.” You assure him. “It was nice of you to step in earlier but… thank you. Just thank you.”

You slide your walker out from behind the table and reach for the plate and napkin. He swipes it up first. “I’ll take care of it.” He says.

You thank him one last time. You angle around and make your way across the bakery. As you near the door, he brushes by you and gets there first. He holds the door open.

You brace yourself as you let the wheels off the ledge. As you pass, he reaches to put the loaf on the seat of your walker. You gasp as you step down and pause. You look at him.

“I said no.” You insist.

“Take it.” He insists. “My treat.”

You stare at him. Even if he wasn’t standing on the ledge, he’d be huge. You wilt and purse your lips.

“Thank you.” Once again.

"Just this one thing. Please." You clasp your hands hopefully

He sighs and flips the page.

"No. I won't make you any promises. Not since you broke yours." He clucks and furrows his brow, turning the page back. "You're distracting me."

"I was scared. And I apologised. So many times--"

"Keep pushing me and see if it goes better than last time." He snaps the book shut and grips it so tight his knuckles go white.

"But... It's my little sister."

"Let the little bitch take care of herself. I married you, not her."

"Don't call her tha--"

The book flies past your head so fast, you feel the air blow by. You whimper as he fumes through his nose. You cower and turn to pick it up, smoothing the bent pages.

“Gloria!” Curtis yells into the flower shop. “Gloria San…” he stops the moment the older woman walks into the shop front. Looking at the man up and down with a scowl. Curtis’ stance switches a bit, before he looks up at the ceiling with a sigh.

“I need a bouquet,” Gloria squeals. Throwing her head back with so much glee. The wrinkles in her eyes gather towards the corners as she hops from foot to foot. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is a very big deal, Curtis. You don’t date. You definitely aren’t romantic with flowers, and when my husband asked you why you never buy them, you told him you were waiting on that girl. Is it ‘that girl’?” Her brow lifts in a question, and Curtis runs his hand down his face.

“Yes.”

“The day has finally come!” She starts to walk around the store, pulling different stems of flowers. “I knew it would. I had faith she would come back to you, and you could tell her that you have been so in love with her, and too chicken shit to say anything.”

“It’s not like that,” Gloria throws her head back, releasing a belly laugh. “This is serious.”

“I’m aware. You’re picky. You have only settled for chasing tail because you were so concerned about this woman coming back into your life to carry your babies.”

“She doesn’t have to have babies.”

“No, she needs to have your babies, there’s a difference. Does she have kids?” Curtis shakes his head no. “How long have you been in love with this girl?”

“A lot longer than I should have,” Gloria stops, and turns towards him. Resting a hand on his cheek, smiling longingly at him. “It’s always been unrequited.”

“If it was unrerquited, she wouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Shouldn’t have happened, we were drinking,” Gloria rolls her eyes before continuing her mission. “And it was nice. But it was too much, too soon, and…”

“Now you’ve got her alone in your house, and you’re about ready to explode,” Gloria looks back at Curtis with a cheeky smile, and his face falls. “You’ve been celibate for how long?”

“Not important,” no one needed to know that small detail. Because no one truly understands exactly how much he has just wanted you. And no one else has ever compared, and then he got tired of trying.

“Too long!” She shouts, and carries her bundle of flowers to her work station. “You’ve spent a decade pining after this girl who was verbally abused by her mother, and has never really had anyone in her corner. I know how much you’ve wanted this.”

“But she doesn’t,” Curtis gives her an awkward smile, but keeps his eyes on her wrinkled hands building the most perfect bouquet of flowers, and it’s still not more beautiful than you. “We’ve been thrust into this weird situation.”

“Thrust is an odd choice of words.”

“Mind out of the gutter, you dirty ole bitty,” Gloria gives a scraggly chuckle, and finishes wrapping up the bouquet. “I don’t think she knows her worth, and I know I have done a shitty job so far with my tough love.”

“Curtis,” his deep blue eyes finally looks into someone that has oddly been like a mother to him. Her husband was an old ranch hand, and he often invited Curtis to their house for dinner. Tried setting him up with a few of her daughters, until he confided in her.

“You are being a bit hard headed because you don’t want to be hurt. But let your walls down, and show her the real you that’s not so hardened from lonely isolation and working on a ranch,” Curtis would love to give Gloria a deadpanned look. Pretend that this isn’t bothering him as much as it actually is. “And if it doesn’t work out.”

“I lose everything.”

“Then it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Yeah,” he says, laying some money on the counter, “I’m not letting that happen. I may be a simple man, but that woman — she was always meant to be with me. Fuck the ranch. It’s only her that matters,” he nods his head towards Gloria, and heads back to his truck.

“That’s my boy,” she sighs. Curtis isn’t a lot of things. He’s not fancy, he’s not over the top. But what he is, is a kind hardworking man. He will give you the world, and all he asks is for your heart and loyalty. He won’t leave you. He doesn’t want to give up the ranch and his life, but he would. For you.

There’s very little that he wouldn’t do for you. Hell, he’s going to take you dancing, something he doesn’t do. But you love it. He’s gotten all dressed up, cleaned up his beard, wearing cologne, and his nice boots for you. He would change everything about him if it would make you happy.

The good thing is he doesn’t think you want him to be changed. He thinks you rather like his rugged and dirty self. But you definitely need to see that not only does he clean up nicely, but that you deserve to be seen all dolled up with him. Someone that you are proud of. And although he gets a pang of jealousy when other men look at you, there’s also this sense of pride.

He saw the look on Yancy’s face when he was carrying you out of the bar. That look of desperate longing, that he couldn’t have you. Wondering if you were going to fuck him or not. He wouldn’t take advantage of you like that. When the inevitable happens, both of you will be stone cold sober. The two of you will worship the other. Just as it was intended.

And he’s going to take his time. He’s going to memorize every dip and curve of your body while he paints you with his tongue and lips. He is going to make you realize that every inch of your perfect body is beautiful and worthy of complete devotion, and almost obsession. And it’s getting harder and harder to turn you down for sex. Until he sees you completely enthralled by him, or if the mood actually strikes right, he won’t allow it. Nope.

He won’t allow you to debase yourself just in order to forget harsh words from your mom. He won’t let you use his body to fill a void left by feeling unloved, and less than. Your mother should have never been a mother, especially not a mother to a girl. That woman was jealous of the fact that you could smile, and it would make people do your bidding. She’s angry that her dad doted on you and Austin.

Generations of less than perfect parenting. Curtis is stopping the cycle. He’d love kids with you, all you had to do is ask. But until you realize that you are perfect as you are, kids will not even be entertained.

But he can see it. Waking up with you asleep on his chest, while the pitter patter of little feet walk across the floors upstairs. He’ll make sure the boys treat their mama with respect, and the little girls can be just as tough and rumble as the boys. He sees those little hands slipping underneath the door.

He even sees all their faces. Three, naturally. Two strapping young lads, and his little princess. Your sidekick. He chuckles, knowing that thinking this far into your futures when you’re not even included in his plans is a bad idea. Bad luck, he’s sure. But he just wants to shower you with so much love that you have always deserved. He wants to drown you in attention and adoration.

“It’s just the first date,” he tells himself. It’s not even an orthodox way of getting to this first date. But the thought of it still made you smile. He knows that you are excited, and you want it just as much as he does.

You’re bored. Groaning, you lean your head back on the couch. Where is he? He said the two of you would leave at five o’clock, and it’s 4:55, and he’s not here. He’s going to be late. It’s just like a man to promise you something, and not show up.

You look down at your phone, disappointed that you thought that he could be different. At the end of the day what mattered to him was clearly just the ranch. Not you. Not your feelings. It’s humiliating that nobody ever sees you past something you could do for them.

Your blink rapidly, trying to stop the impending tears from falling. You won’t cry for a man. You won’t allow a man to ever have that much control over you. Never allow them to see you down. When Curtis inevitably turns up, you’ll ignore him. This doesn’t affect you.

It doesn’t. It means nothing. You sniffle. It’s allergies. It’s being back in this God forsaken place. All it does is bring up all this unwanted emotional baggage that you don’t want to deal with. It’s not Curtis that has you feeling like shit. No. It’s your mom. Fuck her. And fuck Curtis, too.

You’ll resort to just fucking him. At least you can get something out of this. You’ve waited long enough. And then — you’ll just walk away. Fuck this ranch, too. Fuck. It. All.

You sit up straight, wiping at your under eyes when someone knocks on the door. They knock again, but louder. “Curtis isn’t here. You can go away.”

“Red!” You look back down at your phone again. Five on the dot. “Red, you wanna answer the door?”

You sling the door wide open, planning to glare at him, and then you just stop. You allow your eyes to look up and down his body. He’s wearing good jeans, and even a nice button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arm, and showing off the few tattoos he has smattered on his forearms.

“Why are your eyes red?” He looks good. He smells good. Oddly expensive considering how Curtis normally smells like sunshine, sweat, hay, and horses. Extremely masculine, and not as disgusting as one might think. He cleans up nice. Even a pretty watch.

“Red?” You glance up at him. “Your eyes.”

“I just sneezed,” his brow furrows, and his head tilts. Looking a bit dog-like.

“I,” Curtis fidgets, and you finally stop gawking at him, noticing the beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hands. Now your eyes are watery for different reasons. “I b-brough you f-flowers,” he takes a deep breath, and hands them to you awkwardly. “Baby, don’t cry.”

Immediately he steps through the door, crowding you with his manliness, and actual tears break through your lashes. Every part about him overstimulates you. His scent, his height, the way his good boots quickly click on the floor, the way his calloused hands brush over your cheek as he brushes away the tears. And that word. Baby.

You’ve been touched over and over again. Women in college with you called you disgusting names because of the men that have touched you. But it’s in this moment that you realize that you’re still touch starved. Starved for a gentle touch, and soft voice to ease you out of your head. You don’t have to tell Curtis your deep rooted issues. He just knows. He’s lived it.

“Baby,” his Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps. This manly man is being so gentle with you that it hurts. You fear if you enjoy this too much that he will be taken away from you, and you want him more than you have ever wanted anything. Those walls that you spent years building, he is destroying with one goddamn word.

“Red.”

“S-s-stop. Hold,” he starts to retreat, but you grab his hand, keeping it softly on your face. “I thought — I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I wanted to pick you up,” dammit. You will not cry in front of this man. “I just feel we were skipping over some good parts here. The man coming to pick the woman up from her house. I didn’t want to just leave the house like we’re some established couple.”

“And you brought me flowers,” Curtis tries to hide the grin that is threatening to pull his lips completely up. Damn this hot as fuck man that has a sweet soul. “I was talking myself out of how you don’t mean anything to me.”

“Yeah?” He says, that grin fading quickly. His eyes look down in a true sadness. He cares what you think of him. “What did you determine?”

“How much that it actually would hurt me if you didn’t show up,” he peeks back up at you. “I think I care too much about you. About — what you think when it comes to me,” Curtis’ tongue dips out of his mouth, and he pulls his bottom lip in. Biting on the tender flesh. He reaches over to set the beautiful flowers on the counter before he places a hand on the wall and over your head.

You feel so small looking up at him. Mouth agape and trying to catch your breath. He’s so close. His eyes drift down your body, lingering on your chest before he looks all the way down. Appreciating every inch of you, especially the parts you have exposed. His hand that isn’t planted on the wall above you goes to your hip, and he pulls you closer to him, and you whimper. It is completely involuntary, but it makes Curtis pitch his hips forward.

He rights himself by putting a foot in between your own. He bends his knee slightly, and it is almost right at your core. You’re going to suffocate before the night is over. “I think an awful lot about you, baby,” you squeak at that pet name again, and his lips perk up on the side. Cheeky bastard. He knows what that name is doing to you.

“Think about me how?”

“This a pure first date.”

You have visions of the most lewd and salacious ways that he could be thinking about you. The curious part of you wants to know everything. How does he envision you? Does he touch himself when he has those thoughts?

“How are you thinking about me right now?” He clicks his tongue against his teeth. Tsking you. “Be explicit,” you look up at him through your lashes. And you are dying to know everything.

Curtis groans, looking down at his leg, and then back to you. Feeling like that’s a cue, you squat down, touching your core against his thick muscular thigh. The sound that releases from his throat sounds like a man starving for touch, even more than you are. “Don’t start. We got dinner reservations.”

“Then tell me.”

Bending over, he puts his mouth right at the shell of your ear. His voice is pained and whispered, “I briefly,” he breathes, pulling back enough to see you slowly grind over his thigh, "Envisioned you just like this. So desperate for me that you make yourself get off on my thigh.”

“Then what?” you know that you are playing with fire, and you don’t care.

“After you come on my leg, I throw you over my shoulder, and take us to that damn couch, so I can fuck into you, and then watch you bounce on my cock. As good as fucking from behind feels, I never want to take my eyes off you. I just want to stare at you enjoying yourself.”

“Curtis.”

“Baby, if we don’t leave now, I’ll have you sore for a week,” he clears his throat before standing up straight. Putting both his hands on your hip. “And you deserve to be treated like a queen. Don’t pout. I’m not going to fuck you…yet.”

And yet is a promise you will just have to deal with for now. No matter how much it aches. He gives you an easy wink before grabbing onto your hand, “You ready for our first date?”

“Yeah,” you’ve been ready for many years.

You had not expected for Curtis to bring you to the town dance hall. It had few updates since you left, but it is still lively on the dance floor, and the food is yummy. Most people didn’t come for the food, so there are very few tables hence the reason for reservations. The majority of the people came for the live music and good times.

Curtis is clearly reluctant to dance. Choosing to watch you frolic around with a girl you got along with in high school even if you weren’t friends. Your mom didn’t approve of her family. Her mother still works in housekeeping, and her father is a ranch hand. She grew up to be a teacher, and already a mother of two, and happily divorced, and happily remarried. Cheyenne was always nice to you, and didn’t even hesitate to start dancing with you.

It didn’t hurt that her new husband Cliff and Curtis worked at the ranch together. You’re hoping Cliff is the reason that you and Chey are dancing, and not you and Curtis. He did look like he needed to have a conversation with Cliff, and you just wanted to move to the music.

There’s freedom on the dance floor. Even more freedom when you realize you’re not obligated to go anywhere, but back home with Curtis. You giggle to yourself realizing just how wonderful this feels, even if Curtis is somewhat bailing on your date. It’s fine. And Chey has a lot more energy than you.

“I’m going to go get a drink,” you scream into her ear. She gives you a nod, “Then I’m going to bring Curtis out here.”

“That man doesn’t dance,” for all she knows, Curtis and you are just friends. Business partners. Acquaintances. “He seriously doesn’t dance for anyone.”

“Is that so?” You eye her up before turning around, heading to the table that occupies Curtis and Cliff. The tables are pushed back from the speakers, and have the ability to not have the music so loud. Getting over to the table, and you saddle on up in between Curtis’ spread legs. Playfully you put your hands on his thighs.

The way he looks up at you knocks the air right out of your lungs. His hands touch you at your knees, and they skim up your sides, not stopping until they get to your hips. “Oh,” Chey exclaims before crashing into her husband’s lap. “So it’s like that.”

“Red, what cha doing?”

“I’m thirsty,” he removes one hand to reach over to your beer, and hands it to you. You take a long pull from the cup before handing it back to him. Smiling so sweetly.

“What else do you want, darling?" That word does not sound as sweet, but it’s also not making him look quite as gone for you. Maybe it’s a safe nickname in public. “I know you didn’t just plant yourself in between my legs for a drink of cheap beer. What do you need, baby?”

You can hear Cheyenne giggling, but you don’t know if it's at the show in front of her, or the fact Cliff is kissing behind her ear. “You brought me here, and you’re not going to dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Not even for me,” you pout playfully, but he roughly pulls you into him. Putting his mouth behind your ear, and he inhales you.

“The next slow song, I’ll…” his voice stops as a slow country song starts playing. “Okay, let’s head out to the dance floor, baby,” you look over at Chey whose mouth is wide open as Curtis leads you out onto the floor. Yet another time of Curtis claiming you, and also proving that you’re different from any other woman he’s ever had at his side.

He’s doing things he doesn’t normally do. He’s showing you off, instead of hiding behind closed doors. He wants the world to know who you belong to. And it doesn’t feel so bad having him drag you out onto the dance floor. Dodging the different people slowing down, and pulling in close to one another.

Curtis twirls you around, before wrapping you tight against his body. His arm firmly around your back. Definitely too close to dance. But close enough to hear him, and feel his breath. Watching his pretty smile in the flashing lights. Physically close, but it’s the intimacy that is striking you harder.

“You dragged me out here, and you’re not going to talk?” His mouth is right next to your ear, and the rumble of his voice goes right to your core.

“I’m just enjoying the view,” smiling up at him, you stop rocking back and forth to stand on your tippy toes. Kissing him right beside his mouth. You move too quickly away from him, but catch his movement to chase your mouth. It’s not all in your head, no matter how much you try to convince yourself it is. You don’t want to think about how things you like disappear. You want to enjoy this, no matter how short it could be.

“So you still think I’m sexy?”

“I think you’re sexier,” Curtis has the biggest smirk as he grips onto your hips tighter. He digs his fingers into your soft curves, pulling you more into him. “I feel like you’re trying to consume me.”

“There’s a guy behind you,” he sighs, letting the two of you drift in a different direction, “I don’t like him staring at your ass.”

“Curtis, people stare at asses.”

“Not yours,” the grip of his hands soften, and slide lower. Too low, and they cup your buttcheeks. “Nobody needs to be staring at you like they want to eat you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re mine,” your brow cocks up immediately. “Only I get to stare at your ass like that. Does this make you uncomfortable?” You shake your head no. The last thing you want is for him to remove his hands off you. This feral idea that he is claiming you, yet again, in front of other men that only see you as a piece of meat just makes you feel weak in the knees.

“I’m such a caveman.”

“Just don’t tell me what to do,” you give him a warning. “I don’t mind you — claiming me. Don’t make it toxic. But I want people to know. Even if it’s not real,” that voice of doubt will forever haunt you. You don’t want to let it win, or even let it control you.

Curtis’ eyes roam over your face as he brings his mouth closer to your neck. He lets his pillowy soft lips tickle your neck. He ghosts his lips over your skin, peppering open mouth kisses on your sensitive column. “It’s very real, Red.”

He jerks you flush against him, and you whimper as his bulging hard on presses against your stomach. “I’m not giving you sex tonight. I’m gonna make you work for my body.”

“Asshole,” you giggle, trying to worm your hand down his stomach, but he grabs ahold of you.

“But I am going to worship you when we get home,” your eyes close at the sound of that. “I want to kiss every inch of your skin. Every dip and curve. I want to pick you up and throw you on the bed, and peel these painted on jeans off your legs, strip your shirt and bra off, and then rip those panties off you. And then,” he presses his forehead against yours, and he inhales deeply. Memorizing the way your heat alters that sweet florally perfume.

“Then?” you gulp, staring up at him.

“I’m going to place my head between your thighs, and I’m going to make you come over and over again on my mouth,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “You doubt me?”

“Nobody has ever made me come from oral,” something flashes in Curtis’ eyes, and he glances down at his watch. “But I’ve gotten very good at faking orgasms.”

“Mmm,” Curtis growls, and is immediately turning. He leads you through the throng of people. Slightly pushing anyone out of the way as he trudges to wherever he’s going.

“Where are we going?”

“Home,” butterflies. You’ve never had a place that felt like home. A place that you wanted to go to feel safe and secure.

“Why?” You giggle, trying to slow him down. He gives a wave over to Cliff and Chey. Thankfully, all you brought was yourself, and your ID. “Curtis!” He doesn’t stop when he makes it through the door. And apparently your legs aren’t going fast enough for him, and he scoops you up. Placing your belly on his shoulder as he carries you through the parking lot.

He doesn’t grunt, or make any sounds with your added weight. This is a man. He is all muscle and hard lines. Each hard piece of him was carved with grueling work. He’s used to tossing things around, and now it’s going to be you. “Curtis?”

He places you into the seat of the truck before he jogs to the other side. Throwing the truck into gear, and he backs out of his spot too easily. God, a hot man knowing how to control a vehicle is ridiculously sexy. The fact he’s on a race to get you home just to feast on you makes you swish around. Pressing your thighs closer together.

“Don’t you ever fake an orgasm with me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You will not hurt my feelings. But I want you to always be satisfied. If you don’t enjoy something, fine. But I need you to know. I really enjoy eating pussy.”

“Great. Tell me exactly whose pussy have you been eating?”

He rolls his eyes, and turns to scowl at you. “None for a very long time. And I’m starving. So you’re going to lay on your back, and let me have fun.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. I take it we’re not taking things slow.”

“We’re taking my dick slow. But I need you to realize just how desperate I am for you. How much I have been envisioning the taste of your cunt. And I hope that you have stayed hydrated today,” his tongue clicks simultaneously with a wink, and he looks back out the window.

“Did you just…?”

“Yes, Red. I did a clicking wink with you.”

“Why should I have stayed hydrated,” he looks towards you, and you look damn near adorable worrying away at your lip. You nervously look out your side of the window, and he stops the car in the middle of the road. “Are you crazy?”

“C’mere,” Curtis’ hand slaps on your thigh before he drags you across the bench seat, and right next to him. “You’re too far away from me.”

“You’re needy.”

“Sure am. Needy for you,” your mouth opens, and it closes quickly. “You better keep that closed when you’re right beside me. And yeah, it’s because you’re too close, and it makes me wonder what my dick will look like between your pretty lips.”

“We can.”

“Nope. This is about worshiping you. But don’t tempt me,” you settle back, making yourself comfortable. It feels nice with his added warmth. It could be the hottest day in the year, and you think you’d still be trying to get closer to him. “Did you ever miss it here?”

Curtis’ voice sounds raw, terrified to hear your answer. It’s not even one you have to think too hard about, “No,” his breath shutters, and his body seems to deflate, “It was only you that I missed.”

“You don’t have to butter me up. I’ll still eat you.”

“I’m not. I think it’s safe to say you and I have always had an odd connection. Some of us were just too scared to do anything because he was afraid of what his best friend would think if you started fucking his little sister.”

“I’d do more than just fuck you.”

“Oh yeah?” You lean to the side, and kiss his neck. Feeling a rumble rattle through his body, you smile as you sit back on the seat. “And just what else would you do with me?”

“Own you. Consume every ounce of your soul and pleasure. I will bring tears to your eyes as we make love for the first time. And I’ll devour you,” home. It can’t get here fast enough. You’re left twitching and moving around in your seat. You can’t say anything to that. You’ve never made love. Never did anything, but fucked. And it felt good. It just never lasted.

His right hand rests on your leg, but makes work moving up and down your supple skin. A torturous countdown of how many seconds it takes to get home. Up. One. Down. Two. Up. Three. Down. Four. Up. Five. Down. Six. It’s all you can do to stay sane. All these promises, and all his control, while you’re melting in this seat. But this is something you could grow used to.

Something that you could grow old with. And that terrifies you. If you let him in, you give him the power that you have refused to give anyone else. Simply put, you allow him to hurt you, to break you completely down into nothing. The power to destroy what little resolve that you have left.

But the thought of not experiencing someone truly loving you terrifies you more. So if you’re going to give him you, you’re going to fully dive right into this moment, and with this man. Giving him the ability to do what you have always wanted from him. What you’ve always craved and needed. You’re going to let him destroy you in pleasure and hopefully love. Not an obligation or a duty to keep something in the family, but because it’s what he wants to do.

His truck comes to a slow roll into the driveway, and without even another word, he slings it into park, and hops out of the truck. You think for only a split second he’s changed his mind until his hands reach in to find your body, and he drags you out of his truck. An arm under your legs, while the other supports your back, he carries you bridal style into the house, while you’re left to roam his chest with your hand.

Even if tonight is all that you get, you’ve had him.

Curtis kicks the door close, and his stride quickens. Carrying you all the way to the bedroom before tossing you onto the bed. He toes off his boots, and reaches behind him to pull off his shirt. His gaze sets on you while he pulls his belt undone, and before you can even think, you try and get this stupid dress off you.

“Uh uh,” he tsks. Yanking his pants down, he stalks to the bed. “I enjoy opening my own presents, Red. C’mere. Scoot your ass to the edge of the bed,” gulping, you follow instructions, too eager. “There’s my good girl,” your eyes glaze over as you stare up at him owlishly. His hands reach towards you, and pulls one worn out boot off before the other. Throwing them both carelessly in the room.

Those thick calloused hands rub over your thighs before his lips attach to your skin. Curtis keeps his eyes directly on you as he kisses his way up your legs. Alternating between each leg painfully slowly before he drags your dress up. His eyes leave yours, and he looks between your spread thighs. Licking his lips at the prettiest pair of itty bitty panties he’s ever seen.

He doesn’t have to wonder if you want this. Your thighs are soaked with your arousal, and your cunt is pulsing through that sheer thong. “You’re already shivering,” instead of your nickname, he whispers your real name. He fully plants himself on his knees before he lifts you up to a sitting position, and attacks your mouth with his own.

This kiss is full of tension. A kiss that you have fought for, for days. He can’t even contain his own neediness as he licks along your lips, and you grant him the access to taste your tongue. He swirls his tongue around yours, and sucks on the muscle. Keeping you just occupied enough for him to reach to the bottom of your dress, and he pulls away long enough to rip the confinement off, and then he’s back.

His hips thrust into air, needing a form of friction that he’s denying himself, and only to pleasure you. To make sure that you realize that you’re first in this equation. That there is nothing that he won’t do to ensure that you are pleasured. His hands grope and prod at your ample chest, and he pulls away from your mouth to kiss and nip along your neck. Chest heaving you reach a hand to his swollen cock, but he flicks you away.

You can appreciate his need to pleasure you, but you want to feel. You want to know that he’s just as turned on as you. Reaching behind your body, he uses one hand to undo your bra, and he slings into the floor. Leaning back, he admires you. His own chest rising and falling with so much heat that you know you’re not imagining things.

“Fuck, look at you, Red. All for me. This is all for me, right?”

“Y-y-yeah,” he leans forward, using himself to lean you back into the bed before he kisses down your body. He sucks a nipple into his mouth, while his hand tweaks the other, and too quickly he continues his course down your body. You rarely let men go down on you. You don’t want them looking too long at your body, but with Curtis, you can’t even think straight. You don’t have a thought in your mind, but wanting his mouth firmly planted on your heat.

He doesn’t stop to remove your panties, no, he desperately kisses over the ruined sheer fabric. Like he couldn’t wait the few seconds it would take to remove the thong. Like he would die without knowing what you taste like. His tongue flattens over your core, and your back arches off the bed.

God, you want him on your bare flesh. You need him there. Need him to suck on your clit, and fuck you with his fingers. You. Need. Him. “Curtis,” he chuckles, and the vibrations make your toes clench. “Stop playing around.”

“Such a needy little thing. You gonna be my sweet little slut?”

“Yes!” At this moment, there is nothing you wouldn’t do for him. “Please just touch me.”

You miss him taking a deep inhale before slowly letting the air out of his lungs. You miss him biting at his lip because the second that his fingers touch that thin material at your hips, your eyes close softly. He isn’t playing. In your moment of thankful pleasure, you don’t see his blue eyes go soft as he peels you out of those panties. You don’t see his breathing stutter as he stares at you naked in his bed. Spread open, and begging for him.

You could never know the years he has spent dreaming of there being a time that you would be in his bed. Pleasuring you, pleasuring him, pleasuring each other. But more importantly, loving. He is one that never thought he was good enough for you, and it’s why he stayed away. You deserved some rich man that would spoil you. But maybe his love is enough for you. That you didn’t require all these materialistic things that your mother wanted for you. That you solely just wanted him.

And he’s tired of pretending that you aren’t everything that he’s ever wanted. Sassy attitude that doesn’t take shit from no one. A woman that claims she doesn’t need love, but gets all soft when he mentions it. Someone that claims that sex is only for pleasure, when he’s barely touched you, and you are putty in his hands. Curves that need to be openly touched. Worshiped. Not only are you perfect, but so is your body. Everything about you is his biggest fantasy.

And now you’re spread out before him like a meal he has always wanted. “Eyes on me, sweetheart,” you’re anything but sweet. But you sure do obey him without any questions. Wrecked before he’s even begun. He lifts up your legs, and rests them on his shoulders. Curtis’ dips lower between your spread legs, giving you not much to look at but his eyes that are blown wide with lust, and a predatory grin that a wolf would be envious of.

He licks one stripe through your slit, and you swear you could come undone from that alone. “Mmm,” he licks his lips, letting you see all of him before leaning forward, and devouring you. He licks, nips, and sucks at your bundle of nerves with no decorum. The noises he makes loudly and proudly, just like a man starved. Like a man that hasn’t had anything to drink in months, and his only survival is your juices.

Your body thanks him in kind. Leaking onto the bed, and he just slurps up every drop of honey that your body gives him. Your body meets his every move as it rocks up over and over again. Such a pretty sight. Curtis wears your thighs like earmuffs all the while he has some crazed look on his face at just how delectable you taste. You could drown him, and suffocate him, and he would die from the taste of your pussy every day of the year.

This is how he wants to spend his life, worshiping at the altar of your delicious cunt. Everyday he needs to taste you. Every day he needs to know that your body gets completely soaked just thinking about his mouth on you. You let out a shrill scream when he pushes three fingers into you. Not even hesitating for your body to adjust to the thick intrusion because you can handle it. Your walls are slicked up and accommodate him perfectly.

You writhe and pick up your own pace, not even realizing that he has stilled. He just kitten licks and sucks on your swollen clit. You do the rest of the work, fucking yourself on his fingers. Both of you are just as desperate for the other, and this is the moment that every single wall has been shattered, and you both know just how much you have needed the other.

Nothing has ever been so perfect. Nothing has ever made him feel more complete than that sounds coming off your kiss swollen lips. Bucking your hips in a need to get off more than you ever had before. Your tits bounce with every move you make, and his free hand cups one, and pinches the nipple. Your walls flutter around his fingers, and he smirks at your comment earlier. He’s about to get you off on his mouth, when nobody else ever has. And not just getting you off, you are dying for release.

This perfect view. This immaculate sight of your body rippling with every move of your hips. Your eyes clench close, and your mouth opens to a silent scream, pace quickening until the sound of his name tears off your lips in the most pornographic way. Your cunt holds his fingers in a vice grip as they pulse around his digits.

Your breath hasn’t even regulated before Curtis crawls up your body. He settles his weight onto you, and he thrusts into you. Boxer briefs still cover his body, but he’s just as needy to get off, and you let him take. Let him demand a release without friction. Simulating fucking has never been so hot, and then his soaked beard and mouth find yours and you kiss him with no abandon. Gripping onto his back, and scratching down his spine and you swallow every wanton moan and groan that flows off his lips.

Nothing has ever been more hot than Curtis needing something that he is refusing himself so much. You would gladly let him spear you with his cock, but all the while whatever this is, is so fucking hot. You will long for the day that you can have him, but you will never forget the day that Curtis wet humped onto your sated body. You are relaxed and willing him to just get off. Let his cum add to the mess between your legs.

“Curtis,” you whimper through the kissing. “Baby, let go,” and instantly he spews against your pussy, and you gasp as he leans back. You don’t know what passes between the two of you as you watch his mouth fall open and moans of his release fan across your face, but you want to experience this again. He is beautiful. Perfect even.

The two of you stare at each other panting, and you don’t even want to break the spell. You want to make a joke about next time just sticking it in, but you can’t. There’s an odd understanding that happens between the two of you. Too much information and feelings, and also not enough. But this moment will forever be engrained in your mind. And this bed will never be the same.

“I should, should get a washcloth to clean you.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“Me neither.”

“This one time — don’t,” Curtis releases a quick breath of air, but nods his head. So many unsaid words pass between you. It’s too much. Feelings are too much and racing in between you. You’ll worry about what this all means tomorrow. Or maybe it means nothing. Maybe it just means that you’re done fighting. Why fight when there is this to gain from giving up. You’ve fought too long, and this prize is too precious.

As if knowing you’ve given up, he lays his head on your chest, and you sigh. This entanglement will be the way you fall asleep. And you hope that this is the way you fall asleep every night. For the rest of your life. Entangled in him.

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @rnurse-kole @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @distractingbeth @kmm-fluv @retroquest @buckybarnesisdaddy

@munjack @shoegal73 @sunlightkent @looking10 @patzammit

@fenixstar

Next

“Girl, you better watch your back and panties around Steve Rogers,” Natasha, the bartender at the club, whispered. She didn’t want to catch Steve’s attention. He was a friend, but still her boss.

“I wouldn’t mind losing my panties around him.” You winked at her. “If you know what I mean, Nat.”

Natasha tried to talk sense into you, but you were looking at Steve again. “He’s not as sweet as he seems. Steve charms the ladies to get what he wants and drops them afterward. He’s not here for the long haul when it comes to relationships. Why don’t you look for a nice guy like Scott?”

“Scott?” You dipped your head to glance at the man sitting at the end of the bar. He wasn’t too bad to look at, had a solid job, and was nice. Natasha was right. Scott was a catch, but not the man you were yearning for. “No, he’s not it. He’s nice but…”

“You want to play with fire,” Natasha huffed while wiping the counter. “If you get burned, don’t come running to me, crying. I won’t hold your hand after he broke your heart.”

“What if he only breaks my back?” You sassed back, feeling Steve’s eyes on you. He looked at his expensive watch, frowning because your break was long over. “Shit, I think he’s mad.”

“You should go back to work and play with numbers instead of Steve’s balls,” Natasha joked, but her eyes narrowed in Steve’s direction. She knew about his habit of breaking women down to nothing, then molding them into perfect arm candies. The last thing she wanted was for him to break you too.

Steve watched you hop off the barstool to walk toward the back and get back to work. It’d be another long night. It wasn’t easy to make Steve’s business look legal. He was the leader of a criminal organization after all.

“Y/N, a word.” Steve was suddenly by your side. He slung his arm around your waist to guide you toward the back entrance.

“Uh—boss. I should head back toward my office. The numbers are waiting.” You nervously chuckled as he wouldn’t slow down. “Boss, I know I should’ve gone back to work ten minutes ago. I’m sorry I lost track of time.”

Steve didn’t say a word. He yanked you through the back door of the bar, the heavy door slamming shut behind you. You scrunched up your nose when the smell of dirt and stale beer hit your nostrils.

“Steve? Are you mad at me, boss? I told you I’m sorry…”

Steve spun you around and shoved you face-first against the rough wall. Your palms scraped the rough surface, and you squeaked at the sudden motion.

"You've been staring at me all night," Steve growled against your ear. His hand wrapped around your throat, forcing you to crane your neck. “You’re just another pathetic little slut wanting her fill.”

He roughly kicked your legs apart. One hand shoved your skirt up over your hips and ripped your panties off with one swift motion while the other worked his belt open.

You heard the zipper come down, heart racing. This was what you wanted, just not like this. Steve was rougher than expected, and you didn’t know how to feel when the thick head of his cock pressed against your bare cunt.

“Already wet,” he commented in a mocking tone. “I knew you'd be dripping for my cock like the whore you are. Remember, this is what you wanted.”

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust. You whimpered, the stretch burning, but he didn't give you time to adjust. Steve fucked you hard against the wall, hips snapping.

“You will take it,” he grunted. “That's all you’re good for. Just another tight hole for me to use.”

His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave marks on your body.

“Say it.”

You choked out a moan but uttered the words he wanted to hear.

“Say it louder, Y/N!”

“I’m your slut,” you gasped as he pounded deeper. “Only your slut, Steve.”

Steve laughed in your ear, his teeth tugging at your earlobe. “They all watched you make a fool out of yourself. You were walking around my bar like you deserve more than a quick fuck in a dirty alley.”

You were on the verge of tears, from the pleasurable pain, but also from the cruel reality finally setting in. Steve didn’t like you. He was using your body like he had used many before. You were no one special to him.

He reached around and rubbed your clit. Steve was a giver after all. He didn’t want the ladies to complain. ”Come on my cock, like the good whore you are. Listen to your boss.”

You whimpered his name when your high hit you. Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned, fucking you through it until his rhythm faltered. He buried himself deep and stilled his hips.

“Goddamnit, that’s a good little cunt.” He groaned in your ear, filling you up to the brim.

He pulled out, stepping away. Steve didn’t care that you couldn’t keep yourself upright. Your legs were shaking so hard that you lost your balance and ended up on the ground, cutting your leg on a shard. He tucked himself away, zipped up, and turned to leave.

“Here, clean yourself up and get back to work,” he spat, looking down at you like you were nothing but dirt. “What’s with the doe eyes? You wanted me to fuck you, remember? That’s how I treat the women I fuck. Are you happy now?”

You choked out a sob but didn’t tell him you were hurt in more than one way when he walked away, leaving you on the ground. His cum mixed with the blood seeping from the wound on your leg soaked the ground—a reminder of your downfall.

Steve was right. You wanted this. Him. All you were talking and fantasizing about was your boss, and you just paid the price for those daydreams.

Steve puffed out smoke when Sam joined him for a break. “So, Y/N is into you?” He smirked when Steve’s features darkened.

“Bucky talks too much,” Steve angrily replied. He couldn’t shake the image of you on the ground in that dirty alley for hours. It was for the best to keep you at arm’s length. “She’s just a love-sick puppy.”

“She’s a sweet one, Steve. You should leave her alone. I don’t think she’d survive you,” Sam joked, but Steve didn’t find it funny. He had already ruined you and your trust in him. There was no turning back now. His dark heart couldn’t let you in.

“Ah, are we talking about Y/N?” Bucky joined the conversation, grinning from ear to ear. He was the one riling Steve up earlier. “Did you already ask her out?”

“Shut up, James,” Steve hissed and took another sip from his drink. “You did enough tonight. I…I lost control and now…”

“Fuck,” Bucky blanched. His eyes widened, and he felt sick to his stomach. “What did you do, Steve? You didn’t kill her, right? Right…”

“Worse,” Steve grumbled under his breath. His eyes scanned the club, searching for a glimpse of you. “I ruined her.”

“Sex?” Bucky groaned. “Man, I thought you killed the sweet woman. So…was she good?” He grinned. “Did you make her cum?”

“I ruined her,” Steve repeated. He looked at Sam, seeing the judgment in the other man’s eyes. “I know, I know. You told me to leave her alone.”

“I told you not to treat her like the other women before her,” Sam chastised. “I’m not a saint, but hurting Y/N is a new low.”

Steve rose from his seat. He didn’t want to listen to his friend any longer. “I have something to take care of.”

Bucky chuckled while Sam angrily crossed his arms over his chest.

“He had to go and break the only nice woman at this club. Great,” Sam huffed and turned his attention back toward his drink. “I hope he at least puts a ring on her finger…”

“Nat, have you seen Y/N?” Steve asked after he circled the club for a second time. You weren’t at your office, the restrooms or the bar, and he slowly felt uneasy.

“Nope,” she replied, busy pouring another drink. “Not since you walked out of the back entrance with her some hours ago. It’s not my job to keep track of your employees, Steve.”

“I brought her to the hospital,” M’Baku casually said. He was about to take a break when he heard Steve talk about you.

“What? You brought her to a hospital?” Steve panted heavily. “Why? What happened?”

“Uh—I don’t know, boss.” M’Baku shrugged. “I walked out of the back entrance to smoke and found her on the ground. She was bleeding and looked like someone had attacked her.”

“Attacked. Her.” Natasha repeated. “Steve, did you leave her out there all alone?”

“How do you know she was attacked?” Steve growled, stepping closer. “Talk!”

“She was crying, bleeding, and looked like someone tugged at her clothing. I helped her up and drove her to Saint Mary’s Hospital. I wanted to call the cops, but she said no one hurt her. She slipped and fell.”

Steve didn’t listen any longer. He stormed toward the back entrance, fearing the worst.

“Mr. Rogers, please calm down. I can’t tell you anything about Ms. Y/L/N’s condition.” The doctor was breathing heavily while talking to Steve. “Please.”

Steve hesitated for only a second before he said, “Where is she? She’s my fiancée!”

“She’s still in the emergency room. We fixed her wound, and can release her any time,” the doctor stammered. He didn’t believe Steve, but he knew your boss’s reputation. The last thing he needed was to get Steve Rogers’ attention.

“Good. Bring me to her. I’m taking Y/N home.”

You were still dizzy from the pain meds they gave you when Steve carried you inside his home. He’d shown up without a word, picked you up in bridal style, and driven you straight to his place, not your apartment.

You were out cold before he even got you to the bedroom, the pain meds and exhaustion taking a toll on you. Steve laid you on your stomach to shelter your injured leg and stripped you down to your panties.

He huffed and walked out of the room, leaving you alone to clear his head. Steve had no clue why he brought you to his home and hated it.

Hours later, Steve stood in the doorway watching you sleep soundly, unaware of his presence. His cock was already hard again. He didn’t have to remember the way your walls clung to him not hours ago to get in the mood.

Steve climbed onto the bed behind you, carefully shoved your legs apart, and lined up again. You were still slick from your encounter earlier. He pushed inside in one slow thrust, groaning when your body accepted his intrusion. He started fucking you in deep strokes, one hand braced on the headboard, the other gripping your hip hard.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice low and raspy. “Even asleep, you take my cock like a perfect little slut. You wanted this so bad you let me ruin you. Now you’re mine to use whenever I feel the need.”

He reached under you and pinched your clit, toying with it until your body twitched and a soft moan left your throat. Steve pulled out and flipped you onto your back, parting your legs.

His mouth was on your cunt before you could even open your eyes. He licked and sucked, tongue pushing in and out, then flattening over your clit.

“Steve!”

Steve growled against your pussy. “If you are in my bed, this is what happens.”

He didn’t stop before your thighs clamped around his head and you squirted all over his beard.

Steve crawled up your body, shoved your knees to your chest, and pushed back inside you. His eyes locked on yours as he fucked you roughly.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he said. “No going back to your sweet fantasies.”

Steve woke with a groan. He was still inside your sore cunt, and already half hard. “You little vixen,” he cussed, but didn’t move. Steve nipped at your shoulder before slipping out of you.

When you finally woke up, you felt like your whole body was sore. You whined but didn’t dare to be too loud. You slipped out of bed, hoping to leave Steve’s place with what was left of your dignity. If you had any at all.

Steve watched you limp inside the kitchen, wearing the dress shirt he carelessly dropped to the ground last night. He took away your clothes, giving you no choice but to wear his shirt.

“Sit down and eat,” he said without looking at you. You sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island, glancing at Steve. He slid a plate in front of you, then poured a glass of orange juice. For a minute, you forgot how he treated you last night. You took a bite, watching him move around the kitchen like a domestic dream.

Steve had already finished his own plate and set it in the sink. He silently watched you, his eyes raking over your body. Seeing you in his clothes woke something primal in him.

He crossed the kitchen, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you onto the kitchen island. Your plate shattered on the ground, but he didn’t care. Steve shoved your thighs apart and stepped between them, painfully hard behind his sweats.

“You’re mine to use,” he said. You barely had time to drop the fork before he yanked the shirt up and pushed inside of you. He didn’t wait. He fucked you right there on the kitchen island.

“Shit, baby. You’re still so fucking tight,” he muttered under his breath. “Even after I used your hole all night.”

He pushed you down on the kitchen island, leaning over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other wrapping around your throat.

“You’re mine,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “No other man can fuck you from now on.”

Suddenly, he kissed you. It was unexpected and breathtaking. His mouth moved against yours, tongue claiming your mouth.

Much too soon, he pulled back, looking almost surprised. He huffed and buried his face in your neck. Steve fucked you harder, until you came with a choked-out moan, walls fluttering around him. He followed a few thrusts later, groaning as he came inside you.

For a moment, he breathed into your neck, holding himself deep inside your pulsing cunt. You were still shell-shocked from the kiss when he pulled out. Steve looked at you, brows furrowed.

“Clean yourself up. You need to get back to work,” he said. “And don’t get any ideas about that kiss. It was just the heat of the moment.”

He walked out of the kitchen like nothing had happened, leaving you on the kitchen island with his cum leaking out of you.

You tried to focus on work, not the soreness in your body or the images flashing up in your mind. The rough treatment. How Steve abandoned you behind the club. And then, the kiss. It was rough and dominating, but it felt like so much more.

Steve found you in the office later that day, staring at the stack of papers on your desk. You were focused on getting the work done when he closed the door behind him and locked it without a word.

“You need a break,” he said, a question not in his words. You rose to your feet, careful to shelter your injured leg.

He walked you backward until your ass hit the edge of his desk, then lifted you onto it. Steve stepped between your thighs and pushed your skirt up. His fingertips traced the inside of your leg, careful around the fresh bandage.

You watched him push his hand inside your panties to find you already wet. Or still wet. You didn’t know at that point. It felt like your body was always ready to take Steve since your first encounter behind the club.

“You wanted me. Only me,” he muttered, almost to himself. His free hand unzipped his fly, freeing his cock. “You’re mine now to use.”

He shoved your panties aside to push inside. Slower this time, to make you feel all of him. His forehead pressed against yours as he started to fuck you in long, slow strokes. The desk started to creak under your weight, and you feared people outside could hear your coupling.

“Fuck,” he cursed. “I’m getting used to this nice little hole.”

His hand slid up your back and pressed you closer to his body. His mouth claimed yours again, softer and slower this time.

“You’re mine,” Steve murmured against your lips. “Don’t think I won’t break you even more if you look at some other guy.”

It was almost closing time, and Steve was casually walking around the club, saying goodbye to a few regulars. He was about to find you and take you with him when he heard commotion near the bar.

“Let go of me! I’m with someone.” You sounded distressed when he followed the noise. Some drunk asshole had his hand wrapped around your wrist while you tried to twist away. Your voice grew louder, telling him to back off, but the man just laughed.

Steve moved faster than M’Baku or one of the other bouncers. He grabbed the man by the collar, yanked him back, and slammed him against the bar hard enough to break his nose.

“Hands off her. She’s mine,” Steve angrily growled. “You touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your fucking body, not just your nose.”

He dropped the man to the ground, waiting for his bouncers to take care of the trash. His eyes were already on you and your trembling hands.

“Back. Now.”

Steve didn’t wait for you to calm down. He wrapped one arm around your waist, guiding you toward the back of the club.

Inside the office, he carefully lifted you onto the desk to look you all over, checking for injuries.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

You nodded, afraid your voice would tremble if you spoke. He searched your face for a second, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to your temple.

“That’s my fault,” he murmured. “That fucker thought he could touch you because I didn’t clarify you’re mine. No one else gets to touch you.”

You didn’t know if he meant what he said. Steve was like a raging storm coming over you. He destroyed you, only to pick you back up. You only knew you were his, and he wouldn’t let you go anytime soon…

“Everything okay?” He asks before you can flee up the walk to your door.

You pause and cringe. You might be reserved but you’re not rude. You back up and face him.

“Everything’s fine.” You say flatly.

“Mhm.” He puts his hand on the corner of the truck bed. “I saw you last night. Sleeping in your car. Lose your keys or something?”

You stare at him. “Or something.”

He nods and clucks. “Right, well… if you need anything.”

“I won’t. Thank you, Marshall.”

You turn again, silver stars speckling with the motion. You take a breath and steady yourself. He snorts.

You glance over your shoulder.

“My name’s Walter. Marshall’s my last name.”

“Noted,” you rasp.

You continue up the walk and pull out your keys. You turn the lock and grip the handle. You lean on the door, barely stopping it as you nearly fall inward. You enter and don’t look back as Marshall, correction, Walter, calls good night.

The lock grinds back into place and you hang your keys. You ignore the pile of mail on the floor, envelopes stuffed through your slot endlessly. There’s a stack of clothes in the chair in the front room and more hanging over the back of the couch. There’s a few wrappers from frantically eaten protein bars scattered on the table beside the lamp and another pair of shoes trips you as you lumber down the hall.

You shower. The humidity clogs your chest and makes your nose run. It does little to soothe your head. You groan and rub your temples, water slaking over your dry skin.

You sleep. Heavily but wake groggy. Your ears feel full as you dress, brush your teeth, and wrestle your hair. You leave your dirty clothes on top of the overflowing basket and rush out with a green tea and dry granola bar.

As you open your car door, balancing your phone in one hand, thermos under your arm, and keys in the other, the large black pick up pulls in beside you. You don’t acknowledge Walter as you use your knee to push your door all the way open.

“Morning, neighbour,” he grits out.

You sit in the driver’s seat and drop the thermos into the holder. “Morning.”

You close the door before he can attempt further conversation. Lloyd flies out that night. You need to make sure he isn’t roofied in his bathroom.

As you reverse, your eyes catch Walter’s as he watches. You ignore him and focus on the road as you crank the wheel. You open the top of the thermos to let the steam out and use your teeth to tear through the crinkly wrapper of the granola bar.

It’s bland and dry. The peanuts taste old and the berries are like gum. You give up halfway through. Your throat is dry enough as it is.

You stop for the usual order; cappuccino with of cinnamon and cocoa, and a cheese Danish. No danishes today, something about a delivery. You get him a croissant instead. He won’t be happy.

You sip the tea as you drive up to Lloyd’s overzealous abode. Everything he is does is excessive; well, everything but take care of himself. You roll through the gates and hide your car in the usual spot.

Routine takes over. You suppress a cough that tugs in your chest as you enter. The house is quiet. You open the curtains then climb the stairs to deliver his breakfast.

You knock to no avail. You can hear him inside. You let yourself in. He’s on the balcony talking on the phone. You sneak in with his coffee and the second choice of pastry and set it down. He turns and inhales. He’s in his black robe with the tiger embroidered into the left side.

“Mmm, caffeine.” He declares into the phone. “Nicky, hold your dick, alright? I got everything in order. I’ll be heading out in a couple hours.”

You can hear the retort on the other end but can’t make out the words. Lloyd chuckles.

“Don’t be such a fucking prude. I know what you were doing with Priyanka.”

There’s more shouting on the other end and more laughter on his. You retreat into the bedroom and check his go-bag one last time. You open the dress and bend to pull out some clothes but as you stand, you waver and stagger around.

You blink as your head spins. It’s getting annoying. You wish it would stop. Maybe you should’ve finished that granola bar.

You lay out his attire as he growls. A crinkle fills the air before the paper bag flies through and the chocolate croissant slides out across the floor, leaving a dusting of pastry. You sigh.

You know better than to apologise and give an excuse. You clean it up and continue your work. He holds a grudge which means he’ll be sure to spill as much as he can on the table before he finishes his coffee.

You bring him his tablet. He sits and pores over the briefing and maps. You flee to the kitchen to prep a proper breakfast. He comes down and eats, still thumbing at the tablet.

He pulls out his phone again. He dials out as he hums at the bigger screen of the tablet. “Tianaaaaa.” He sings. “Got time for a morning quickie?”

You back out and distract yourself with other things. Patches of time blow by without recollection until you find yourself bracing the wall, staring at the plaster, clueless. The gate buzzes.

You let Tiana in and she disappears with your boss. You put his devices on the charger and clean up his dishes. As you shut the cupboard, you slump over the counter, drifting until you barely keep from crashing to the floor.