Babydoll

pope's eyes linger on the table for a while before he turns to you. "you're not getting involved with this," he murmurs.

"why not?" you ask.

"because you've never done this before," he replies plainly with an arched eyebrow. "hitting a bank for your first job? it's too dangerous."

"i didn't mean that i'd be taking the place of one of the guys," you elaborate, voice slow and soothing, "i meant as a civilian. a hostage. y'know? like how smurf used to act like an sweet, clueless lady when you hit diners together? and she'd make you hold her up?"

pope's brows crease at the memory. he remembers how well that had worked: his mother had really sold the "frightened lady caught in the crossfire" act. and he knew you were quite the actor, considering how sweet you could be towards smurf despite your disdain for her, and how easily you could fool any wayward cops into thinking you had no knowledge of the goings on inside the cody compound.

"that could work," he mumbles as he works through it in his mind. "you get there early, wait in line to cash a check or two…"

"right," you agree, a soft smile forming on your face. "you bust in all scary, wave a gun around, put me in a chokehold…"

pope listens as your voice turns a little breathy at the idea. he can picture it going off without a hitch now.

"alright," he grits out eventually. "listen carefully, here's what's gonna happen…"

it's just after half past ten in the morning, and you're at the bank. you lingered at the side for a while, pretending to be very interested in a business checking account pamphlet, before it was time to join the queue. your pulse kicks up just a tad. any second now…

the door busts open with a loud thud and you jump, just like everyone else, before you hear sharp yelps and shrieks.

"EVERYONE DOWN, ON THE GROUND, NOW!"

it's pope's voice, muffled slightly behind his ski mask. you almost obey him out of instinct before he grips you by the arm and pulls you to his chest. he smells so comforting, like his favourite lemon verbena detergent, but you remember to struggle convincingly.

"stop!" you cry out.

"you shut up," he hisses back. with a grunt, pope slings the crook of his elbow around your neck, pushing just hard enough to make you gasp.

it's a gasp that convinces everyone else in the bank that you're currently struggling for air, fearing for your life, but pope knows it means you're incredibly turned on.

"mornin'," he mumbles gruffly against your temple, and you can feel the way he hovers for a milisecond, fighting the inclination to press a kiss there.

to really sell it, pope lifts his gun and presses the cold metal of the barrel to the place where he'd just had his lips. you hear multiple people gasp. your panties are soaked.

"any of you move, and she gets it," he bellows, and it echoes through the unnatural stillness of the bank. you whimper, forcing tears to your eyes as you let your knees buckle slightly.

"you okay?" pope whispers almost imperceptibly against your ear.

"harder," you reply through a sniffle.

at that, pope tugs your body upwards, hauling you upright. "stand up," he commands. "hands behind your back."

you obey, your wrists clasping against your lower back. you take the chance to clutch at the edge of his shirt, tugging pope impossibly closer. he exhales, then walks you over to the nearest teller.

"empty it out— quickly," he orders, and the teller's gaze momentarily flicks between pope's masked face and yours. your eyes scrunched are shut, your mascara running, your chest heaving with laboured breaths. she empties the register without an argument.

he goes around the rest of the registers the same way, using your innocent, terrified, whimpering face to get the cash he needs. pope drags you out of the bank with his gun still pressed to your head. you make sure to end your performance with a little kicking and screaming and a performatively loud "what are you going to do to me?" before he hauls you into his car.

he peels out of the parking lot, and the drive home is fast, tense with anticipation. pope pulls off his mask and his auburn curls are gloriously messy and damp with sweat. your thighs press together, both from the sight of him, and from the rush of the job.

pope clenches his jaw as he drives, and then when you're finally safe behind the gates of the cody compound, he rumbles out a "… bravo. you did good."

he tells you to go wait in his room while he brings the duffles of money in, and you don't waste a second before stripping yourself bare, the thrill of the heist still thrumming in your veins. besides, it had been a while since the two of you had had sex, and what better occasion to fuck for than a successful heist?

soon enough, you're riding pope into the mattress in broad daylight. it's barely noon, and you're grinding your hips deep into his as you grip his wide shoulders. you have a lot of adrenaline to use up.

"that— was— fucking amazing," you pant as you bounce on his cock.

pope's breathless too. he has one of your nipples in his mouth, the other cupped is in his thick palm. his free hand is squeezing an ass cheek as you roll on top of him.

he pops his lips free of your breast, still glistening with spit, as he gazes up at you, his hazel eyes wide and pleading. it's a wild contrast to the fearsome expression he had plastered on just hours ago.

"not— ah— wasn't too rough?"

"not nearly rough enough," you breathe out in reply, pressing his cheeks together in a hand.

"you shoulda slapped me when i talked back, like i told you to, that would've sold it so much better."

pope grunts in acknowledgement, and his eyes fall shut at the idea. not of slapping you, but of how much more ravenous for him it would make you for him afterwards. his cock twitches where it's nestled deep inside you.

“Why can’t you do it?” You asked as you pushed the eggs around on your plate. You had been driving the 101 for a few days, coming back home to Oceanside after working a few robberies along the coast. You and your sister had a good gig. You were ‘hostages for hire,’ actresses who would be involved with heists to prevent the criminals from getting caught. You’d sob, snotty and ugly, begging and pleading for the bank managers to just do whatever the bad men said so they wouldn’t unload their gun into your head. And you’d leave the bank with them, collateral so that no one would follow you. Then, they’d drop you off on a corner somewhere with a wad of cash and a professional nod. And your mother always said those acting lessons were a waste of money.

“Jerry has a scheduling conflict.” Your sister explained.

“Fucking Jerry.” You scoffed around your bite of breakfast. You watched a car drive past the diner window and switched which hand held the phone to your ear.

“Hey,” She warned, “It’s not a bad job, alright? Simple jewelry store robbery.”

“When has a Cody job ever been simple?” Never. 

“Just do it..please? We need to stay in their employment.” You drank from your coffee mug. 

“They don’t like me.” You said softly. It wasn’t untrue. You had worked with the Codys once several years prior. The job went fine, you did your duty, but one of the sons just kept looking at you during the planning and the meetings and even during the getaway drive. Pope, you learned, had a staring problem. After that, they only called your sister for their needs. You had conflicting feelings about it. On one hand, you felt a bit jilted. Your sister made good money working for them, and you were cut out because…well, that was the thing- you had no idea what you did wrong. You had asked her once, why they preferred her. She said something about them not trusting you around Pope. Which you took to mean that they didn’t trust you. Pope always made you a little uncomfortable with his intensity, and you were sure he wasn’t exactly fond of you. He always treated you as an outsider. That was the other thing. You weren’t going to force yourself into a space that you clearly were not welcome in. And you didn’t mind not being next to that creep. 

“That’s not true.” Your sister countered. But it was weak. You heard her sigh on the other end of the phone. “Dude, please. I’m asking this as a favor, okay? Officially.” Your eyebrows raised with interest. A favor from your sister was valuable. She was the kind of person who did not offer those lightly. She would literally do anything. So, after draining the rest of your coffee, you sighed. 

“Yea, alright. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

---------

“We don’t bring in outsiders.” Pope’s mouth was in a hard line, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. His brow was heavy over his eyes and his nostrils were flared. Craig ran a hand through his hair before leaning closer to his brother. You could tell he was getting irritated.

“They’re our only option, okay?” Craig hissed, jaw clenched. “We need drivers.” “Why can’t I drive?” Pope tilted his head and Craig took a deep breath. 

“You know why.” His voice dropped a few notches. And they exchanged a look, the true meaning of which was lost on you. But you gathered that, the last time Pope had been the getaway driver, something had happened. After a few moments of silence, Craig huffed and pushed himself up from the table. The chair screeched on the concrete patio. “I’ll get them caught up on details.” With that, he stomped away, leaving just you and Pope at the iron outdoor table. You could feel the design of the chair digging into your thighs. When you stood up, you’d have an imprint of flowers splashing across your legs. Pope’s gaze landed heavy on you. Searing. Intrusive. 

“Why are you here? Where’s your sister?” He bit out, gravelly voice catching on each syllable. You pushed down the annoyed scoff that threatened to spill from your mouth.

“Scheduling conflict.” You tried to make your tone amicable, but you weren’t sure if you succeeded. Pope just blinked in acknowledgment. “Do you-” But Pope didn’t hear the rest of your question. He was already walking back to the house. You rolled your eyes and shook your head.

---------

The job began as normal. You walked in thirty minutes before the planned time, scanning the jewelry display cases. One of the workers came over after a few moments, asking if he could help you. You told your story, how you were looking to get your mom a necklace for her birthday. A realistic story that was forgettable. He was about to take out a cushion of golden pendants when the door slammed open. Craig, Pope, and Deran stormed into the shop, guns up and shouting demands. You let adrenaline crash over your nerves and your legs began to shake. You gave a scared look to the counter clerk, who looked on the verge of tears. You moved to escape, but a strong arm curled around your stomach. It pulled you back into a broad chest. You flinched with the force of it. His grip was a little tighter than you were expecting and you wriggled against him, but he didn’t budge. His thumb brushed the underside of your breast. Fucking Craig and his handsy-

“You press that panic button, I’ll kill ‘er.” The rough voice was right next to your ear. That…wasn’t Craig. It was Pope. Genuine confusion made your performance more believable. The plan was for Craig to take the lead with you as hostage. They changed it without consulting you. But you didn’t have time to think too hard about it. You had a job. The tears came easily. 

“P-Please,” You begged the clerk, whose gaze snapped from the gun Pope held, to your wet eyes. “Please don’t let him hurt me.” The clerk nodded frantically and stepped back from the counter. Pope jerked his head to the side, motioning for the man to join the rest of the people in the store lying on their bellies. Pope watched as he moved, pulling you in a semi-circle so that you could both survey the scene. Craig was circling the pile of patrons on the ground while Deran supervised the manager filling up the bag with the diamonds. Your breathing was uneven. Not just because of the performance you were putting on, but because of Pope’s hand, which was starting to slide further down your stomach. An innocent repositioning. So you hoped, anyway. You shifted against him and he huffed in your ear, just low enough that only you could hear. 

“Stop squirmin’.” Just to spite him, you thrashed again. Your ass glided against his thigh and a sound purged from Pope’s throat. An annoyed grunt, perhaps. You couldn’t decipher it. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw one of the patrons squirm on the ground. You sneakily dug your fingers into Pope’s arm, gesturing with your eyes to where he was slowly moving his hand to his ankle. And then people started to scream.

It all happened so fast. The man pulled a gun from his boot and jumped to his feet, aiming for Craig. Pope called out to his brother, who whirled around and shot the guy before he could fire. Unfortunately, the man was standing right in front of you and the gunshot splattered blood all over you and Pope. Horrified shrieks cut through the atmosphere. Deran ripped the bag from the manager and called for everyone to go. Pope dragged him along with you, kicking and screaming. He paused for a moment before exiting the building, turning to face the crowd. His thumb pulled back the hammer. The click sent a shiver down your spine that settled in your belly. Not all of it was fear. But you weren’t going to unpack that. “Anyone follows us, you know what happens.” He threatened. And then, the thick back door closed behind him. 

Craig should have listened to Pope. He should not have brought in outside drivers. Because the car was already driving away with Craig and Deran in the back seat. You and Pope had to just stand there, watching the van tear away into the street. 

“Oh, fuck.” You gasped. Pope still had a grip on you, but he tucked the gun into his waistband. From inside the building, you heard the alarm. Great. You looked to Pope, whose eyes were trained on where the van turned onto a different street. His jaw twitched and his eyes flicked around, calculating the next best move. He huffed and grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a jog. “Where are we going?” You asked, struggling to keep up with his pace. Pope didn’t answer, just kept moving. 

---------

The motel was run-down. With maybe three cars in the parking lot and leaves floating in the pool. Pope had deposited you on the curb while he went in to talk to the owner. You watched a pair of crows fight over a moldy bagel. The sky was getting darker with each passing moment. The door behind you jingled and Pope emerged, room key closed tightly in their fist. 

“He said we could stay the night.” He said plainly, gesturing for you to stand.

“Why do we have to stay? Can’t we just find a way home?”

“I don’t have a phone on me, and it’s best to lie low. We can get home tomorrow. Come on.” You rolled your eyes but followed. You figured he had a better grasp on the necessities of this kind of situation than you did. When Pope unlocked the door to the room, you genuinely let out a laugh. 

“You cannot be serious.” The room was dingy, peeling wallpaper and green carpet lit by a half-dead lamp. But the worst part about it was there was a single queen bed in the center. “One bed?” You looked at him with disdain. He just shrugged, but you noticed the vein in his neck pulsing harder. 

“It’s all he had.”

“Really?” You sneered, pointing to the empty parking lot. “You believed that?” Pope grumbled and roughly shoved you inside the room before shutting the door and locking it. You stood there for a moment as Pope slid past you, hurrying to the sink to immediately wash his hands. You flopped onto the bed, but Pope snapped his fingers at you.

“Get up.” He ordered. You were on your feet instantly, arms behind you, and looking with horror at the comforter.

“Why?” You gasped, trying to see what the issue was. “What’s wrong?” When you looked back up, Pope had shed his sweatshirt and was pushing his jeans down to the ground. “Uh….” you couldn’t think of anything else to say. Not when there was a big, bulky man (that you always found a little attractive) in his underwear standing in front of you.

“Take off your clothes.” He said it clinically, like he was telling you to put away the dishes.

“I’m sorry, what?” You scoffed. “No, I’m…no, Pope, I’m not undressing in front of you.” Pope rolled his eyes as if you were being unreasonably difficult.

“We have to ditch our clothes.” He gestured at you. “They have blood on them.” You looked down at your outfit. Sure enough, the man’s blood was splashed across your abdomen and thighs. Heat rose to your cheeks. Fuck. He was right. You knew he was. “I’ll look away,” he promised, and turned to face the wall. You just stood there for a few moments, staring at his curled head. “Are you done?” “No!” You almost laughed. “I’m not doing it! I…I don’t have anything to change into.” Your words were soft. Without hesitating, Pope pulled his shirt over his head. You ignored the way your heart kicked when his bare torso was revealed. Freckled skin pulled taught over hard muscle. He held out the shirt to you.

“We’ll get you some new clothes when we get back tomorrow,” He rasped, nodding at you to take the shirt. “You can wear this. It doesn’t have blood on it.” When you tentatively grabbed the fabric, he found a trashbag and shoved his jeans and sweatshirt into it. You sighed in resignation and began to undress. You took off your shoes, unbuckled your pants, and replaced your shirt with Pope’s. 

“Alright,” You told him, balling up the clothing and putting it in the bag when he held it out to you. Pope’s eyes flicked down for only a moment. His gaze moved from the sliver of underwear visible by your hips down to your socks. Both articles were covered in little strawberries.

“You’re matching.” Pope said simply. In that stupid monotone voice you could never decipher. Your nose wrinkled in annoyance.

“Shut up,” You bit back, but the heat in your cheeks spread even further with each passing moment. You hurried to one side of the bed and crawled under the covers. Not only because you were ready to sleep, but because you didn’t want to spend another moment under Pope’s assessing gaze.

You patted the side of the bed that was still made, gesturing for Pope to sit. Instead, he looked at the chair in the corner of the room. His fist clenched and unclenched, fingers twitching nervously as his eyes flicked from the torn upholstery to the dark stain that covered half the cushion. He sighed and walked to the wall, pressing his back against it and sliding to sit on the carpet. He pulled his knees tight against his chest. Your gaze lowered. 

“Listen,” You sighed, “I know you don’t like me or trust me, or whatever, but-”

“Who said that?” Pope asked, brow furrowed and mouth pinched. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Craig. He said they didn’t trust me around you.” Pope’s nostrils flared with a deep breath and his gaze lifted to look out the window.

“I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I’m dangerous. I would never hurt you.” In fact, you doubted you could hurt him even if you tried. You knew his reputation.

“I know.”

“So will you please just get in the bed? It’s a queen. It’ll be fine. And cleaner than sitting all night on a carpet that hasn’t been cleaned in…who knows how long. At least the sheets are fresh-ish.” Pope’s lips quirked to the side. It took a few heartbeats, but he cautiously climbed into the bed, on top of the covers, and sat with his back straight against the headboard. He pressed his hands together and rested them in his lap. His bare chest rose and fell calmly. He forced his eyes to stare at the wall across the room. 

The exhaustion of the day settled over you and it was officially night outside. You shimmied down into the bed further and pulled the covers over your shoulders. You muttered a g’night and closed your eyes. Several minutes passed, filled with the steady hum of the air conditioning and the occasional whoosh of a passing car.

“It’s not that they don’t trust you.” His voice was quiet and you were so close to sleep you almost didn’t hear it. 

“What?” You murmured groggily.

“Before,” He continued, watching you as you pushed yourself up to look at him. “You said Craig didn’t trust you around me.” You nodded. “But that’s not true.” “What are you talking about, Pope?” You were tired, just wanted to sleep. You didn’t have the energy for his little games. 

“They don’t trust me around you.” His eyes darkened and it made your throat go dry. 

“W…Why not?” You squeaked out. The beginning traces of panic began to pump your heart. Pope remained still, heavy gaze becoming a touch more sinister.

“Because I’d do this.” He leaned forward, pressing his mouth against yours. You inhaled sharply with surprise. The kiss wasn’t rough. In fact, it was little more than his lips simply resting on yours. Pope pulled back after a few heartbeats. He just looked at you. You blinked at him, jaw slack. He worked the muscle in his jaw as he waited for your response, fingers neatly intertwined with each other and resting on his stomach. And just before his face fell with disappointment, you grabbed his cheeks and pulled him back to you. The second kiss was sloppier, clashes of teeth and tongue as you tried to find a rhythm. But it wasn’t long before Pope was resting his weight on top of you, licking into your mouth and only parting for breath and to take off your shirt. You shimmied off your underwear and tossed them to the side. You were so lost in the kiss, you didn’t realize he had taken off his boxers until you felt the hot skin of his head poking at your entrance. 

“Is this okay?” He breathed, nose slotted beside yours. 

“Please,” You nodded eagerly. “So wet for you. Need you so bad.”

The first roll of his hips punched the air out of your lungs with a breathy moan. The thick length of him pressed against each and every one of your nerve endings, flooding your body with searing pleasure. Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders as Pope paused to give you time to adjust. 

“F-Fuck!” You gasped, eyes wide, “You’re…You’re so big.”

“I know, m’sorry,” He apologized between kisses along your jaw line. “Let me know if it’s too much.” After a few moments and several deep breaths, Pope began to move again. Each thrust sent sparks up your spine. Your toes went numb every time his cock found the most sensitive spot inside you. You were mewling, whimpering, begging for something you couldn't verbalize. And the entire time, Pope held himself up, hands planted on either side of your head, and just stared at you unblinking with his bottom lip caught in his teeth. His abdomen rolled, pulling his cock out of you and then pressing back in with a rhythm that made you see stars. Your arousal matted both of your pubic hair and you saw sweat began to slip down the inside of Pope’s arms from his exertion. One of Pope’s fingers came up to nudge your clit. “Cu…Please cum f’me.” He whispered, rubbing tight circles that had your walls fluttering around him. It didn’t take long for the hot band to snap in your abdomen. You arched into him, cumming with a cry of his name. As you spasmed around him, the lock of his eyes began to falter. His lids fluttered as you gripped him impossibly hard, short breaths pitching upwards into moans. When you rode out your orgasm, he abruptly pulled out, tugging on his dick twice before ropes of cum splashed onto your chest. Pope watched each twitch of his spent cock with half-lidded eyes and a heaving chest. Your head fell back and your eyes closed, trying to regulate your breathing. But you gasped when you felt Pope’s wet tongue drag across your breasts. Your eyes opened, watching as he lapped his spend from your smooth skin. He paused every now and again to suck on your still-hardened nipples, earning a quiet whimper of overstimulation in return. When you were deemed sufficiently clean, Pope pressed a kiss to your sweaty forehead and climbed off you. He tucked one arm beneath the crook of your knees and one around your back. He carried you into the bathroom and started the shower. As the warm water kissed your skin, he murmured in your ear.

“Hi there,” he says with a smile, reaching up to slide his carry-on suitcase into the overhead compartment. As he does so, the hem of his t-shirt lifts slightly, revealing a stripe of toned skin just above the band of his pants. 

“Hi,” you say back as he settles into the seat, quickly busying yourself with the self-soothing (and self-destructive) act of picking at your cuticles. 

As the plane takes off, you command yourself not to lose your marbles, summoning the strength of the arm rest you’re digging your fingers into. If you’re not careful, your nails might actually snap off. At least then, you’d be distracted from the fear bubbling in your gut, if only for a moment. 

By some miracle, the plane finds its path, the seatbelt light turns off, and smooth sailing is promised by the pilot over the intercom. You remind yourself to look at the flight attendants. If they aren’t panicking, all is well. Or maybe they’re all trained to hide it, saving face until the moment the plane breaks in half and they no longer have one because it’s torn from their skeleton–

“Drink?” 

You let out a breath that had been building in your lungs, the huff of air escaping through parted lips. It’s the voice of the man beside you, reiterating the question asked by the attendant pushing the beverage cart. 

“Nothing for me, thank you,” you reply sweetly, and the attendant moves on. You’re far too afraid that, if you fill your bladder (which may be impossible as you look at the size of the cups they hand out), you’ll have to stand up and use the restroom and you’ll tumble and fall right through the floor of the plane and into the sky by some defiance of nature’s laws. 

When the plane hits a rough patch of air, your hand races to the forearms of the man beside you, your fingertips digging into his brawn as your eyes screw shut. Thankfully, the turbulence passes just a moment later and your panic subsides.  

“Sorry about that,” you say with a nervous titter. 

“All good. Nervous flyer?” He asks, pivoting toward you. 

You nod. “Is it obvious?” 

His brow quirks slightly and he tilts his head back and forth an inch. “A little.” 

You’ve never liked planes. There’s something so unnatural about being suspended in the sky, held up by nothing but air, and you tell him exactly that, to which he responds with the science behind the laws of gravity that hold the plane in the sky, and how technically, there’s no way for the vehicle to just fall from the clouds. He likens it to an object submerged in jell-o. It’s stuck, unmovable. 

“Are you an engineer?” You inquire, impressed by his miniature lesson on airplane physics. 

He chuckles breathily, shaking his head. “No, no, I’m a doctor.” 

“Ah. That makes sense.” He arches a curious brow, begging you to elaborate. “You’re a very calming presence, and I’m sure that translates to your bedside manner. Let me guess. Pediatrics?”

“Emergency Department, actually,” he corrects. “But we do get our fair share of kiddos who need a teddy bear to squeeze. Didn’t bring one with me today. Sorry about that.” 

“Makes even more sense. Deal with a lot of crazy people in there? Crazier than a grown woman afraid of flying?”

“You have no idea,” he says, rolling his eyes, testing the next phrase on his tongue. His eyes glance down at the plastic cup sitting steadily on his try table. “None as beautiful as you, though.”

Your face burns, heat rising to your cheeks as the compliment settles in your belly, warmth blooming across your chest. 

“I’m Jack, by the way.” 

You give him your name with a smile, shaking the hand he’s extended toward you. The two of you share biographies, your respective reasons for flying to your shared destination, and you beg him for at least one emergency-room horror story to distract you from the wave of turbulence that rocks the plane. 

“That sounds awful,” you say with an exaggerated wince. “Tell me another one.” And so he does, and it works. The ball of tension between your shoulders loosens, and you’re able to stop bouncing your knee like a maniac. 

Maybe it’s his face, or the slightly rasp to his voice when he speaks softly to you, or perhaps it’s the freckles that dot those deliciously muscular arms. But it’s not long until you’re able to sink back into your seat and laugh heartily at his humor. That is, until the plane bounces and you convince yourself that a nosedive is impending. The turbulence lasts too long, the seatbelt light flickering back on, and an announcement from the pilot that the rest of the flight might be bumpy. 

“I am never flying again,” you promise aloud. “I wish someone would just hit me over the head and knock me out, put me out of my misery already.” 

That garners you a laugh that quickly dissipates into thick silence. He leans into your space, filling the air with the faint scent of his cologne, the clean musk of his skin. “I have a better idea.” 

You turn your head to face him. “Like what?” 

“You can tell me to stop, anytime.” His hand lands on your knee, palm caressing its say up the length of your leg. 

“Jack, we’re in public,” you say, quickly tossing your jacket over your lap, hiding the hand he has trailing between your thighs. And I just met you.

“It’s hardly public. We’re in the air.” 

“Same difference. Someone could see.” 

He shrugs. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Everyone’s sleeping anyway.” You glance around the plane. It’s dark–the lights off, every window shut–and quiet except for a gentle hum. Lots of eye masks and fallen heads. “Just focus on being quiet for me, alright?” 

You turn to him, nodding as you lock eyes, staring intently into a pair of warm, hazel irises. He’s so handsome, and that’s all it takes apparently–salt-streaked hair, fine lines that tell of a life well-lived, and a charming smile–for you to let his hand snake all the way up to the apex of your thighs. 

He uses his right hand, the one you share an armrest with, to discreetly travel to the button of your slacks, to the zipper below it. Undoing the blockades with only a surgeon’s precision, he gains access to the band of your panties, slowly trailing beneath them tauntingly trickling your pelvic bone with a fingernail as it traces up and down your skin. 

For the first time in your life, you’re grateful you went with the best deal and chose a seat in economy. The rows are close together, and the flight attendants have hardly ventured past first and business classes. It’s just you and Jack, and his hand down your pants.

“Shh,” he says, slanting into you. There’s a slight smile tugging at his lips as he whispers in your ear. “Feeling better?” 

The plane shakes with almost perfect timing. “No,” you say, leaning over slightly, giving him your cheek to bump the tip of his nose against. 

You nearly whimper when he slides his fingers, splitting them on either side of your clit, just slithering up and down the valleys between your lips. Thigh instinctively clenching, head tilting back, you let out a gasp. He draws a few lazy circles on the bud, pinching here, tapping there. Then, he inserts the pads of his fingers, stretching you out before thrusting the full length of middle and pointer into your pussy. 

“That’s it,” he rasps at your ear, his voice still low and hushed. “You like that?” 

You can only nod, the gift of speech being snatched from you, your voice completely out of commission with the exception of a few strangled gasps and muffled moans. 

“Just breathe,” he coaches, and you take his cues to inhale and exhale, letting the anxiety melt off your chest. You meet his eyes, pupils affixed to your mouth as he listens for the breaths leaving your lips. “In and out. Just like that. Good girl.” 

The praise has your vision blurring at the corners, your pussy clenching around his fingers as he works you open with them. With studied and practiced movements, he crooks his digits at the knuckles, pads finding the button behind your front wall. His hand stays in place, only bending at the hinges to keep pressing against the spot that has you grappling at his forearm, swallowing moans. 

“I’m so close, Jack,” you breathe, your abdomen tensing and releasing, your core squeezing his fingers like you’ll never let them go. 

“I know, I can feel you.” He continues his ministrations, though your body is aching for more of him. “Don’t chase it,” he says. “Let it happen.” 

And with that advice, you take in a cleansing breath, forcing the tension from your hips, letting your head fall back against the cushion rest behind it, and your pleasure continues to grow. The climb is violent, and if you weren’t confined to a seat and to the strictures of polite society, you’d be crying out like a dog, clawing at whatever could fit in your fists to help quell the heat rushing through your veins. All you can do now, is sink your fingers into Jack’s forearm, his thigh. 

“You’re so close, that’s it. Keep going,” he coos at the crook of your neck. “You can do it. I wanna feel you come around my fingers. Give it to me.” 

Overwhelmed by the pressure in your core, the lulling words dripping from Jack’s tongue, you reach your peak, thighs shaking as you right through your violent high. As you come down, one labored breath at a time, Jack removes his hand from your pants, taking with him the sticky evidence of your orgasm. The sheen coats his skin, and he brings his fingers up to his mouth, sucking the moisture right off of them.