Hello Love

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place. 

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had  always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it. 

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway.  Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention.  The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine. 

It doesn’t. 

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it. 

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all. 

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating. 

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you,  arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him. 

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

 “Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before  shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder,  caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own. 

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

Nerves fizzle and pop like sparklers in your chest waiting for Steve to come back outside, the subtle shift between the two of you the past few weeks becoming palpable. It had started to build months ago on your first day at Family video, bubbling at the surface now with nowhere else to go despite how much you fought against it. The line between banter and flirting getting muddled with every drive home after work that turned into talking about everything and nothing at the same time in your driveway. Hazel eyes always staring at your mouth a little too long until you disappeared through your front door just like the stars in the purple early morning sky.

The cracks had started to become visible in the mental dam you’d built to fight off the inevitable. Watching them grow deeper by the day, threatening to crumble the wall as water seeps out of the jagged edges. It had been an hour since everyone had left all smiles, sunburnt and happy. And an hour after Steve’s eyes lingered on yours hopeful and dark when Nancy offered you a ride home with the others. A silent exchange setting off the kind of internal battle that tugged your bottom lip harshly between your teeth. Declining her against your best judgement under the guise of helping him clean up, he even smoothed the excuse out by chiming in with his own offer to drop you off later.

Now you were alone together without the bubble of work and friends, or the nagging need to get inside. There were no time constraints, no obstacles. It scares you and exhilarates you at the same time. The sliding glass door catches your attention and the butterflies that burrow in your stomach too as Steve finally slips back outside.

“Hey, this uh, I have a weird question.” His warm honey-like voice breaks through the silence of the evening settling around you with a concerned furrow of his eyebrows wrinkling his forehead.

“What is —“ your words get off along with your train of thought as your eyes land on the white sleeveless shirt that lands in the middle of his thick happy trail.

His freshly tanned skin practically glows against the bright cotton, dark chest hair peeking out of the lingering wet patches that turn translucent. The cherry red swim trunks he’s worn all day still cling to parts of his thighs, and it takes every ounce of will power to clear the tight ball of want in your throat.

”What - what is it?”

He sighs loudly, irritation exhaling from his lungs as he cards a big hand through his dark thick highlighted hair.

“Robin said she saw a bald spot on her way out, and I’ve just spent the last 15 minutes in the bathroom trying to find it.” He scratches the back of his neck, cheeks blooming pink, seemingly oblivious to the hungry way your body hums.

The motion pulls the already short bottom hem of his shirt up, revealing more dark coarse hair and a collection of freckles and moles you’d never seen before. It makes you wonder how many more there are, the discovery bringing your thighs together in a tight squeeze.

”…A bald spot?” You snort, trying to hold in your laugh when he shoots a glare in your direction.

”It’s not funny, I’m too young for this. I’ve barely hit my prime!” He huffs in clear distress pulling out the two seater chair across from you. Flopping down on the hard navy cushions, he snatches one of the last pieces of watermelon from the bowl on the glass table.

”I’m still waiting for the question part of this.” You tease, enjoying the way he squirms, popping the fruit into his mouth avoiding your gaze. It’s impossible not to notice the way the sweet juice coats his full pink lips or the wide spread of his legs.

“I can’t believe I’m asking this, but, will you just — will you check for me?”

The thought of your hands in Steve’s hair sets off another round of firecrackers in your blood, and now it’s your turn to squirm.

”You want me to check for a non-existent bald spot?”

There’s no fight to hide your giggle this time desperately trying to ignore the growing heat in your cheeks.

”Why would she lie to me about that?” He argues, his hand searching the back of his head again.

”Because it’s Robin.” You dead pan like it’s obvious, because it should be obvious.

”Will you just come check, please?” Steve practically whines, exasperated. “If you’re right I’ll give you permission to black mail me for life.”

“Fine.” You huff with fake annoyance, rolling your eyes without much bite since it’s accompanied by a soft smile curving up the edges of your lips.

“Thank you, you don’t understand. This is a recurring nightmare of mine.” He sighs, freckled shoulders relaxing as he spreads his hairy legs even more to make room for you, the crimson fabric straining against them.

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think, Harrington?” You tease, trying to drown out the loud thumping of your heart as you push yourself up.

His eyes trace along the short hem of your sheer cover up as you make your way towards him. They linger where the damp material of your suit hugs your hips before making a path up to your chest, darkening like the sky catching the way your nipples pebble underneath their attention. Steve’s jaw tightens, throat bobbing as he finally meets your gaze from under his lashes when you stop just short of the space between his legs.

This time, your heart stops completely.

“My hair is something to be dramatic about.” He scoffs, leaning forward with a devilish flash of his teeth.

A small gasp escapes from between your lips feeling his long fingers curve around the back of your thighs, hands spreading wide gripping the soft fat of them.

“Need you a little bit closer, though, there’s no way you’ll find it from there.”

He wastes no time tugging you to him, closing the small space with ease, like he’s done this a million times before. For the first time, Steve’s reputation has jealousy roiling in your gut. You say his name with a breathless laugh which earns you a lopsided grin, hands finding a new home on the tops of his shoulders. He squeezes at the soft dough of your thighs in response, the pad of his thumb swiping dangerously close to the curve of your ass.

“Where am I looking?” You smirk, trying to give off a semblance of self control but the crack in your voice gives you away when his thumb catches the material of your suit this time.

”She wasn’t very specific, so I think you’ll need a better angle.” He hums, licking his pink lips with eyes that wander your body like they're overwhelmed, unsure of where to look first.

”A bett —“

You yelp when he pulls you onto his lap in one quick motion, your knees landing on the scratchy chair cushion bracketing either side of his hips.

”This is starting to feel an awful lot like a ploy, Steve.” The accusation comes out around a breathless giggle, back bowing on its own as both his hands spread wide wandering up your spine.

“Not a ploy, I’m just an opportunist.” He murmurs against your sternum, the tip of his sharp nose a ghost. Inhaling the chlorine and sunscreen still lingering on your skin, he squeezes at your sides like he wants to drown in it. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this wanted.

Your fingers twist the cotton of his shirt, as you bite back the moan that tries to escape, hips hovering dangerously low above his lap, not giving in quite yet.

“Well, are you going to let me do my job?” You try to tease, but the needy way your body responds to him nudging the bottom swell of your right breast with his nose takes all the bite from it. “I thought this was urgent.”

”Mmm, you’re right.” He huffs, nipping at the sensitive skin just above your ribs through your cover up. “I’m sorry honey, I get distracted easily.”

Honey sends goosebumps pebbling against your hot skin, with a jolt of matching heat to your core. You try your best to seem unphased when he pulls away, but you aren’t sure what’s worse, his hungry touch or his full attention. Steve’s gaze flicks down to where you hover above his lap, a cocky smirk playing on his lips as his hands find their way back to your hips giving them a squeeze,

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” You laugh, biting the inside of your cheek. Trailing your fingers up his neck, you let them slide into the still damp hair at the nape of it, giving it a gentle tug bringing his eyes back to yours. “Now let me take a look.”

You don’t miss the way they glaze over, the amber inside of them melting into black. Or the way his body shifts underneath you searching for the kind of more that’s thickened the air so much the past few days it’s suffocated you both into this position.

”She made a gesture to the back of my head.” He finally gives, clearing his throat, trying to wrangle the little self control he has left.

“Hmm…” You murmur, letting your fingers dig into the thickness of the former king of Hawkins claim to fame. Something girls a few years ago would’ve fought you for.

A deep groan rumbles from his chest when you scratch lightly at his scalp, relishing in the silk softness of it. Steve leans his head forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck while you search the thickest part at the crown, letting the blond highlights float between your fingers.

“Jesus, why does that feel so good?” He almost whimpers, hot breath fanning against your collar bone.

”Again, this feels like a ploy.” You giggle, quickly realizing that your assumption about Robin was right. But you refuse to shut down the self indulgent part of your brain, continuing to play with his hair anyway.

He shakes his head, taking another deep breath inhaling the sun still lingering on your skin despite the night fully blanketing whatever light was left of the day. Crickets chirp loudly in the distance, mixing with the heavy breaths filled with anticipation of whatever was about to happen next.

”Find anything?”

His voice comes out low next to your ear, the tip of his nose nudging the sensitive spot behind it making your fingers falter for a moment, feeling his knowing smile spread wide across your skin.

“Yep, and it’s big too.”

“Wait — seriously?!”

Steve grips your hips, pulling back quickly with the kind of horrified look on his face that makes it impossible to keep up the ruse. It quickly melts into annoyance at the fit of giggles that bubble out of you because of it.

”Ha, ha, ha. Really funny. Hilarious, actually.” He grumbles, red dusting his cheeks with a roll of his eyes.

“I told you Stevie, you’re an easy target.” You tease in a condescendingly sweet voice, patting his chest with open palms.

“Easy, huh?” He arches a brow, something mischievous dancing in his eyes that has your teeth digging into the fat of your bottom lip.

“Mmhmm.” You hum, leaning forward nose brushing with his, letting your hands slide up his chest to his broad shoulders. “Really easy.”

The smug flash of white teeth you get in response has your body buzzing, that blurred line being completely erased as he pulls you flush onto his lap. Both of you moan at the contact, hot breath fanning against open mouths at the feel of each other like this. The wet bathing suits leave little to the imagination and he’s somehow even bigger than the stories led on.

”Steve.” You whimper, eyes rolling back at the first grind of your hips against him, fingers curling into his hair to try to anchor yourself somehow.

”Look who’s easy now.” He smirks, top lip catching against your bottom lifting his hips up just enough for you to gasp.

“Shut up, Harrington.” You grin into his mouth breathlessly before doing what you’ve both wanted for so long, closing the space.

Eyes fluttering closed, Steve takes control of the kiss like he’s gone over this a thousand times in his head. With one arm wrapped around the small of your back, he pulls you closer while the other has his hand curved around the back of your neck. Licking into your mouth with easy permission, you can taste the watermelon on his tongue, earning a deep moan from your chest.

You let your lips get so greedy you think they might bruise, but he meets you with equal enthusiasm, teeth scraping together ever so often from the force of it. Steve starts to guide your hips, dragging your heat along the hard length of him, groaning into the kiss at the easy glide.

“So wet already.” He murmurs against your jaw, pulling away to catch his breath trailing kisses down to your neck. “Knew you were perfect.”

His words have you shuddering on top of him, your lips spreading over his restrained cock that somehow grows even harder between your legs. The tip catches against your clit with just the right amount of pressure to have your back arch. He grunts at that before leaning back, pulling your cover up over your head. Letting his mouth devour the soft flesh of your breasts, he tugs your suit down more watching them spill out from the top with hungry eyes.

“Oh my god.” The last word comes out in a whimper feeling of him sucking a bruise into the swell of one, licking it better after he’s pleased with it.

”I’ve wanted you for so fucking long.” He confesses, licking up your neck, punctuating his sentence with a harsh grip dragging you over his length like you don’t believe him. “God, those little dresses you wear to work.”

Steve groans at the thought of it, before kissing your smiling lips, earning you a curve of his own. You keep it a secret that you’d picked all of them out for him, even when you told yourself you didn’t.

”Remind me to never wear them again, then.” You breathe against his mouth, taking your turn to nip at his jaw, fingers curling under his shirt tugging it off tossing it with the sheer fabric on the ground.

”Not funny.”

Grabbing your chin between his fingers, he brings you back to him, dark eyes swallowing you whole in their abyss. The pad of his thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip before biting it playfully with a roll of his hips. He admires the way your jaw goes slack, eye brows furrowing, rolling your hips searching for more.

”Steve — we can’t.” You whine, feeling the way his hand on your back starts a determined path down between your legs. Contradicting yourself, you spread them wider.

“We can't, what?” He whispers just barely audible over the hum of the cicadas, fingers hooking into the soaked nylon fabric of your swim suit, moaning at the slick he’s met with brushing along your seam.

“Fuck, baby.”

The endearment sends another wave of arousal to your core, coating his fingers even more as he lazily collects all of it on the pads of them. Pressing his thumb against your bundle of nerves, one side of his mouth ticks up at the breathless way you say his name and tug at his hair because of it.

“This is a bad idea.” You finally manage, pressing your forehead against his chasing his touch with hungry hips. “Plus your neighbors.”

“What about them?” He whispers with a gruff voice, middle finger teasing, circling your fluttering entrance waiting for your answer.

”I - uh — oh god.” Your hips stutter at his thumb’s returning pressure to your clit, while the tip of his middle finger barely pushes in. “They’re gonna see us.”

”No they won’t.” He says cooly, starting to rub light circles on the oversensitive bundle of nerves. His hand grips your neck tighter, relishing in the way your body reacts with every swipe. “They’re on vacation too.”

”How do you know?” You manage to argue, hands sliding down his chest where they curl into the coarse hair peppered there.

Giving it a gentle tug, you know he can feel the way you squeeze around him watching his lashes flutter.

”They go every year, and the other house next door is for sale.” Stealing another kiss, he pushes one more knuckle in swallowing your moan. “We’re alone.”

”That doesn’t mean any — oh fuck, Steve.”

He pushes his middle finger the rest of the way in, your walls welcoming the stretch trying their best to get him to go deeper. Now, it’s your turn to eat his moan that rumbles loud, vibrating from his chest.

“Tell me what you want, honey.” He breathes hot against your lips, pulling his finger almost all of the way out, before sliding it back into your heat with even more ease than before, cock twitching against your thigh.

“Not - not all the way. Need you to take me on a date first.” You murmur, tugging at the elastic band of his trunks.

Nodding eagerly, it’s all he needs to add another finger, stretching you open in a way that has your head toss back. His lips waste no time taking advantage of your exposed neck, licking a path to the sensitive spot behind your ear. He nips at it playfully before sucking hard enough to earn what he knows is going to be his favorite sound, immediately doing it again.

You hands move quickly to even the playing field, shoving his shorts down as you lick into his mouth. He groans, the deep sound rumbling from his chest when your hand wraps around him giving a squeeze. The heavy weight of it sends your mind reeling, squirming against him.

“Jesus Christ, Harrington.” You smile against his mouth, starting to slowly pump him.

“Yeah? You like it?” He murmurs, licking at your top lip, the beginnings of a grin playing at the edges of his mouth.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Swiping your thumb over the sensitive tip, you collect what’s yours using it to help guide you hand, relishing in the shudder that pulses through him.

Cursing under his breath, he comes back to with fingers that start to work you relentlessly. Your cheeks warm at the lewd sounds of your arousal but it only seems to spur him on more. His hips lift with every pump and squeeze of your hand at the same time yours roll against his. The motion brings you near to what you really want, his cock getting dangerously close to where his fingers work you.

“So god damn soft baby, so tight. I bet you feel so fucking good.” He says through gritted teeth, pushing himself close enough for the tip of him to catch your clit.

“Oh my god Steve.” You shudder on top of him needing more. So much more.

“Let me just feel you, don’t you want that? God I want it so bad.” His hips lift higher, and the full length of him slides through your slick fold.

The moans that spill out of both of you at the contact are loud enough that you're thankful his neighbors are on vacation. At least you hope they are.

“Oh fuck - honey.” He practically whines, doing it again, dark eyes flicking between your legs to watch.

“You - you feel so good.” You breathe against his mouth.

Setting your full weight on the thickness of his cock, he slips his fingers out, your walls that desperately try to suck him back in. He puts them to work, focusing on your clit watching you rock your hips against the length of him over and over.

“Wanna see you cum like this.” He says, brows forming a deep V tugging his full bottom lip between his teeth watching you take what you want.

“I’m so close.” Your response comes out in a whimper, the coil inside of your tightening, threatening to give.

“You’re so damn pretty — god baby, give it to me. Please.” Steve begs, rolling his hips meeting yours with the kind of fervor that catches his tip where you want him most.

“Steve!” You shudder, sinking down on him just enough to feel the first stretch, your body humming begging you to give it more.

“Oh fuck, oh god.” He whines, squeezing the back of your neck, desperately trying to regain control when he slips back out nudging your clit again.

Steve twitches between your legs, growing impossibly harder with every swipe through your folds. Your arousal coats him so much that his swim suit grows damp all over again where you sit perched on his big lap. He finds just the right rhythm and pressure against your clit that has your eyes hitting the back of your head, your demise imminent.

“I’m gonna - I’m gonna cum.” You moan against his mouth, rolling your hips chasing the high.

“Yeah?” He grunts, twitching again letting you know he’s close too. “Let me have it.”

All you can manage is a nod, face crumpling as stars start to burst in bright colors behind your eyelids. Your body trembles as your orgasm rips through you, coming out in unintelligible babbling especially when you feel him spill all over you.

The noise that claws its way out of his throat is animalistic, throwing his head back against the chair. He shivers underneath you, both of your hips moving lazily chasing the high and relishing in the feel of your consequences between your legs.

“Jesus, honey.” He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his sweat curled hair before they both land on your curves giving them a squeeze. “Thought you just wanted to help me clean up.”

“You’re an ass.” You giggle shoving his chest with an out of breath smile. “I’m too tired now. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, my room’s clean anyway.” Steve wiggles his eyebrows, rolling his hips one last time smirking at the small gasp it earns him.

“You gotta take me on a date first, this was a lapse of judgment.” You tease, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.

His head tilts slightly, sunglasses low on his nose, his thumb tapping rhythmically against the wheel of the golf cart.

Your stomach flips, that warm feeling spreading as you try to collect yourself, suddenly aware of every step you take. His eyebrows lift, noticing the soft sway in your hips and the way your smile refuses to settle.

“There she is,” he says, the smile reaching his eyes. You try to bite back a grin and play it off, but it only makes it worse, because you’re clearly not as composed as you think you are.

By the time you reach the cart, he is already leaning forward, his elbow braced on his knee to get a better look, not wanting to miss a thing.

“Hey, baby,” he says teasingly. “You have fun?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, nodding a little too eagerly.

His gaze flicks down briefly as he taps the seat next to him. He holds out his hand for you, gold watch glimmering in the sunlight, helping you inside. The second you’re beside him, his hand comes up, cupping your face, and you lean into it naturally as his lips press against yours.

He groans against your lips, smiling against your mouth as the sweetness of your lip gloss mixes with the champagne still lingering on your tongue. His thumb rubs gently against your cheek, soaking in the moment with you.

“You a little gone, sweetheart?” He murmurs, his voice softer now, lips brushing against yours.

“No—Me?” You ask, your response not nearly convincing enough, and it only makes him laugh quietly under his breath.

“Just thought I’d ask,” he feigns genuine curiosity, leaning back, his arm coming to rest along the back of your seat.

He grips the steering wheel again, his forearm flexing with the movement, his bicep shifting under the sleeve of his golf shirt. Your eyes drift away for a moment, that same stupid, traitorous smile giving you away again, because he looks too damn good like this. It’s unfair.

The cart hums to life beneath you as he pulls away from the clubhouse, one hand still resting loosely behind you.

“I’m fine,” you insist, feeling him eyeing you in your peripheral. He studies you for a moment, seeing your reaction, hoping to get a little more if it has you giggling like that. Then his tongue drags slowly over his bottom lip when your eyes meet his again.

“Thirsty?” He chuckles, nodding to the cup holders, something bright and citrusy, condensation dripping down the side.

“Might have had a little too much fun,” you mumble under your breath, and he snorts at the understatement.

“Well, just in case,” he smiles. “Brought you some water too, pretty. And… your golf shoes.” Your eyes fall to your lap, shoes still hooked around your finger. “Toss ‘em back there.”

“Thank you, baby,” you say, leaning closer to toss your heels in the back basket. His arm tightens around you at the contact, pulling you closer, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “M’sorry.”

Rafe pulls back and looks down at you, searching for your eyes. “What are you sorry about?” He asks, the question genuine, like maybe he said the wrong thing.

“I asked you to teach me and—well,” you giggle, your hand coming up to squeeze his bicep when he takes a sharp turn, your head falling onto his shoulder a little heavier than usual.

He rolls up beside the tee box fast, cutting off the engine before turning to look at you. “I just wanted to spend the day with you, baby. I don’t care if you had a few. I’m just teasin’ you, honey. It isn’t like we can’t come again—you’re not gettin’ rid of me.”

“Okay,” you giggle.

“That smile,” he mumbles, pressing his sunglasses up on his nose a little. “That’s all that matters, aight?”

His gaze drops from your face to the line of your neck, following the way the little black golf dress fits you like it was made for you, skimming your waist, hugging your hips, and showing just enough skin to make his hand tighten slightly around the wheel.

“And you… you look so damn good,” he says, softer this time. Your nose scrunches as you smile bashfully. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too,” you murmur.

“You ready for this?” He asks, nodding toward the course ahead, a stretch of green and crisp white flags, golf carts zipping around with regulars and pros. “Or do you wanna go home and hang out by the pool instead?” His tone lifts slightly like he is already thinking about it.

“No, I’m ready,” you answer quickly, remembering how happy he was when you first asked.

“Yeah?” He asks, his brow lifting slightly as he reaches for his drink. “You sure? I mean… I wouldn’t exactly be mad about going home.”

“Later,” you giggle, watching him smile against the rim of his glass before he glances at you and gives you a small wink.

He gets out first, his shoes hitting the grass as he adjusts his hat, his fingers hooking the brim and flipping it around so it sits backward on his head. He moves around the cart while you do the same, stretching out his arms and rolling his shoulders, and for a second you just stand there watching him.

Butterflies stir in your stomach as you take him in, tall and strong, sun-kissed under the afternoon light, his blue eyes scanning down the fairway to check on the group ahead.

He glances over at you and catches you staring just as you tug on your golf shoes, teetering slightly as you hop on one foot, grabbing the cart for balance.

“C’mere, baby,” he murmurs, beckoning you closer as he drops down onto one knee in front of you.

He looks up at you as he reaches for your shoe. “What club do you think we’re using, sunshine?” He drawls, tying one before moving to the other.

“Um…” you say, a little flustered as he stands again, close enough that your chest brushes his. “Nine?” The answer comes out more like a question, and he smiles.

“Mhmm…” He hums, pulling a hat down onto your head before pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

“Lucky guess,” you giggle.

“Nah,” he says easily. “You’re just a natural.” Rafe reaches into your bag, pulling out a club, handing it to you.

The two of you walk toward the markers side by side. He digs into his pocket, pulling out a ball and a tee, then scratches your name onto the scorecard just above his before glancing up to watch the pair ahead move toward the green.

“Alright, baby, first thing is your stance,” he starts, stepping closer as he gestures toward the ground. “You want your feet about shoulder-width apart and your weight balanced.”

“Mhmm,” you agree as he mirrors your stance, standing a few feet in front of you.

But in reality, you’re not hearing a single word because it all starts to drift away and blur together into something that sounds blah, blah, blah, proper name, place name, backstory stuff, because you’re just watching him.

You notice the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way his arms flex when he adjusts his grip on the club, and the way his voice softens slightly, like he actually cares about getting it right for you.

Your eyes move over him slowly without trying to hide it, and when you finally look back up at his face, you realize he is already looking at you.

“You’re not listening to a damn thing I’m saying, are you, baby?” He asks, a quiet, bashful laugh slipping out, a faint flush creeping across his cheeks.

“What?” You ask softly, your hands dropping to the club like you even know what you are fixing, which only makes him laugh harder.

The head of his club taps against the grass as he tries to collect himself, but he cannot even pretend to be annoyed about it.

If anything, it looks like he loves it, like he loves you like this, a little distracted and completely caught up in him.

He steps closer again, slower this time, and it’s less about the lesson now and more about you, his attention shifting between your eyes and your mouth as he exhales quietly through a small smile.

“Alright,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “Yeah… this isn’t gonna go how I planned.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat softly, echoing yourself from earlier without even realizing it.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his tone lowering just enough to make it clear he does not want to hear you apologize again.

You nod, taking in a little breath, brows furrowing as you try to focus on your stance, and the club face.

He grins at that, his eyes moving over you again, slower this time as he takes in the dress, the way it flutters in the breeze, and the way your tongue pokes out a little as you try to mimic his shoulder position.

“Yeah,” he hums, pretty distracted himself. “Exactly like that.” You smile proudly, following behind him as he takes a practice swing of his own. “Alright, baby. You’re up.”

You look ahead, watching the old men in front of you cruise off in their cart toward the second hole. You crouch down, sinking your tee into the grass, settling your ball on top, watching it wobble slightly before it finally steadies.

“Atta baby,” he says, his tone easy and approving, like you did something far more impressive than setting a ball on a tee, but it makes you smile anyway.

You step into position, lining yourself up with the ball as you adjust your feet the way you’ve seen him do before. He walks around you, watching you closely. “Alright, hold on,” he says, stepping in. “Let me fix a couple things.”

You nod, your eyes still fixed on the ball.

“See how this hole runs?” He says, one hand coming up to rest on your waist as the other points ahead. “It’s gonna hook left once you get some distance on it, so you don’t want to aim straight down the middle, you want to offset a little to the right.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, smiling as you see just how close he is, his eyes nowhere near where they need to be as his gaze traces from the hem of your skirt, following where the fabric stretches over your back, dipping low.

His eyes meet yours and he smiles. “You listening?” He asks as he smirks.

“You focusing?” You giggle, gasping as his hand comes down to swat you playfully on the butt.

“Am I focused?” He snorts, laughing under his breath. “I’m focused, baby. I’m locked in.”

“Mmm… Sure,” you tease him, tightening your hold on the club. You glance up where you need to go, squinting into the sun a little bit before you look down at the ball, your hold tightening on the iron as you try your best to lock in yourself.

“Sheesh, baby,” he says, pulling you right out of your focus, stepping in closer to look over your shoulder, shifting back into teaching mode. “Your grip—”

“What?” You ask.

“Hey, don’t move,” he adds lightly. “Your stance is perfect but you’re squeezing the life out of this thing. Relax.” The final words fade off his lips as he steps in behind you.

His chest pushes against your back, solid and warm, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of his polo. He keeps talking through it, calm and patient, like this is still a real lesson and not something that shifted the second he got close enough to hold you in his arms.

Your fingers loosen around the club like he told you to, but the effort is half-hearted at best because you are too aware of him—of the way he is standing behind you, his body lining up perfectly with yours.

His hands come in, settling briefly over your grip, so big they almost completely cover your own. “Like this,” he says quietly. “Not too tight, just let the club do the work.”

Music drifts from the golf cart, the afternoon breeze swirling around the subtle sweetness of wild roses and freshly cut grass as that little liquored-laced buzz of yours mellows you out even more in the North Carolina heat.

“Baby…” He murmurs; a quiet breath of a laugh leaving him warm and close against your ear. “Stop wiggling, yeah? Your stance was perfect.”

You hum softly in response, still not fully present, your weight shifting again just enough that you end up settling back into him instead of finding your stance again.

“Back straight, alright?” He mumbles. “Bend at the knees—” His breath catches, the word leaving him as you do your version of whatever that is.

His grip tightens over yours, not correcting anymore, a helpless laugh tumbling out of him before he can stop it, his control slipping almost instantly as his head drops forward, pressing into the curve of your neck when you push back into his lap.

You giggle breathily, catching your error—catching the way he reacts too. And for a moment you pause, realizing exactly what’s happening, and how much he’s enjoying the lesson.

“Fuck, baby, just—“ He huffs out a breath. “Keep… Keep goin’,” the words barely pass his mouth, and you can hear the lusty smile on his lips.

You bite your lip, grinding your hips a little more for the fun of it; ass pressing against the thick bulge beneath his shorts.

His hands drop down to grip your thighs, drifting inward. You turn your cheek and your lips ghost over the top of his, his smile spreading across your mouth before he kisses you soft enough to make your lips and your whole body tingle.

He lets it happen longer than he should, long enough for it to sink in and feel good—too good. A cart of old women rolls by, heading back from the 18th hole, and he clears his throat, snapping himself out of it, forcing himself away from you, blinking a few times as he tries to reset and remember where the two of you are.

“Baby,” he says, shaking his head slowly, like he does not even know what to do with you anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you laugh, shaking your head while you reposition your hands. “I’m sorry, okay, let’s try again. I’ll be good, I promise.”

You line yourself back up with the ball like you mean it this time, adjusting your stance and squaring your shoulders. His hands hover over your hips. A quiet, defeated laugh slips past his lips because it hits him that there’s no version of this where he finishes the lesson. Not a single chance that he makes it through the front nine, let alone the back without taking that dress off you and getting you underneath him.

“Nah,” he decides, almost immediately.

Before you can react, his hand hooks around your waist, the other taking the club off your hands. He guides you back toward the cart with a smile on his lips.

“Rafe—”

“We’re not doin’ that,” he mutters under his breath, still half-laughing as you start to assure him that you’ve got this, but all he’s got is you on his mind. “We’re gettin’ outta here.”

“Why?” You ask, as if the answer isn’t written all over his face and strained against the zipper of his shorts as the two of you step into the golf cart again, not a single swing marked on the scorecard.

“So you can do that again.”