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“Hi, Mr. Price… I, um… baked too many. Thought you might want some.”

He leaned on the doorway, body huge in the frame. His eyes dragged over you, slow and unashamed, making your spine fizz.

“Too many cookies,” he murmured. “Dangerous thing to bring to a man living alone.”

“You always help me with my packages,” you babbled. “I just wanted to thank you.”

His mouth twitched, a private little smile that promised nothing wholesome.

“You sure you’re thanking me,” he said, stepping aside, “and not just looking for an excuse to come in?”

You blinked. Didn’t deny it. So you crossed the threshold. And Price shuts the door behind you. He took the plate from your hands, set it down, then pressed a rough palm to your lower back. 

“You have any idea,” he murmured against your ear, voice a low rumble, “how hard it is to behave when you look like that every day?”

Your breath hitched. His fingers slid south, tracing the hem of your little shorts.

“I—I didn’t know you looked at me like that…”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I’ve memorized every sound you make up there.”

Your knees nearly gave out. He caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up like he was examining something precious he planned to ruin gently.

“I shouldn’t want you,” he said. “But I do. Badly.”

Your pulse stuttered.

“Tell me no,” he whispered, nose brushing yours. “Or I’m going to take exactly what you came here offering.”

You didn’t say no. Price kissed you like a man finally unburdened. Hungry, and slow. His hand cupped your ass, squeezing like he’d dreamed of it, dragging you flush against the hard, unmistakable shape in his trousers.

“Pretty thing,” he rasped. “You’ve been prancing around upstairs driving me mad. Couldn’t go a single night without thinking about you.”

Your hips rolled instinctively. His groan vibrated through your bones.

He lifted you, and set you on his kitchen counter, your thighs spreading around his hips like they were meant to.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Open up for me.”

His palm slid between your legs, rubbing slow, coaxing you into a breathless, needy mess.

“Already so warm,” he murmured. “I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“John,” you gasped, tugging at his shirt.

He smirked, lips brushing your throat. “There it is. Say it again.”

“John…”

“That’s right. Use my name. You’re not a child, sweetheart.” His thumb pressed right where you needed it. You shivered. “You’re a grown woman letting her neighbor ruin her.”

His mouth sealed over your neck as his fingers dipped under your waistband. And then his breath hitched. “No panties?” he rumbled.

Your cheeks burned. “I—I didn’t think—”

He slid a thick finger through your slick heat, shuddering like he’d been blessed.

“You did,” he growled. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

His voice dropped, low and sinful, as his finger pushed inside you. “Let your old man have you.”

A hush rolled over the kitchen. Price kept his finger inside you, slow to move it, like he was testing just how tightly you gripped him. His gaze dragged up your body until it locked on your face, and something wicked flickered there.

“Keep looking at me,” he ordered softly, the kind of softness that lands like a command.

You tried, you really did, but your eyelids fluttered as his finger curled just right.

He smirked. “Such a pretty reaction. Makes me imagine what you’ll look like when I’m deep in you.”

Your breath stuttered into a sigh, knees falling open wider. The counter felt cold under your thighs, but his body radiated heat. He stepped in close until the hard line of him pressed against your inner thigh.

Then another finger joined the first. Your hand shot to his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek like a filthy promise. “Take both.”

You clenched around him, helpless. He moved them in a lazy rhythm at first, drawing small circles with his thumb that made you gasp and bite your lip. The sound you made earned a low, pleased growl from him.

“You get worked up so easy,” he teased. “Bet you’ve thought about this. Bet you’ve touched yourself thinking about me.”

Heat shot through you. “John—”

“That a yes?” he pushed.

You nodded, cheeks burning.

He groaned like you’d just handed him a loaded fantasy. “Let me guess. You imagine me walking in? Hand over your mouth to keep you quiet?”

Your thighs trembled under his grip. Your voice turned breathy. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoed with a grin, curling his fingers deeper until you choked on a gasp. “Sweetheart, you’d melt if I actually did that.”

Your head tipped back, but he grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze back to him.

“No hiding.” His voice was low, rough, coaxing. “I want to see you fall apart.”

He curled his fingers again, and your hips lurched. The wet sound of him working you open filled the kitchen, obscene under the hum of the refrigerator.

Price kissed your jaw, scraping his beard along your skin. “You’re gripping me like you’re close. You gonna come on my fingers?”

Your nails bit into his shoulder. “Feels—feels so good—”

“That’s it,” he whispered, speeding up just a little, enough to push you toward that edge with intention. His free hand slid up your back, holding you steady as your body tensed. “Let go for me.”

Your breath hitched, legs shaking.

“Go on,” he coaxed, voice dark honey. “Give it to me.”

And then you did. Your body arched, every nerve sparking as the orgasm crashed through you. Price groaned at the way you pulsed around his fingers, savoring it like he’d earned it. He didn’t stop. Didn’t let you drift down easy. He kept his fingers moving until you whimpered and clutched at him.

“Beautiful,” he murmured against your neck. “Just beautiful.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, coated with slick, and held your gaze as he brought them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, groaning like a man who’d been starving.

“Tastes even better than I imagined.”

You shivered, still breathless.

“Maybe,” you reply, closing the door behind you. “But I kinda wanted you more.”

His breath stutters. You can hear it.

You walk toward him slowly, letting your fingertips drag across his desk, his chair, until you’re right in front of him. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, back straight, legs tense, looking up at you like you’re divine.

You step between his knees. “Clark?”

He tries to answer. Fails. Nods instead.

You tug lightly on the collar of his sweater. “You’re staring.”

“I’m always staring,” he admits softly, eyes dropping to your lips. “I just… try not to get caught.”

“Well,” you murmur, tilting his chin up, “you’re caught.”

He lets out a shaky sigh as your thumb strokes his jaw. His breath warms your wrist. He looks dizzy already. Perfect. You lean in close enough that your lips brush his, then pull back just as he leans forward to meet you. His face falls.

You smile. “Something wrong?”

He swallows. “You tease me.”

“You like it.”

He can’t deny that. His cheeks betray him, flushing warm, needy.

You climb into his lap, straddling him, and Clark lets out a tiny broken sound, hands hovering awkwardly like he’s scared to touch without permission.

You take his wrists and place his palms on your hips.

“There,” you breathe. “Touch me.”

His fingers tighten like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You kiss him, soft at first, then deeper. Clark kisses like he memorizes the shape of your mouth every time. Careful. A little desperate. Always holding back.

You pull away and tug on his bottom lip with your teeth. He gasps.

“Clark,” you whisper against his cheek, “you can be greedy with me.”

His hands clench at your hips. “I don’t want to push you.”

“You won’t. Trust me.”

You rock your hips forward once, slow and subtle. His reaction is instant, a strangled little inhale, his thighs tightening beneath you.

You smirk. “Sensitive.”

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, breath shaky.

“Maybe.”

He groans. Actually groans. It’s low and helpless, spilling from his throat like he didn’t want it to escape.

You slot your mouth against his ear. “You want me to stop?”

“No.” His hands jerk you closer. “Don’t stop. Please.”

That ‘please’ goes straight to your core.

You grind again, a little harder, feeling him through his sweats, thick, hard, and throbbing. Clark squeezes his eyes shut like it hurts.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs.

“I haven’t even started.”

You kiss down his neck, slow trails that make him shiver. When you suck gently at the pulse point, he bucks up embarrassingly fast.

You lift your head, breath warm. “Clark.”

“Yeah?”

“Take off your sweater.”

His eyes widen. “O-okay.” He pulls it over his head, curls falling messier, shoulders broad and tense. He’s got that soft, strong farm-boy build: thick arms, tight chest, just enough definition to make your mouth water.

You run your nails down his torso lightly, and he shudders.

“Your turn,” he whispers.

You pull your top off slowly, watching his pupils flare, his chest rise sharply, his hands twitch like he wants to grab you but doesn’t know where.

“Can I…?” he asks quietly.

“Touch?”

He nods, breath held.

“You can do anything you want.”

He finally allows himself to explore, palms sliding up your waist, over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs.

You guide his hands to your breasts fully. He whimpers. Actually whimpers.

“Clark,” you whisper, hips grinding, “you’re hard.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I know.”

“Feels good?”

He nods helplessly. “Too good.”

“Want help?”

His voice is a broken whisper. “Please.”

You slip your hand into his sweats, fingers wrapping around him.

Clark chokes, hips jerking up, breath gone.

“Relax,” you coo.

“I c-can’t— not when you—”

You stroke him slowly, feeling him throb in your palm, his breath fracturing piece by piece. Then he surprises you. His hands grip your waist hard, pulling you against him as he kisses you deep, nothing like the shy pecks from before. His tongue meets yours, and he’s desperate.

He breaks the kiss only long enough to gasp, “Let me make you feel good too.”

“You want to touch me?” you whisper.

He nods frantically. You take his trembling hand and slide it into your panties, guiding his fingers exactly where you want them. The noise he makes is sinful.

“You’re…” he whispers, voice cracked wide open, “you’re so wet.”

“Because of you.”

His breath catches hard. “Tell me what to do.”

“Anything,” you pant. “Just don’t stop.”

He obeys instantly. His fingers find your clit, rubbing slow, cautious circles until you gasp his name, and then he does it harder, smoother, more confident.

You ride his hand and stroke him at the same time, both of you shuddering, both of you whispering each other’s names, both of you right on the edge.

“Clark,” you gasp, “I’m close—”

His forehead drops against your shoulder, breath ragged. “Me too. I can’t— I can’t hold it—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, stroking him harder. “Want you to finish for me.”

He unravels. Clark moans, hips snapping, thick and hot in your hand, face buried in your neck like he’s overwhelmed by pleasure. The sound of him coming is broken, and breathless. You follow moments later, grinding into his fingers, your orgasm hitting sharp and sweet.

When it fades, you collapse against him, chest to chest, still catching your breath.

Clark wraps his arms around you slowly. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs.

“You’re fun to tease,” you say, kissing his jaw.

He smiles, fully wrecked.

“Next time,” he whispers, “I want to tease you back.”