“You,” with gritted teeth, you bit out, “motherfucker.”

It was almost annoying how good Jack Abbot was.

More infuriating was the fact that he was your father’s sworn enemy, and somehow, you’d let him slide nine inches inside you today, the day before, and the day before that—going all the way back to last Halloween.

No more than two or three weeks ever passed where you weren’t sucking, fucking, or tonguing the sick bastard, and when you did, he always gave you rounds.

Occasionally, you felt a pang of remorse.

After all, you were your father’s favorite kid.

But that didn’t change the fact that you had needs, and Jack was an easy target; he’d been living next door to your family the last several years, and for as long as you could remember, you’d had a crush on the man. You just could never act on it until now, when you were already out of college, no longer living at home, and almost wholly free of the…dicier ethical considerations.

Was it wrong? Absolutely.

Were you often in the habit of thinking about that when Jack had you bent over a table and was hammering you senselessly, in secret? Hell no.

“Oh, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” you whimpered in a low, broken refrain. You clamped your legs tighter together.

And behind you, probably grinning from ear-to-ear, Jack squeezed your hips in either hand and chuckled.

Then, shortly, he ordered, “Get up. Now.”

The orgasm that had been growing and coiling and swelling inside you for the last five minutes—and what had very nearly come to fruition a moment ago—was stolen from you just as fast. Jack pulled out, and he turned from the old, rickety table he’d just been plowing you on. He strode in the other direction.

You were holed up in your garage. Fifteen minutes ago, you’d told your mom you would go and grab the cake—your dad’s birthday cake, for his 50th celebration. About five minutes after that, Jack had announced he was going to get more refreshments for the party.

This was meant to be a mid-event quickie, and now your neighbor was walking over to one of your family’s cars. Patting the hood affectionately and beckoning.

“No fucking shot, Abbot.” You shook your head, resolute. “We are not fucking anywhere close to that.”

The man must’ve had scrambled eggs for brains if he thought you’d even consider having sex on your dad’s 1975 Aston Martin V8. The thing was a classic in mint condition and your father’s prized possession. His baby. Frankly, aside from your mother and your siblings and you, that vehicle was his pride and joy. If someone so much as breathed too hard next to it, he’d have a meltdown. And that wasn’t an exaggeration.

Now Jack was stroking the hood underneath his palm.

Inwardly, you winced and wished you made better decisions in life. Maybe, someday soon, you would.

But that day was not today, apparently.

“Get your cute ass over here, sweetheart.”

Like clockwork, you took your cute ass over there. You only grimaced twice when your backside hit the bright, unblemished, blindingly cherry-red surface of the car and when Jack dragged you by your legs to the edge.

You spread yourself wide, let him flip the hem of your gingham dress over your hips, and shit—he felt good.

Twice as nice as when he was hitting it from the back. Now, gliding in until the firm, round globes of his balls kissed your rear, and the thatch of mostly gray hairs at the base of him tickled your skin, he felt like a dream.

Jack knew it.

He communicated as much when he planted a hand beside your hip on the hood of the car and started thrusting relentlessly. When he plunged in so deep the tip of his cock hit your cervix and you couldn’t keep a loud, shuddering cry from slipping out between your lips and he leaned in and kissed you, mouth smiling.

Between the breakneck speed of his thrusts and the wet, sloppy kissing, the man somehow managed it:

“Whose pussy is this?”

At first, you pretended not to hear him.

The arrogant prick already had an ego the size of Alaska and didn’t need any further encouragement. Plus, you were about to come, and you needed this.

So you let your head loll back a little, and you stopped kissing. You closed your eyes. Rolled your lower half furiously, feverishly in time with each maddening stroke, and you grabbed Jack’s shoulder for leverage.

In return, you felt him grip your chin abruptly.

He tilted up, forcing you to snap your gaze back open.

Your ankles had just crossed behind his back. He was canting his hips even harder than before, plunging to the furthest depths of your body and scraping your insides with an unspeakable, near-dizzying pleasure. Each thrust hit straight through to your core, and you could feel your warmth leaking out from where he stuffed you. Sweet essence trickled down his cock.

He tightened his hold on your face, “Whose is it?”

At the same time, a knot constricted in your stomach. Your toes curled, your breath hitched, and by the feeling that had started up from the base of your spine, you sensed your climax was as near as it ever was.

Fuck it.

With your eyes locked on his, you parted your lips.

Still bouncing on his cock, now reaching for his other shoulder with your free hand and then lifting yourself slightly off of the car, you held tighter onto Jack, too.

And you couldn’t help it: you had to smile a little when you said it, body all but bursting at the seams with your pleasure, “It’s yours, Jack. This pussy is yours.”

“All mine?”

“All yours.”

“Then let me come inside her.”

Fuck, if that didn’t take you by surprise.

Leave it to Jack to propose the most batshit thing.

You’d never let any man inside you without a condom. Never wanted to take that risk. It would be incredibly stupid for you to do it now, with your next door neighbor who was as old as your father—and was hated by your father, only invited to this party because your mother had made you ask—between your legs.

Again, you didn’t think. You made the bad decision.

You mumbled, ‘OK, whatever’ and then watched Jack Abbott withdraw, take off the condom, sling it somewhere over your shoulder, and push back in.

Your body welcomed him gratefully. Shaking when his cock made contact with your velvety walls and there was nothing in between you but the warmth and your own shared, sticky fluids, you almost couldn’t breathe.

He sawed in and out, again and again. Went mindless with it, apparently, as his brows drew in closer, and his whole expression tightened. The next groan strained.

“Aw, baby,” Jack said, almost mournfully. “Pussy’s fuckin’…chokin’ me. I’m gonna lose it in a second.”

You were, too.

You didn’t give him—or yourself—the chance to second-guess this braindead move and simply let him rut deeper inside. Kissed him messily and moaned.

Strokes went quicker, harder, wet and loud and frantic.

You felt him twitch; that was when you hit your end.

Your climax landed with a force you didn’t expect, and half your body seized at once. You shrieked. Your cunt spasmed around Jack, effectively milking his own release from his now-throbbing cock, and you felt every rope spit thick and heavy and warm through your walls. He coated your insides with his seed, and then he kept right on fucking you like the only awareness he might have possessed was in the tip of his member.

Jack grunted, and he fucked his spend deeper.

“That’s my girl,” he said softly. Kissed your forehead.

Still floating somewhere in the ether, you nodded back.

It went without saying another word that you were his.

“You ever let one of them…stuck-up, dick-for-brain boys your own age blow a load inside you like this…” And as if to emphasize his point, he pulled out and let a little white trail of semen spill out from where he’d been. “You and me are gonna have a talk, young lady.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but you were too tired.

When Jack told you to push more of it out, you did.

Five, six, seven slow pulses of your walls, and his seed came oozing out, trickling from a spent and sated hole.

Straight onto the fresh red paint of your father’s car.

You knew you had every reason to be humiliated at that, so you moved to stand, shortly. Tried to shake the thought out of your head. Smoothed the skirt of your dress down, then looked around, momentarily forgetting where the refrigerator in the garage was at.

Right.

There.

“You know,” Jack called as you started the other way. Yanking his jeans and his boxers back up, the buckle of his belt jingling as he did. “This car’s just as old as me.”

Mid-stride, you had to fight to keep from wrinkling your nose. You stopped in front of the fridge, swung it open, and grabbed the cake. Kicked the door shut.

“1975,” Jack stretched the sound of the number, grinning when he met your gaze and you drew closer.

Don’t make me kick your teeth in, Abbot.

You’d barely made it within spitting distance of the vehicle again before the man was pulling you to him, arm looping around your waist. You held back the cake.

“You’re gonna make me drop it,” you warned him.

Jack’s grin stretched wider. “Hate to see that.”

Just like your father would surely despise knowing what you and his archnemesis had done to sully his car. The look on his face, the raw, unmitigated ang—

“Hey.”

You meant to stop Jack with that word.

It didn’t work—he was already prying the lid off the cake’s container. Taking it off and flinging it sideways.

“Jack, that’s Dad’s fucking birthday cake!”

“Just taking a little off the top, OK? Relax.”

Before you could try and stop him, it was too late. The man dragged his middle finger through a big, thick, ivory-colored corner of the buttercream-frosted cake. Thankfully, the whole thing was so large, and the icing’s pattern so ornately, crazily drawn, that you really couldn’t tell where Jack had snagged from.

Still, you shot him a look that could kill.

“Are you crazy?!” you hissed. “Trying to get us cau—”

“Open.”

At Jack’s voice, your eyes widened a bit.

You didn’t notice it at first, but now you saw it plain as anything: your neighbor had lowered his hand to the hood of your father’s car. Swiped the finger loaded with icing through the mess of his cum still sitting on it, then lifted that hand again. Up toward your mouth.

“Ew, Jack, get the fuck out—”

You wanted to be grossed out by it.

“Open wide, sweetheart.”

You really, really, did.

“C’mon. That’s it.”

Your lips parted.

“Right there.”

You let it in.

“Good girl.” Jack grinned, seeing your mouth close around his finger coated with frosting and his come.

You swallowed and swore you’d start making smarter choices tomorrow. Seriously, no more fucking around.

The two of you started back for the party.

Right before you made it out, Jack pivoted.

“Shit. Almost forgot.” Jogging back to the car.

And, as if this afternoon couldn’t get any more depraved and disgusting, you watched your neighbor peel the condom you and him had used off the windshield of your father’s car. He waved it a second, taunting, before resuming his path back to you.

Out of habit, you jumped a little.

“Don’t even think about it, Abbot.”

But, luckily for you, Jack stopped short.

Instead of offering you another coital-flavored refreshment, the man paused at the car’s gas cap.

You groaned as soon as you saw him do it.

Smirking, Jack flipped open the metal door, and, without hesitating a second, he threw the used rubber in the place where a gas pump was supposed to go.

He shut it again.

You called him a lunatic.

As you strolled outside, back into the party and all of the noise, Jack took the cake so you wouldn’t have to carry it. Ever the gentleman and a strictly platonic friend who was trying his damndest to hide the fact that he’d just come inside his enemy’s daughter and had her eat it, he wrapped a casual arm around you.

He squeezed your shoulder. Leaned in close, once. And, as quietly as he could manage it, he whispered:

“Between you and that precious car of your dad’s, it looks like I’ve popped both of his cherries now, huh?”

“you always miss her, but she’s sleepy..” you say into your pillow, though Jack knows you better than that. he feels you grind against his hand as he works his fingers into you. “i know she is, she’s also a little sticky,” he perks a brow, pulling his cock out and stroking long and slow. “i won’t wake her up too bad. just wanna give her a lil hug. is that ok momma?”

you giggle softly at the word, the word he uses when he’s really trying to goad something out of you. “mm…i guess. only a small hug, though. just the tip.” fuck. “okay, just the tip. you can go back to sleep baby, i’ll be nice.” he’ll be nice alright.

it’s only when he’s thrusting his tip inside you, soaking his cock and watching your pussy clench around him each time, that he thinks about not being nice. gripping your love handles, brows pinched and lip tucked between his teeth watching you stretch around him, even if it’s just his tip.

“fuck baby, feels so good..” he’d mutter into the room, hearing you sleepily whine and mewl from the side. and he wants to keep this going. doesn’t want to disturb his sleepy girl, who was so kind enough to bless him with her tight pussy. but you just feel too good baby, way too good. he can’t take it.

he’s wiping a tear from his eye with his shoulder, the small groans turning into needy whines, stroking the length that was left without any love from you. he leans up a little watch you face, seeing how your brows crease with the little bit of pleasure, and how you’ve been playing with your clit under the cover the whole time. you probably want it too, pumpkin.

he doesn’t give it much thought after that, sweeping your hair off your neck and taking a light hold of it in his hand, gripping your waist and bending you the tiniest but forward. you don’t even have time to think about the action, because in the split second that it registers, he’s pushing his fat, long dick in you until he can’t anymore, your eyes shooting open you as your senses are intruded upon.

“oh-hooh fu—” you can’t even finish your words before you’re cutting yourself off with a pornographic moan, one that’d make the birds flinch. he groans loudly from behind you, eyes rolling back shut and head tipping backwards. and he’s so mean. not giving you a fraction of a second before he’s pulling out and plunging deep in you at the rate of a rabbit in heat.

“fuck, fuck! Jack!?” you moan out, your arms shooting up to grab whatever you could, sheets and cover in your grip as you clench down on him, your eyes squeezing shut so fast you see the stars. his groans are ragged, tired, raspy. like he’s been screaming all damn night. and his grip on your body is even worse, there’s probably gonna be a bruise there, pumpkin. you understand.

“i know baby, i knoww fuck,” he drawls out, biting his lip as he continued to thrust into you. “fuck you’re so good, you’re so fucking good i-i couldn’t do it pumpkin..” you can barely him him over yourself, and the clapping sound from under the covers that grew louder the quicker he fucked you.

he fucked you like he was running a race. funny for someone with half a leg, right? it was hurried, eager. just how long was he thinking of burying into you like this? “you lied, yer’ a fucking liar..” your words come out shaky, vocal cords moving in tune with the way your body jerked against the bed.

his eyes shoot open, mouth agape as he catches a look at your face: mouth agape in a frown, nose scrunched and eyes rolling to the ceiling. you’re fuckin’ lovin’ it. “i knoww baby i know, i’m sorryyy,” he whines through gritted teeth, and if you could look back you’d see the way his brows are pulled together tight and he’s giving his little puppy eyes.

“i’m sorry baby i just-” he huffs a breath, “you just feel so good. i can’t wait too long, yknow that…” his hand snakes to the front of your throat, hoisting you back against his chest as he palms at your tits, jackrabbitting his cock in you as he plants wet kisses on your shoulder.

“had a long fuckin’ night, needed my girl, ok? i just need you baby,” he puts on that sweet, doting voice he’d usually pair with the signature puppy eyes, he knows what works. knows what has you whining and submitting to his dirty tricks, telling him something like “i love you so much jackie u can use me whenever you want :’(.” like you were doing now.

“daddy’s sorry baby, daddy’s so sorry,” he’s huffing and puffing from behind you, groaning into your ear as he uses your cunt, stuffing you full, hips jittering as he approaches his peak quickly. “baby i-i wanna cum, wanna cum so fucking bad i can’t take it,” he pushes your head to the side, angling you just enough to catch your lips and kiss you hurriedly.

you moan upon impact, snaking your hand backwards to run your fingers through his hair. “i’ll-ill fuckin’ stop if you want but i wanna cum so bad baby, can daddy cum in you? pretty please?” how can you say no to him? you’re already putty in his hands, mouth open as you moan into each others mouth.

“you can cum daddy, m’all yours..always gonna let you use me..!” you whine, and he groans out in relief, whines getting raspy and weaker, bruising your tits in his hand as he comes in you, hips twitches while he fills you, panting over your shoulder as he runs his hand down to your stomach, caressing you lovingly.

“god, i wish i could sew your skin to me,” jack almost growls.

your legs were laid across his lap with you both sunken into the couch. it had been a long shift for him, but he wasn’t tired enough to sleep yet. he’d rather spend the morning with you.

“so fuckin perfect,” he slaps the bare skin of your thigh, making you giggle and squirm, his hand refusing to let you pull away from him. “‘m gonna eat you one day.”

“you’re so weird,” you whine in faux annoyance as you kick your feet against his hands.

returning to scrolling through your tiktok feed, you remembered a video you had seen the night prior before bed that made you laugh. girl pranking her husband by saying she couldn’t pay the mortgage.

you try not to mess with him too much. he always grumbles how hes too old for your bullshit. when you try and jumpscare him from around the corner he never flinches. only rolls his eyes and keeps walking. this was the perfect kind of prank for you.

you give yourself a second, waiting until he’s more focused on the television screen than you to craft up your fake little disappointed face. it came in a small gasp and a fake groan of embarrassment, to which you covered your face with your hands.

“jack..” you mumble.

he turns his head, one eyebrow up once he sees your state. “what’s your problem?”

dropping your hands, you look at him with your eyebrows upturned.

“i forgot to tell you.. um.. i can’t pay the mortgage this month.”

he stares at you for a moment. face unmoving. you start to believe he didn’t hear you. old man shit n all. you’re so tired of always repeating yourself-

“did you hit your head?” he asks you all of a sudden.

your eyes look back and forth. “what-”

“what the hell are you talking about right now?” he’s lost focus on the tv. the way he’s looking you up and down, he clearly thinks something is wrong in your head for even bringing this up.

“i can’t pay the mortgage this month,” you say again but this time slower, as if mocking him.

jack turns his head to the side, eyes still on you as his brain tries to process this. it takes everything in you not to break in this moment.

“you don’t even pay the mortgage,” he says in the same tone as you did but slower. if you weren’t messing around with him you would have smacked him right across the face for that. and he’d probably like it. besides the point.

you pick at the hem of your pajama shorts to distract yourself from laughing, covering it up as a little to keep you from feeling bad.

“no but like.. i looked at my account and i can’t help pay the mortgage this month.”

“what are you- do you need money or something?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing. “don’t i give you enough?”

“jack, i’m saying i cannot help with the mortgage,” you repeat, emphasizing each word.

“you have never in your life helped with the mortgage. i pay the mortgage. do you even know how to pay the mortgage?”

you pause. now that you think about it, you really don’t. he always took care of everything. groceries, electric, gas, your car, and even gave you a little allowance for the month. he didn’t like you having to worry about money. thats why he went to medical school! to make the big bucks and spoil you!

a little smile pulls at jack’s lips, his hands resting on your legs.

“how about this,” he proposes. “i’ll give you double the mortgage if you tell me how much i pay every month.”

you continue to sit there in silence, your lips in a tight line.

when you guys chose this house, he made sure to tell the realtor that whenever you guys took a tour of each home, they never talked numbers. he wanted you to pick a place that you liked. that you wanted to grow old in and be happy.

so, to be honest, you can’t even tell him how much your house is worth even in full.

“.. you’re an asshole,” you mumble, rolling over onto your belly so you can watch the tv and ignore him.

a chuckle comes from his throat, hand coming up around your foot to massage it gently.

“mhm,” he nods, taking his free hand and slapping it right on your ass now that he can. “the biggest.”

(google doc version)

Robby stayed in Pittsburgh and you were raised with your mother in different places around the country. She liked to travel; you were never in one place for too long. Maybe this is why she died young. She wasn't long for this world either.

You were in a freshman in college, so it meant that you could either tough it out on your own or you could move in with your dad that summer. You were a broke college kid, so Pittsburgh became your home. And, honestly, you liked it. Even if it got cold as hell in the winter. Anyway, Robby was hardly ever around! He worked absolutely 24/7 in the hospital.

You caught the travel bug from your mother, and you spent two years travelling around the globe. Now you were home and trying to get your life in order. So you spent a lot of time applying for jobs in your field, sitting around the house, binge-watching shows on Netflix and following Robby around The Pitt.

"Baby Robinavitch!" Santos had taken to greeting you.

"I hate when you call me that," you tell her as you sit at the nurses' station waiting for Robby to be finished for the day.

"I think you missed out on being a Pitt nepo baby," she responds with a smirk.

"Oh yea, cos that's working so well for Victoria!" you say, nodding to the med student who looks like she's been electrocuted. "Not a chance would you catch me in here. And what would they call me, Dr Baby?"

"Dr Baby has a ring to it," Santos laughs.

Robby appears then, "You think of following in my footsteps? It's never too late!"

"Nuh uh! Not a chance. Ready to go home?" you ask. You had to leave your car in the shop and Robby said he'd give you a ride home.

"Let me just do handover, I'll be 10 minutes tops," he promises, going off with Santos following behind him.

Your eyes follow them to where Dr Jack Abbot has just walked in. You bite your lip as you watch him, you can't help yourself. He's sex on legs.

"Gotta be quick tonight, Jack. I've gotta bring the kid home," Robby tells him, nodding back towards you.

Jack's eyes track over to where you're sitting, now looking down at your phone. The weather has turned as summer starts to creep in and you're taking the opportunity to soak up the sun. Your outfit, despite The Pitt's AC blasting shows this. His eyes zero in on your bare shoulder as your tank top strap has fallen down. He imagines fixing it, his fingers brushing over your skin. He gives his head a shake and focuses back on what Robby is saying.

"Oh you're still coming to the barbecue on Saturday?" he reminds Jack. "Don't forget to bring beer and that marinated stuff you love."

Jack clears his throat, "Of course. I'll be there. Who is gonna grill? You!?"

Robby rolls his eyes at him before calling over to you. You jump up and your tank top does nothing to conceal the bounce of your breasts. Jack has to start thinking of medical terms he learned in med school to calm himself down. You're his best friend's daughter. You're literally young enough to be his daughter! He cannot be having these thoughts about you.

"See ya, Baby Robinavitch," he calls after you, he can't help himself.

You turn around with a wicked little smirk on your face, "See ya around Uncle Jack."

Oh you brat!

"Are you still gonna go on sabitical?" you ask your dad as you fill the pool in your backyard.

Robby looks at you, "I was inspired by your travels!"

"Uh, I didn't travel by motorbike," you point out, spraying him with the hose.

"Hey! And I'm pretty sure I remember seeing you on a moped!" he tells you as he opens a beer.

"I was on the back of one for like an hour!" you argue back.

"Oh with some strange boy, that's what every father wants to hear," he groans.

You stick your tongue out at him, "I'm a big girl."

Oh, you are, Jack Abbot thinks as he joins you both in the back garden. He tries not to be a complete creep as he eyes you up in your shorts and bikini top.

"Okay, where should I put all this?" he asks as he holds up the two huge grocery bags of food. He has more beer in his truck.

"Here, gimme. I'll let you two oldies catch up," you say as you take the bags from him.

"Oldies?" Robby repeats in disbelief as you disappear into the kitchen to put everything away.

Jack sets about manning the grill while Robby gets the sides ready. And they stay at their stations as more and more guests start to trickle in. Your friends and your dad's populate the backyard.

"Oh fuck, we're all out of ketchup," you realise as you pick up a hotdog.

You sigh and head into the house. You're looking through cupboards in the pantry in vain. Where the hell is the ketchup?! Only your dad could make this so difficult. You climb on top of the counter to search deeper in the cupboards.

"Lost, kid?" you hear that familiar low rumble.

"Uncle Jack!" you tease, knowing how much he hates when you call him that. You lean back to look at him and gauge his reaction. But as you do so, you lose your balance and tumble backwards. You prepare yourself to hit the hard floor in the small room, but instead you're encased in muscle instead.

"Gave me a fright, princess," he breathes, his face just inches from yours as Jack Abbot holds you.

Fuck. This is like your fantasies come true.

"Gave myself a fright," you confess. "Thanks for saving me."

His arms are hot against your bare skin and you don't miss how his eyes dip to the swell of your breasts against the flimsy bikini top. You picked it out just for him that morning, knowing he would be there. But you had no idea how close he'd be.

"Kinda my job, kid," he reminds you with a smirk.

He absolutely should let go of you. You're not in danger of falling anymore. But he wants to hold you a bit longer.

"Your boyfriend will be looking for you," he finally breathes, still not moving away.

"My boyfriend? I don't have one of those, Jack," you respond, tilting your head up.

It would be so easy for him to kiss you now. No one can see into the pantry. He remembered teasing Robby for ages about this room, and now, well, now he's thanking God for it.

"Then who are you wearing this for?" he rasps out, his thumb trailing over the strap of your bikini top.

Fuck. Why was that so hot? You look up at him through your lashes, daring him to make the next move.

But then you hear your dad calling your name and the two of you shoot apart.

"What are you doing in here?" Robby asks when he pushes open the pantry door.

"I was looking for ketchup. But I almost fell and Uncle Jack caught me. But I still haven't found the ketchup!" you complain, pointing your finger at your dad. "Are you hiding it on me?"

Robby is so distracted by the ketchup he doesn't question any further and immediately enters the pantry to reach a shelf way too high for you and hand it to you.

"Why would it be up there?" you argue as you head back outside.

Jack takes a minute to himself in the kitchen. That was way too close. It just can't happen again. But every time he catches your eye, he knows he needs to get you alone again.

It looks like you're thinking the same thing because as soon as Robby is enthralled in discussing his sabbatical plans, you announce to the air that you're going to the garage for more beer. Jack waits a few minutes before following you. You're sitting on top of the chest freezer in the garage, your legs crossed at the ankles, waiting. What if he doesn't come? But the door opens and there he is in all his glory.

"You're gonna get us in trouble," he breathes as he crosses the room to you, his hands immediately going to your bare thighs.

"I thought you liked trouble, Uncle Jack," you tease him, hooking a leg around his hip.

"You gonna keep calling me that?" he asks as he trails his nose over your neck, inhaling your intoxicating scent.

He's been dreaming about this for months, but he never thought that you would feel the same for him.

"Why, what would you prefer?" you ask, letting your head fall back.

When he doesn't answer, you pout, "Not gonna answer, daddy?"

That rips a growl from his throat, and finally his lips are on yours. He's kissing you like a man starved, nipping at your lower lip before pushing his tongue into his mouth. His hands grip your thighs and pull you closer to him. You find yourself grinding against him as the kiss turns deeper and more passionate. You're basically making out like teenagers.

But it's Jack that pulls away first.

"Shit, princess, we can't do this here," he breathes stepping away from you. "Anyone could walk in. Your dad could walk in."

You bite down on your thumb, knowing that's what makes it so hot, but also being very much aware he's right. Your eyes drop to the hard-on now tenting his pants and you have to press your thighs together.

"Tonight?" you breathe. "I could come to yours?"

Jack Abbot knows better. He's too old for you. You're Michael Robinavitch's daughter!

"Yea," he breathes. "My place."

He kisses you again before handing you a case of beers. "You better go back out there."

What the fuck was Jack thinking when he asked you back to his? You're Michael Robinavitch's daughter for God's sake! His oldest friend! Some kissing was bad enough...but...

It didn't matter, anyway. It's not like you were going to show. You were probably drunk and a little crazed from the sun. You weren't going to show.

But then his phone pings.

Can you pick me up?

A message from you and a location. It's a few blocks from your house. You tell Robby that you're going out with friends and then ask them to drop you off here. You don't them to know where you're going either. But your car is still in the shop. Anyway, it wouldn't do for anyone to see it in Jack's driveway.

You don't have to wait long before Jack's truck pulls up and you hop in.

"This is a bad idea," he tells you as he pulls away, looking around to make sure that nobody has seen you.

But he puts his hand on your bare thigh.

"You've changed," he says after a brief silence, looking you over.

"Well, I wouldn't leave the house in a bikini top!" you remind him as he turns onto his street.

"Shame," he growls, pulling into his garage.

"Oh I think you'll prefer what I'm wearing," you promise him, pulling the oversized jacket you have on closer to your form.

Jack chuckles, shaking his head as he leads you inside.

"You want a drink?" he asks, but he's just being a gentleman, both of you know why you're in his house.

"I'm good, thanks," you say as you unzip your jacket, revealing the practically sheer baby doll lingerie you have on under it.

Jack almost swallows his tongue. Yea, fuck the drink. He crosses the room and kisses you. Hard. His hands cup either side of your face, accidentally tugging on loose pieces of hair. The sensation makes you wince and this causes the older man to smirk against your lips. You weren't expecting that.

But suddenly he's pulling away from you. You whine as you chase his touch and he gives you a sympathetic tut before hooking his arms around your thighs and throwing you over his shoulder. He walks with determination to his bedroom where he throws you down on his bed. He groans as you spread your legs, showing your completely bare pussy to him. Fuck. Has he ever seen a sweeter fucking sight?

He pulls his shirt off and climbs onto the bed. His hands explore your body, every inch, every curve. He groans as he feels your nipples pebble under the flimsy fabric of your lingerie. You whimper as he pinches them harshly between his forefingers and thumb. But it goes straight to your core. Honestly, you feel that if he got out his stethoscope, he would get a stronger pulse at your cunt than from your heart. Finally his hands rip the fabric from you. It falls off you, eliciting a groan from the doctor.

"You're gonna cum on my tongue, princess," he tells you. "And then I'm gonna fuck you so full o' me, you won't be able to walk straight."

You just nod dumbly as his hands slide up your thighs, closer and closer to where you need him. His thumb ghosts over puffy clit but he doesn't touch it, not yet.

"Use your big girl words. Tell daddy what you need, pretty girl," he growls.

"Please make me cum. Please, daddy," you whine, rocking your hips up in desperation.

He chuckles and presses him thumb over your clit, rubbing soft circles over the sensitive bud. He presses two thick fingers in you, making you cry out in pure need. You're so turned on you can't think straight. Honestly, you're not sure you can hold off an orgasm until he gets his lips on you. But he notices how your pretty face screws up and he pulls away from you.

"You must have all those dumb boys wrapped around this pretty pussy," Jack gruffs as he hooks your legs over his shoulders. "But they don't know how to make you feel good. Not like me, baby girl. Oh I'm gonna make you see fuckin' stars."

"Fuck!" you gasp as his tongue finds it way to your clit. "Please, daddy."

Jack just smirks against your sopping cunt and suckles at you like you're a Michelin-star meal. His rough hands palm at your plump ass. Finally one hand snakes up your body to tease your nipples, he pulls and pinches, even smacking your tits at one point. And fuck, it's enough to make you cum.

You soak his face with pure lust, rocking your hips needily against his face as you ride out your high. A fantasy you've had since you were a teenager has finally come true.

Jack strokes your thighs as you come down from your high. He starts undressing now, throwing his t-shirt over his shoulder. He disregards his pants somewhere and then his boxers.

"Fuck me, daddy, please. My pussy is so empty. Fuck!" you whine out in pure need. You're not even sure what you're saying.

He sits up on his heels between your still quivering thighs.

"Oh baby, you don't have to beg daddy to fuck you. I'm going to. I'm gonna give you daddy's cock," he promises as he strokes every inch of himself.

Finally, he's pressing into your weeping cunt, and you're squirming underneath him. He loves how you squirm. Honestly, it's a turn on he never imagined. But now he can't imagine sex without it...without you.

He groans as he bottoms out on you, seeing how your stomach flares with the length of him. You whimper as you get used to the stretch.

"So big, daddy," you whine pulling him down to capture his lips in yours.

You taste like fucking heaven and Jack can't help but rock his hips into you. And then another roll and another. And finally he's fucking you, his hips snapping against yours. The room is filled with the sound of skin on skin and both of your heady moans mixed together.

"Fuck! Fuck!" you scream out as his thumb finds your clit again. His lips dip down to suck at your tit.

"Fuck! My pussy, daddy. Oh fuck, my pussy's gonna cum."

Jack pops off your tit and smirks.

"Yea, baby. Cum for daddy. Let that sweet pussy milk daddy's cock," he growls.

His filthy words and the pressure of his thumb on your clit has you seeing stars. You scream out as you cum, squirting over his cock. This display makes his eyes go all wide. He's never seen that before.

He moves his free hand to press into your mouth, his ring and middle finger pushing your tongue down. But it does nothing to stop you from sucking on them, showing him what he's missed out on. His wedding ring knocks against your teeth with each thrust.

It's enough to make you cum again and Jack can feel your spent pussy fluttering around his cock. When it clamps around him again he's a goner. His hips stutter and he cums with a groan. He rocks his hips slowly into you, filling you with ropes of his hot cum. His head finally falls to your neck.

You stay there for a moment, knowing that this shouldn't happen again. But it does...twice more before you go home the next night. And then practically every day when Robby is on his ill-advised sabatical. In almost every room, in both Jack and your place.

Jack has you bent over the kitchen sink after you've cooked dinner as the chill of September starts to creep in. You gave up on wearing panties a long time ago and you pretty much have an open door policy, if Jack wants you, he'll have you.

You're crying out for more when you hear footsteps in the hallway that have you both jumping apart from each other. Jack pulls his pants back up and you smooth down your skirt just as your father walks into the room. His face a mask of horror as he realises what has been happening while he was away.

"Welcome home, brother!" Jack attempts with a weak smile as you sneak into the shadows.

a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! kinda wanna stay writing dbf!Abbot for a minute...what do you think?

taglist: @sweetashhh @orangecheescakeleftover

He was nursing a bourbon he’d probably make last the entire night and he was half-listening to Langdon tell some story, his leg stretched out into the aisle, and he hadn’t seen you yet. You had a second. You could have turned around and texted Dana some bullshit excuse of getting the full eight hours and walked back to the parking lot to go home to your dog and half your bed.

You never did, though. You told yourself afterward it was because the leaving would’ve told the table something. But the truer thing, the one you didn’t want to look at directly, was that an evening without Jack had started to feel like a room with the bulb burned out. You’d gotten that bad. 

“There she is,” Dana said, twisting around in the booth, already sliding to make room. “Sit. I saved you the good side. It doesn’t wobble.”

You sat, and the good side put you diagonal from Jack, close enough that his stretched-out leg was a fact you had to arrange your own legs around under the table. He hadn’t acknowledged you yet. He was letting Langdon finish; Jack always let people finish, it was something that made patients trust him and made you, toward the end, want to put a plate through the wall because he’d let you get to the bottom of sentences you’d have killed to be interrupted out of.

But you watched the back of his neck change as his shoulders went from loose to aware. When he turned, his eyes found yours like a bad number on a monitor, faster than he could’ve chosen. For half-a-second, before his face caught up, he looked so completely undefended. Then it was gone and he looked at you like you were weather he'd been told about. 

“Huh,” he breathed, picking his bourbon back up. “They let your department fraternize with the help now, or are you slumming?”

“Dana kidnapped me.” You reached over and took the lime off his rim. He’d never once in his life used it—he hated citrus in bourbon—and only got it because Marlene behind the bar had been putting it in each time. Jack had decided somewhere around your wedding that debating her on it was more than what the lime was worth. 

You bit it and set the rind into his napkin where it went, where it had always gone. 

His eyes tracked you as you did it without any comment. The better half of five years of the lime and he’d never once said anything, only bought you the garnish on his own drink. 

“How was your floor?” you asked.

“Slow.” He turned the glass a quarter-turn on the table, an old tell, the thing his hands did when he was trying very hard to keep his words scarce. “Knock on something.” 

“But I like watching you suffer,” you drawled. 

He huffed at that. “I know.”

That was it. He was good at letting things sit, it was the worst of his habits, the way he could absorb a thing you said and just hold it instead of returning it. Half your sentences to him used to end in a silence you'd eventually have to fill yourself. You'd forgotten how much work it was. You'd forgotten you used to do all the talking and call it conversation.

“You got Kevin this week?” Dana asked from beside you. 

Jack, without a beat of hesitation, said, “She’s got Kilo this week.”

Javadi, the new and curious med student in the ER, looked between both of you with furrowed brows. “Sorry. Kevin or Kilo? Is that—are those two dogs?”

“One dog,” you said.

“Yup. One dog,” Jack agreed.

“Then why—” Javadi started.

“His name’s Kilo,” Jack said.

“No, his name’s Kevin.”

Javadi’s head went between you as though she was watching a tennis match. The table laughed because they’d heard this a hundred times and it never stopped being funny to them; the divorced two doing their oldest bit, the one argument that had outlived the marriage that spawned it.

“His papers say Kilo,” Jack said in Javadi’s direction.

Robby, who’d been completely invested in his own drink, said, “And your papers say divorced.”

“And we very much are, thank you,” you said, picking it up before the laugh had finished.

Jack stayed silent then. Robby, he’d have something for. But this was you saying it, easy and completely certain in front of everyone. The leg that had been stretched into your space this entire night drew back slowly, a small retreat nobody at the table except you could’ve felt. He turned the glass a quarter-turn. 

You’d done it on purpose. You’d felt the whole night immediately tilting into the warm dangerous fiction of it and you’d reached for the one sentence that would shut it, and you’d swung it at the only person who’d actually feel the blade. 

The facts of your divorce were no concern to anyone but the two of you at the table, but you could feel Jack flinch inwardly by the announcement that blanketed it all; that you now lived in separate homes, that the dog was scheduled like a custody hearing; that the word ‘we’ had a tense and it was past. None of it was news. He’d signed the same papers you had in the same flat conference room, with the same pen the mediator kept clicking until you'd wanted to scream. He knew the facts better than anyone. And still you'd watched him wince when you said it out loud.

He'd built a whole life on the difference between a thing being true and a thing being spoken; it was how he ran a trauma bay, how he told a family the worst news in the world in a voice that never broke, how he'd ended your marriage without ever once saying the words that would've made it real, just withdrawing by degrees until you were the one who had to say them for him. He'd made you do that too. He made you do all the saying. And now you'd said this, and he was sitting there absorbing it the way he absorbed everything, quietly, like he'd decided long ago that taking it without a sound was the least of what he had coming.

“Just fucking do it, Jack.”

And he did—finally, finally—push into you with a single long stroke that dragged a sound out of both of you, his coming out through his teeth, and yours into the pillow. His forehead came down between your shoulder blades. He stayed there for a second, breathing, one hand splayed wide over your hip and the other braced into the mattress beside your hips. His weight settled onto the left leg the way it always settled, a decision his body stopped having to make years ago. You could feel him shaking with the effort of not moving yet, of dragging it out, because he always did this, he always made you ask twice. 

“Christ,” he breathed into your spine. “You feel—” he started, and let the words die as his teeth gently pressed into the bone at the top of your shoulder. It was then he started to move.

He fucked like he did everything else with his hands; he was methodical, attentive, and so devastingly present. He went in believing there was always a correct rhythm, and he intended to find it just to ruin you with it. He’d learned by repetition until it stopped requiring thought, until he could play you without looking, and the worst part—the one you’d never say out loud—was that it worked. It always worked. He knew the exact angle that made you stop being a person with opinions about him. 

That long stroke dragged slow on the way out and snapped deep on the way back in, and your whole body misfired around him whether you’d given it permission to or not.

His palm slid up from your hip to flatten between your shoulder blades and pressed, folding you down into the mattress, taking the choice out of your spine. And the new angle had you gasping into the sheets because he’d done it on purpose; he always did everything on purpose, and now he was hitting that place that made your fingers curl and your thighs shake and a thin embarrassing whine climb out you that you’d have died before making it sober. 

Jack felt the exact second your control went and he leaned into it, hips grinding deep and unhurried, holding you right there on the edge of too-much like he was reading everything under your skin. 

“That’s it,” he drawled out, his voice low and even, the bastard, like he had all night, like he wasn’t already wrecked behind the voice. “Yeah, I’ve got you.” And he did. He had you exactly where he wanted you and you let him, because no one had ever taken you apart this precisely, this patiently, like your falling apart was the only thing on his list and he intended to do it right.

The dog tags swung forward and dragged close across your back when he leaned over you, then warm when they settled against your skin, and you thought—stupidly, with the part of your brain that should’ve been offline—that you used to fall asleep listening to that chain shift when he breathed. You thought there had been a version of this where afterward he stayed. You shoved that thought down. You arched your back into him instead and he made a punched-out noise, low in his chest, his grip going tight on you to leave the marks.

“Slow down,” he muttered more to himself than you, but he didn’t. His hips stuttered out of their careful rhythm because this was the one place his composure failed; it was the one place where the sealed-up, gallows humor, watching-you-over-the-glass version of him came apart at the seams. 

You’d figured this out over the months. This was the only place Jack was honest. He’d never say the things across a table, in daylight, with his clothes on. But here, with his cock buried inside of you and his composure shot, the truth leaked out of him in fragments he wouldn’t be accountable for later. 

“Missed this,” he got out, ragged, his mouth at the back of your neck now, words pressed into your hairline like he could bury them in there. “Missed you, fuck. You’ve got no idea, sweetheart, the things I—” 

“Don’t.” You didn’t want it. You wanted it so badly your chest ached and that was exactly why you didn’t want it, because you knew what it was worth in the morning, which was nothing, which was a text about whether you’d remembered to walk Kevin. “Jack. Don’t talk. You can’t—” You let out a gasp as he pressed his hips completely flush against yours, chasing you to the hilt, as if he could physically expel the words out of you. “Can’t fuck me into being with you again.”

You felt him falter at the words, just for a beat, the rhythm catching like you’d reached back and put a hand flat on his sternum. He slowed, dragged himself almost all the way out and held there, trembling, his whole weight coming down over your back so his mouth was now at your ear and you could feel everything against the shell of it.

“I know,” he said, words ragged. “I know I can’t. Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

His hand moved around the dip of your waist, and he pulled out of you slow, the loss making you bite down on a sound. Then he was rolling you, one palm flat and insistent on your hip, turning you under him onto your back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“No—” You got an arm up, forearm against your own eyes, because you knew what he wanted, and you weren’t going to give it to him. The face, the looking. From behind, you could keep it what it was; turned over, you’d have to be there for it. “Jack, leave it. I don’t—”

“Hey.” He held your wrist, thumb working into the soft inside of it where your pulse was going stupid. “C’mon. Move the arm.”

“No.”

“You won’t even—” He let out a low laugh, disbelieving, almost wounded. “You’ll let me do every other thing but you won’t even look at me?”

“That’s different.”

“Yeah.” He went quiet for a moment, and his hand slid up the inside of your thigh, holding you open, patient as anything. He knew exactly what the looking was and exactly why you were hiding from it, and he was going to wait you out. “I know it is. Move the arm anyway.”

He braced over you on his arm, the other hand drawing slow idle circles high on your thigh, his cock notched against you and not pushing in, just there, the threat and promise of him, while he looked down at the arm over your face. You could feel him watching.

So you did move the arm, mostly just to spite him by giving him exactly what he wanted. His face was right there—jaw tight, eyes gone dark and fixed on you like you were the only lit thing in the room—and the second you met it, the slight smugness melted clean down the middle and there was just the wanting underneath, naked and his.

“Thank god,” he breathed before pushing back into you. His eyes tracked your face scrunch up at the familiar—too familiar—pleasure like he’d been starving for exactly this. His hand left your jaw and found your knee, hooking it up higher over his hip. He’d always known your left hip sat wrong, that this was the angle that didn’t ache after; the same way you knew, without ever being told, to take the weight off his right side, the two of you arranging yourselves around each other the way you always had. “Knew you were in there somewhere.”

“Don’t get sentimental, Jack” you said, breathless. “You’ll pull something.”

He huffed a laugh against your jaw. Your hand had gone to his left shoulder and you pressed your thumb into the knot that always sat under the blade after a long shift, working it slow while he moved in you. He groaned low and helpless at the unexpected mercy of it.

“Mouthy,” he managed to say. “Even now.”

“You’re so—so insufferable.”

His mouth found the corner of yours and his hand slid up your ribs so his thumb could catch the underside of your breast exactly where he knew; your back came up off the mattress for him. “You married me anyway. What’s that say about you?”

You got your fingers to his hair and scratched once at the base of his skull, the thing that used to put him to sleep in under five minutes, something you’d done about a thousand times in a bed you no longer shared. You watched his eyes go briefly unfocused with how much his body remembered it meant being safe. You hated that you’d done it. 

The easy heat in him went somewhere graver, and his hand came up to cover yours where it rested in his hair. He pinned it there, keeping the touch on him, like he couldn’t bear for you to take it back.

“Why’d you—” His hips stuttered. “Why’d you have to go, huh?”

“Don’t,” you said quickly, and your hand came out of his hair—you made it come down, fighting the pin of his fingers—and you planted your palm against his chest to put an inch back between the two of you. “Don’t talk. Just—shut up. Jack, shut up and—”

He took in a breath, lips still parted like he wanted to talk. You’d expected it. Jack was fabulous at saying everything important while inside you or when he was halfway asleep.

“Yeah.” He nodded shakily. “Yeah. Okay.”

He got an arm under the small of your back and hauled you up into him, and the next stroke was just deep and selfish, like he’d stopped trying to make his point and now was only trying to get somewhere. The slow ruinous tenderness burned off into something with no thought left in it, and your body surged up to meet it—God—yes, this, you could do, this didn’t ask you for anything you’d sworn off. This was just the white-hot animal fact of him and you could be all the way in without losing a single thing. 

“There,” he ground out, forehead dropped to yours, both of you breathing into the same inch of air. “There—fuck—there you go.”

Your mind went black. That was the mercy of getting it like this; the part of you that counted the times he’d said your name, that totted up what the morning had cost, went quiet, drowned clean in the simple overwhelming good of him. You grabbed at his back and pulled him in past where there was room and made a strangled noise.

His hand found yours where it was fisted in the sheet and laced through it, knuckles white, pinning it down beside your head—needing the anchor—and you gripped back just as hard. The bed was loud. Neither of you cared. You'd gone past the place where you could have stopped even if the smarter version of you had walked in and ordered it, both of you just chasing the finish now with a kind of grim mutual desperation, like if you got it done fast enough you wouldn't have to deal with what it was.

“Close,” you breathed. “Jack, I’m close—” 

“I know. C’mon, let me feel it—” His hand let go of yours and dropped between you, fingers finding you without a second of searching, the muscle-memory of you deathly absolute. “Been thinking about this all night.” 

He worked you up to the edge with his face buried in your throat and his hips snapping. The whole thing finally cresting into something neither of you could've talked through if you'd tried.

You went over first, the peak tearing through you with your nails dug into his back and your spine bowed clean off the mattress. He fucked you through every second of it, hips ramming, dragging it up past the point you could stand. And right at the end of yours his rhythm broke and went erratic, deep and grinding and graceless, and you felt the exact moment it caught him.

His arms hooked tighter under the small of your back and hauled you up into him so there was nowhere for him to go but deeper, like the thought of any distance between the two of you right now was a thing he couldn’t tolerate. Your legs wrapped around the backs of his thighs anyway, your heel pressed into the base of his spine.

“Gonna—” His voice came out shredded, into your throat. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna—fuck—”

With a low broken sound, his whole weight crushed down and his hips gave those last helpless grinding pushes, burying himself to the hilt, spilling into you with his face shoved into your neck and his hand fisted in your hair. He continued moving even then, small, greedy rolls of his hips, working himself deeper through the aftershocks, wringing every second out. 

“God.” He shuddered out the word against your pulse, hips still flush, seated as deep as he could get. His arms came around you completely—there wasn’t any inch he wasn’t holding—and he stayed there long after he finished, unwilling to give up the last of it. Greedy even now, especially now. Jack would take every second he was handed and a few he wasn’t.

His heart slammed against your ribs. His breath dragged itself slowly back down. For a moment, you let him have it. You let him stay heavy on and inside you, and you stared at the ceiling. 

After a minute—because that’s all you could grant him, a mere sixty seconds—you put your palm flat on his chest, over the spot where the dog tags had settled cold against his skin, and you pushed.

He came up on his forearms and he looked down at you. That was the hundredth mistake of the night, letting him be that close to your face with the lights of the street coming through the blinds in stripes across him. He looked at you the way he looked at you in the one place he ever did, like you were something he'd been allowed to hold and was already being asked to set back down, and the wanting in it was so total and so useless that you had to look at his collarbone instead.

Then his fingers came up to your chin, tilting your head up gently to meet his eyes again. “I wish you weren’t so cruel to me in front of people.” he said, voice coming out so rough. 

You knew exactly which part of the night he was talking about. He’d carried it the whole way here—through the parking lot, through the drive, through all of this, your body still humming with him—and he’d held onto it the entire time, only to let it out now because now was the only time he could.

“It’s not cruel if it’s true,” you said. “Nobody thought it was cruel.”

“No, nobody thought anything.” He caressed your jaw just slightly, and you stilled under the grazing touch. “I still felt it.” 

Maybe it was the hour, or the drinks still thinning in you, or just the unbearable fact of him looking at you. Regardless of what it was, the lid you kept on the old thing slipped, and you didn't get it back down in time.

“Don’t talk to me about cruelty, Jack,” you said quietly, holding his eyes even though you could feel your own burn. You could do it for once, because he was the one that looked like he needed a collarbone to fix his gaze on. “It was your cruelty that did this.”

His thumb stopped at your jaw. And then, instead of the stillness you’d expected, his hand slid back into your hair and his arm came around you and he pulled you in, the whole weight of him bearing down. His face went into your neck. 

You froze under him, suddenly hating him all over again for making this harder and harder each time.

“Go home,,” you said, and it came out lower than you’d wanted it to.

He let out a shaky breath against your skin. “I’d like to stay with you for one night. If you asked.” 

Your hands came up to his shoulders. You gently pushed. “I’m asking you to go.”

He came up off you slow, by degrees, and the cold rushed into every place he’d just been. He never argued; he only gave you offers where with the condition of you having to ask welded into them. He sat up on the edge of the bed with his back to you and reached for his shirt off the floor.

People at the hospital had a word for you and it was ‘difficult.’ You’d made peace with it years ago. What you didn’t have a word for was the tired. You’d been tired before; this had a different grain to it, bone-level and sitting-behind-your eyes. Twice this week the floor had gone soft and far away when you stood up too fast. You’d put a hand on the counter and waited it out and told no one.

You hadn't eaten, either. The granola bar was still in your bag. So when you stood up from the workstation to walk the corrected units down yourself, the room didn't gray at the edges this time. It dropped. The whole thing tilted bright then dim, your hand reached for the counter and missed it by an inch, and the next clear thing was the floor being closer than it should be and a hand hard around your arm.

“Okay—I’ve got you. Sit.” Dana, you recognized. Of course it was Dana; she had a sixth sense for the exact second a person stopped standing upright. She steered you down to a chair before you’d finished falling. “Head down. Between the knees. You’ve told a hundred people to do this—do it.”

“I’m fine,” you said, voice coming out depleted. “I just got up too—”

“Yeah, you’ve been getting up fast a couple times this week.” " Her hand was on the back of your neck, two fingers at your pulse, and she wasn't looking at your face, she was looking at her watch, counting, and the professionalism of it—the way she'd switched you from colleague to patient without asking your permission—made something cold go through you. “When’d you eat, hon?”

“I ate.”

“When?” When you stayed silent, she said, “That’s what I thought.”

She straightened up and you heard her turn. “Hey! Somebody grab Robby. No, he’s not—just grab him.” She turned back to you, and gentler than you wanted, in a way that told you exactly how bad you looked, she said, “We’re gonna put you in a room. Don’t make a face. We’re gonna put you in a room, run some fluids, check a couple things. If it’s nothing—thank god—then it’s nothing, and you can be insufferable about it for weeks. But you went down, sweetheart, and I’m not arguing with you about it.”

You wanted to argue; you wanted to refuse the chair and go back to work instead of occupying a bed at work. But you were so tired. You were tired, and some animal part of you had already known that for two weeks and had been waiting, with a patience that frightened you, for someone to make you stop.

So you let Dana walk you to the room. You let her pull the curtain. You sat on the edge of the gurney in a department you'd worked in for over a decade and let a colleague put a line in your arm, and you stared at the corner of the blood pressure cuff and did not let yourself think the one thought that had started, very quietly, somewhere underneath the tired, to assemble itself, and would not finish assembling until Robby came in twenty minutes later with your labs and a look on his face you couldn't read, and asked you, carefully, like a man stepping onto ice, when your last period was.

You’d seen him tell a people about death with more steadiness than he was managing right now, standing at the foot of your gurney with a tablet he wasn't looking at, asking you about your cycle like the answer was already on the screen and he was just giving you the courtesy of arriving at it yourself.

“Why?” you asked flatly.

“Just humor me. Tell me.”

You told him and he had no reaction, and that was how you knew. Robby’s face had gone completely neutral.

“Okay,” he said, setting the tablet down. “Your labs came back. Everything’s—the anemia’s mild. That’s the lightheadedness and not-eating. We’ll sort that out.” He paused, took a breath in, and the cold thing that had gone through you on the floor came back and sat down in your chest and stayed. “Your hCG’s elevated.”

You felt your body run cold then.

“That’s the pregnancy hormone,” he said gently. He was a teacher before anything, and that reflex was still on, even with you.

“I know what hCG is, Robby,” you said, the words coming out sharp, voice cracking the last word in half. You saw him nod sharply as he decided to ignore it. “I—I know what it is.”

“It’s early,” he said. “Numbers are consistent with early, which means you’ve got time. That’s what I’m saying. You’ve got time to think about whatever you need to think about.” He was being so careful. “I didn’t put it into anything yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

Early. You’ve got time. 

He picked the tablet up—done being a doctor about it now, the official part handled—and leaned a hip against the counter, and his voice changed, going off-duty.

“Hey,” he said. “Congratulations.”

You nodded, your mind already distant. 

“You gonna tell Jack?”

Your mind sharpened. For a second, you genuinely didn’t understand the sentence. Your brain refused it wholly, turned it over to look for the trick. There was no way Robby knew—there was no way anybody knew—because you’d been so careful, the whole thing happened in the dark precisely so it wouldn’t seep into the light, so nobody could say a sentence like that. Your stomach dropped through the gurney.

“Huh?” 

Robby looked at you, then shrugged. “I just figured, because you two still talk. He’d want to know. Big life thing.” Then, he added softer, misreading your face completely, “I guess it’s really over between the two of you then?”

You felt your breath hitch in your throat. That was what people would think when it got out, that the door has finally shut. They’d think you were getting clear, a baby with somebody new means the Jack-of-it-all was finally done, mercifully done. That you’d moved on and met someone, that you were building a thing past the divorce you survived. This was supposed to be proof of it. The sad civilized arrangement nobody named, ended at last by a life you were starting without him.

Robby had it exactly backwards and he had no way to know it. It was the furthest thing from over. It was likely the most permanent thing that had ever happened to you, and it had Jack’s name and only Jack’s name. The thing Robby believed to be your way out was the thing that could mean there’d never be a way out. Not anymore, if you chose to have this child. Not ever. You’d be tied to Jack Abbot. A year and a half of getting clear by inches.

You realized Robby was still standing there and that he’d asked you something. He was waiting for an answer you didn’t have the throat for.

“Can you give me a minute?” Your voice came out hoarse. “Just—a minute. Please. And don’t put it into anything yet. Just—don’t let anyone know.”

Robby nodded, probably thinking you needed a beat to let the good news settle, to feel something private and large before the world got its hands on it. “Course. I’ll hold the room, keep people out. Take your time.” 

His hand found your shoulder on the way past, squeezing, and then the curtain rings scraped along the rod and he was gone. 

It all came up at once, fast and without warning. Your hand was flat on the edge of the gurney and you watched it shake, and you made it stop. You could always make your hands stop. What you couldn’t do was make the rest of it stop. The rest of it was the thought you wouldn't think of, thinking itself anyway, and the worst part was the voice it came in, your own, flat, professional, the one you used to walk a frightened patient through their options without ever letting it shake. You could end it. It's early. Numbers consistent with early. You knew exactly how early early was. You knew the window, the way you knew the shelf life of a unit of platelets down to the day. You knew how clean it was, how legal, how completely nobody's business but your own. There was a door. Right now, there was still a door.

There was a door. There was, right now, still a door; it was the realest door, the one that actually led all the way out that would let you walk back into the life where you got clear of Jack Abbot for good and never had to share a child or a custody calendar or a name with him. He would give you Kevin, you knew that. Over would mean over, for good, where in five years you’d be a woman the hospital remembered being married once, to the ER’s night shift attending, you know the one.

You could take that door. It was yours to take. Nobody even had to know. 

You sat in the small bright room and made yourself look directly at the door and waited to feel the relief of it, yet it didn’t come. What came instead, rising up under the grief like a second tide, worse than the first, was a thing you had no word for and no right to and could not, would not, look at straight on, was that it was Jack’s.

You wished you could see it as a curse, and somewhere in the last thirty seconds it had turned over in you and come up as something else; a small, traitorous, and warm thing. It was the exact warmth that had locked your ankles around him, the same warmth that had opened the door for him every night. A piece of him you could get to keep, that no amount of divorce could put back in its box. The one version of forever you two were going to get. And a part of you, a part you despised with everything you had, wanted it. More than the baby in the abstract. His, specifically and unforgivably. 

You put your hand over your mouth as you felt it all come up, and you cried—the real way, the way you hadn’t since the lawyer’s office. You cried a cry that came up from the root and shook you apart, alone, in a place where you worked, with only a curtain covering you. 

You couldn’t have heard the shift change happen on the other side of the curtain. The hospital had kept turning around your little curtained box, that somewhere out there it had ticked over into evening and the day people were handing the floor to the night people. You hadn’t heard any of it. 

You hadn’t heard Dana catch him at the board, and she would have—you know she would have tried—put a hand flat on his chest the second she saw which way he was moving. You only heard the curtain rings scrape against the rod. 

You looked up—ruined, mid-breath, your hand still pressed over your own mouth with your face holding an expression no one had ever seen you do. And there was Jack with one hand still fisted in the curtain he'd thrown back, stopped dead in the gap of it.

He’d come in braced, almost with the same register he came in when there was a level 1 trauma, except this one was a case of lightheadedness. His sleeves were shoved to his elbow, jaw already set, and he’d walked in expecting to find blood or something else equal to that, a thing he’d be able to clean up and fix. He had a hand half-raised for it, and it stayed there, hovering, for it had nothing to fix. 

You knew his face better than your own; there’d never once been a thing he could’ve kept from you, not even when it felt like he was hardly your husband, especially then. You watched the readiness dissipate off of Jack’s face, watched the doctor leave him by degrees until what was left standing was just Jack. 

Just Jack had no protocol for this; there was nothing he’d been taught to do with his face when you were crying because you didn’t cry.

He of all people knew so. He’d sat at a conference table with you while a mediator clicked a pen and you signed your name with a hand that was too steady. He’d carried his own boxes down to the truck while you watched from the upstairs window, dry-eyed, because tears would have made it all real and you refused—out of spite, out of the last thing you had—to make it real where he could see. 

His mouth opened, and his throat worked around words, any word. When he finally spoke, it was just your name, and it came out cracked down the middle, like a plea and a prayer. 

He had no idea. It made you sob slightly louder than you would’ve liked, the realization that he was standing there gutted with fear for you, scared past the edge of himself, and he did not know. Jack could not have known that he was the answer, that you were the answer. If he’d asked you what had happened, the whole truth would have been his name and your own; it would have been the thing you’d done together in the dark a couple dozen times and called nothing. 

“I hate you,” you said, because the only thing you’d been capable of doing was throwing up a wall, driving him out with your own two hands. And it didn’t work, because the words had come out between sobs, wet and wrong, the cruelty falling apart on the way out. 

He didn’t argue it. He never argued the ones he thought were true. He just took it the same way he’d taken every other blow you’d ever landed, without ever lifting a hand to stop it, as though he’d decided a long time ago this was the least of what he had coming.

Still, something moved through him when the words hit, a flinch, a wince that started behind his eyes and pulled his whole face down with it. 

He came the rest of the way to you anyway, and your hand came up between you—far from a hit, there was nothing left in your arm to make one, just the heel of your palm landing against his chest, more sob turned outward than strike. It pushed against nothing. Jack didn’t even rock with it. And then your fingers were curling into the fabric over his sternum instead, gripping when you’d wanted to shove, the same failure of your hands as two weeks ago; pushing him away and hauling him in, your body unable to decide which.

“You—” Another blow, glancing off his chest. “Why did we have—”

“Okay.” He let you continue, letting the first ones land, face stricken and bewildered as he absorbed the blows for a crime he couldn’t name. “Okay. Okay, hey—”

You drew back, and when your hand closed in again, his own came up and closed around your wrist. You could’ve pulled free—he’d left you room for it—but you let him keep holding it there against his chest where you’d been striking him.

“What happened,” he said, words coming out quietly, not even a question. “Whatever it is. Talk to me. What happened?”

He started to move into you, closing the space between you by inches, his other hand coming up to your face, your shoulder, somewhere, anywhere, his whole self trying to fold into your orbit the way it always had. “Just tell me,” he said, closer now, voice dropped lower, into a register it stayed it when it was only the two of you. “Let me—”

“No.” You twisted your wrist in his hand and turned your face away from the one coming toward it. “You can’t just—I won’t let you—”

His forehead had dropped down to hover over your temple, the warmth of him crowding into every place you’d been trying to wall off. “I’m not. I’m not doing anything. I’m just here—let me be here.”

Here. He’d said the word so softly, with so much surety, like it was a small thing to ask, like it had been a place he’d ever once been. The wall you'd been holding with both hands didn't come down so much as it went out from under you, the way the floor had two weeks ago, all at once and without your permission.

You stopped twisting away. You felt him feel the fight going out of your wrist under his fingers and felt the new alertness move through him.

“You want to be here,” you said into his chest, where your fists were still knotted in his shirt, the words coming out muffled aimed at the fabric. Then, through a disbelieving laugh devoid of any humor, you said, “You want to be here?”

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Fucking—” The laugh that tore out of you was anything but one. “Congratulations, then.” Your forehead pressed down hard against his sternum, your eyes squeezed shut, because you couldn’t say it and knew you were going to anyway. At least you wouldn’t have to watch. “Fuck—You’re gonna be a father.”

Everything that had been moving stopped all at once; the hand at your jaw, the thumb that had been working slow along your wrist, the whole restless warmth of him trying to fold into you went motionless. For a second, he didn’t even breathe.

You forced yourself to look up. You wanted, somewhere mean and small and ten years old, to see it touch Jack. You wanted to finally watch something get all the way through. 

You got it, and it was worse than you’d let yourself imagine.

The first thing that fell of was the part that told you he was ready to fix this, fix you. It fell clean off, his brows furrowing in worry, a tell that looked too tiny for something this large. 

For a second—less than that, before he could pull the reins on it—something that had no business being there moved under the fear. You knew it because you’d felt the exact same thing only a few minutes ago, alone, the warm traitorous thing rising up under the grief. It was there, on his face—unguarded, naked, wanting—and you watched him catch it. You watched his whole face wilt as he understood, in real time, that he wasn't allowed to feel it, that the wanting was obscene standing next to your wreckage, and you watched him put it away. He got it back behind the wall fast, the way he got everything back behind the wall.

Only his hands gave him up. The one at your jaw had started to shake.

He let out a choked sound, like he was trying to lift the words out of his chest but they kept getting stuck halfway. 

“You’re—” He stopped himself and swallowed, not being able to get the back half of a sentence out of his own throat. “We’re—?”

“Yeah.”

His fingers around your wrist pulled it closer to his chest, as if he could press it through his body and into wherever the words wouldn’t come from. 

It's been three days since you blew up in Titus's face. 

Three days and you still haven't answered any of his texts. 

He's starting to get fucking angry. 

Titus: I pay you to answer me. Pick up your fucking phone. 

Titus: I pay for your fucking phone plan. Answer your damn phone. 

Titus: Do not make me come over there. 

Little does he know, you tossed that phone the day of your argument. So when he tracks it and finds it in a bush a few blocks away from the hotel you stormed out of, he knows you're gone. 

You've left him completely. 

Because you aren't in the house he bought you. 

The car he got you is left on the street with parking tickets piling up. 

You haven't bought a thing on any of the credit cards he has given you. 

To make matters worse, nothing of yours remains. 

It's like you wiped the earth of your existence. 

The bed doesn't smell like you. None of your soaps are in the bathroom. You took every ugly mug that you brought from your shitty little studio from when you first met Titus. 

All that is left is a hollow shell of what was once a lived in, vibrant home…

A place Titus loved to go to, to be with you in your element. 

The warmth he can never get back.

Because he has no fucking idea where you went. 

And it's all his fault. 

He knows that. 

But he can't possibly live without you. 

Not when he has grown so used to the comfort you provide him.

Why else would he spend copious amounts of money to keep you by his side?

But you don't want his money anymore.

You want nothing to do with him.

And so, you're gone. 

After a certain while, you didn't need his money anymore. You had plenty of it. That's just what happens when you never have to pay a bill while still getting paid. You were sitting on a giant pile of money that you never needed to use. 

That you plan on living the rest of your life with. 

Titus probably never thought that you had a plan in place for the day you were done with him. Maybe that was his ego or his trust that you and him had something more than just a transactional relationship.

You believed, for a moment, that it could be possible. That you could be more than just the person he pays to be available to him whenever he wants you to be. That you could mean something deeper. 

But then he said the stupidest fucking thing you've ever heard in your life. 

“I'm getting married.” He tells you as you're stepping into the hotel room with him.  

“Alright.” You respond with a curt nod, not phased by his words at all. “I'll pack my things and go then.” 

“What? Why?” Titus is confused. 

You look at him, just as confused. “What do you mean “why”? You're getting married. You don't need me anymore.” 

“Of course I need you.” He steps up to you, his hands going up to cup your face. “She's just my wife. You'll always be my princess.” 

You scoff, pulling his hands off of you. “In case you forgot our agreement, I told you that the moment you got in any kind of serious relationship, this would end. I'm not looking to be tangled in a mess.” 

“You can't be serious.” He knows that's what he agreed to, but that was years ago. 

Surely you aren't holding him to that when the two of you have done so much together…right? 

But you do. “I am serious. Your wife deserves your undivided attention.”

Though, you really only said that because it's what you deserve. And the thought of him going home to someone else sinks your heart into your stomach.

You'd rather not play that game. You'd rather just remove yourself entirely. 

Even if it means giving him up. 

“She's barely my wife. It's an arranged marriage.” 

“That doesn't change our agreement.” 

“Fuck the agreement.” Titus pulls out his phone, logging into his bank app. “Name a number and I'll pay it.” 

You stare at him, baffled. “There's no number you can pay that'll make me change the one boundary I established, Titus. I told you from the very beginning that the moment you had anyone else, I would be done.”

“But I don't care about her.”

“You don't care about me either.” You say back to him, clear as day. “Because if you did, you wouldn't throw money at me in a poor attempt to sway me. You would understand where I'm coming from, if you really cared.”

But you know he doesn't care about anyone except himself. 

That is made very apparent when he goes, “you aren't allowed to just leave me because I'm getting married.”

“I'm not allowed?” You let out a laugh at that. “Okay, watch me.”

So, you do. You walk right out of that hotel room. You toss the phone he gave you into a bush a few blocks away. You pay for a cab back to the house he bought for you to stay in. Then, you packed all your shit into a storage locker, paid it off for the next five years and then left. 

“She didn't leave a phone number? A forwarding address? Anything?” Titus asks the private investigator who found your storage locker.

“Nope. Got it all on tape. Just said she'd come back for her stuff in five years and paid extra to not have any questions asked.”

Because five years was the amount of time you believed it would take for Titus to forget all about you. 

You could live without your stuff for five years. You don't mind waiting. It was better than to be tied down to a married man. 

You weren't inexperienced when it came to the world of being a sugar baby. Titus is not your first sugar daddy. But he was the first you made your strict agreement with. Because you had dealt with it enough times before.

It gets way too messy when there's a significant other or a family involved. And you knew Titus wanted to have children eventually. 

You were not going to be the other woman that would inevitably haunt those children and their mother. You refuse to be the boogeyman that instills distrust in his family unit.

Even if Titus has never been a very honest man to begin with. But still, you had your moral boundaries. This was one of them, established through enough experience of how poorly it ends. 

You've barely made it out unscathed those first few times.

You surely wouldn't make it out of this one without breaking your own heart.

Because, as much as you hate admitting it to yourself, you felt something for Titus. It may have just been a strange sense of companionship but…you liked spending time with him. It wasn't like the others before him. 

Though, it helps a lot that he's incredibly handsome for an older man and takes very good care of himself. You can thank money for that but also his drive to make sure he could keep up with you in many different ways. 

It's strange to think you'll miss having sex with him. It's supposed to be work, technically. It has always been work for you, since you were eighteen and struggling to take care of yourself. 

But with him, it felt…different. 

You didn't like that it felt different. But you were paid not to think too deeply about it. 

It was hard not to when Titus confided in you that he was a virgin when he first hired you. And that since that moment, he has grown to get to know your body better than you do. He reveled in making you cum because it was something he never thought he'd ever get good at. The moment he did, he made sure never to stop. 

You figured it was mostly to stroke his ego. You thought it was because he got off on knowing he could make you unravel so easily now. 

Because it would be foolish for you to think otherwise. 

So, the thought of him having real feelings for you never crossed your mind. 

You assumed now that he had ample skill in his repertoire, he could easily find someone else to spoil if that's what he wanted. He didn't need you anymore. He never did.

That's what you think, at least. 

That isn't the truth, though.

The truth is that every day since you left him, he has been obsessively searching for you. 

Titus calls off his own wedding, telling his father to fuck off and threatens to kill anyone who attempts to marry him. That rumor spreads and it's enough to obliterate any prospects in that regard. 

He will not lose you again. He will not give you a reason to say no to him, to leave him again. 

But first, he has to find you. 

And that proves to be impossible. 

You leave no trace, besides a one-way ticket to Europe. You could be anywhere on the continent, on several different continents. That's something you did on purpose.

You figured Titus would try looking for you for a while. You thought maybe for a year or two, though you tried not to let your ego get in the way. You doubted you were all that special to him but you still remained as hidden as you could be, moving countries every few months, paying only in cash, stashing money all over the place to come back to. 

You were a ghost. And Titus hated how no matter how much money he spent, no one he hired could find you.

You never spent time in big cities. You always stayed in underdeveloped areas, places you knew had no surveillance that could ping you on facial recognition. You kept yourself busy by volunteering with local communities, which in turn fed you and housed you in most cases. 

You always left them a bit of the large lump sum you had earned from your years with Titus. 

That is what inevitably gives you away. 

“A woman matching her description has been traveling around to small towns, spending a month or two helping them with small community projects before leaving behind a large donation for anything else they might need. She's done this in several different places, all over Europe, Asia and Africa. Always moving.” One of the private investigators Titus hired explains over the phone. “It could be her.”

It is you. 

He knows it is. 

Because that's what you told him you'd do with his money if you ever were on your own. But he always said that he'd never let you go and you'd laugh, thinking it was just a joke. He was never joking. 

You were his, whether you realized it or not. You were his the moment you held him so gently when he would complain about his family, his father's abuse, his sister's intolerance, his stuck up life as someone with wealth and power. 

He was not going to risk losing his only outlet. The only person who could make him feel human. 

So, when he finds you in one of those small towns on the edge of nowhere, he pays a local to spy on you and report back to him. And he does this in each town you go to from then on. 

For five years. 

You return to the states then, having had your fun traveling around, meeting new people, enjoying the sights and sounds of different cultures and the delicious variety of cuisines. But you miss home. 

You've been away long enough. 

You no longer avoid surveillance because you assume Titus hasn't thought about you in years. You have no idea he has been watching your every movement up until now. 

That's why you're startled the moment you open your storage locker and he's inside of it. 

You blink a few times, wondering if it's just your imagination. 

But it isn't.

It is Titus. 

“What are you—” You don't see the needle in his hand. 

You just feel it when Titus stabs it into the side of your neck and you go limp immediately, falling into his arms. He holds you for a moment, breathing deep, missing the smell that only you can radiate. 

The smell of home…

You wake up so groggy. You try to remember the events that led up to this. 

Then, you remember seeing Titus. 

And then you see him, standing in the doorway, arms crossed. 

“The doctor said it would take you a few hours to wake up. You must be hungry.” He says to you like he didn't just inject you with a sedative. 

“What are you doing here?” You look around. You've never been here before. “Where am I?” 

“Let's talk over some food.” He gestures for you to follow him.

You get up from the bed, which you notice is incredibly plush compared to the ones you've been sleeping on during your travels. You also notice that you're wearing a nightgown that sits just above your ankles. And on your ankle, there is the tiniest incision mark. 

You walk out to meet up with Titus and ask, “what did you do to my ankle?”

“I put a tracking chip in it.” 

“A what.” 

“A tracking chip.” He pulls out his phone, showing the way it's pinging your location. “That way you can't go anywhere without me knowing again.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You run up to him, shoving at him. “Take it out!”

“No.” He states sternly back at you. “I am not losing you ever again.” 

“Losing me…” You can't believe what you're hearing. “Titus, you never had me to begin with. You bought my services. That's it. That's all we—”

“I don't believe you.” He cuts you off, his glare more menacing now. “I don't believe for a second that you didn't feel anything for me.” 

“What would I have felt for you?” You ask him, furrowing your brow. “You were my employer. You weren't—”

Titus doesn't let you get another word out. He just grabs your face and kisses you, pressing you right up against the wall of the hallway, his body flush against yours. You bite down on your own tongue to stop yourself from making a sound when his hard cock grinds right up against your bare pussy through his pants, making you very aware that you don't have any underwear on right now. Just a flimsy nightgown he could easily shred off. 

You push at his chest, trying to get him off of you, but he won't budge. He feels stronger than a few years ago. Bigger too… 

“Stop!” You tug him off of you by his hair and he hisses at you in response, snatching your wrists before pinning them above your head. “Let me go!”

“No.” He says directly into your face. “I'm not ever letting you go.”

You go to kick at him but he presses his thighs against your own, locking them in place, smothering you against the wall. 

You can't wriggle out of his grip!

“Titus—” Your attempt to speak to him is silenced once again by his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth, his hips grinding against yours. 

You feel his free hand slide down the side of your body and with a single rough tug, your nightgown tears off completely, leaving you bare. You squirm when his hand dips between your spread legs, touching your pussy directly. 

He chuckles that eerie laugh of his against your lips, “you haven't fucked anyone in years but you can still get this wet for me?” 

How does he know… “Have you been following me? This whole time?” 

“I let you have your fun.” He grazes your clit with his fingertips, watching how you shiver in response. “Now I'm having mine.” 

You shake your head. “Stop, Titus—”

“That's not what you're supposed to call me, princess.” He leans forward, whispering against your ear, “you know what to call me.” 

“I'm not going to—” You bite down on your lip when Titus dips two fingers deep inside of you without warning. 

You're fucked now. Because he knows that if he curls his fingers just right…

You cum immediately, unable to control the release. Your orgasm hits you hard and fast and it doesn't stop, his fingers pounding into you without mercy, pressing over and over again in the exact place they need to in order to make you squirt all over his hand. 

You're gasping for air, the pleasure overwhelming after years of not feeling anything of the sort. 

It's too much—

“Stop, daddy, please stop, please.” You cry out before he can torture you anymore.

He stops, thankfully, and you breathe out strained huffs of relief, your mind feeling fuzzy from the sudden rush of pleasure. 

“Ah, so you do remember. That's my princess.” He gives you a kiss on the cheek that provides you no sense of comfort. 

Your lip quivers from fear but you swallow back your nerves to ask, “why are you doing this?” 

“Because you left me.” Titus pulls his fingers out of you, freeing you from the torment of being filled for a moment, bringing them up to his lips so he can lick them clean while you watch. “And you made me crave you for years. Now, I'm going to have my fill of what I've missed out on.” 

You turn away from him when he tries to kiss you, drawing an annoyed grunt out of him.

“You can resist me all you want. I know you'll cum either way.” He presses his lips against your neck since you won't let him kiss your lips and he nibbles at your flesh exactly the way you like it, shooting tingles all over your body. 

Another feeling you haven't felt in years…one you've been trying to forget. 

“So you fuck me.” Your eyes shift back to his and all Titus sees is a blank stare. “And then what? What is your endgame, Titus? For us to go back to the way things were?”

“Yes.” That's all he wants. 

“That isn't going to happen and you know that.” You aren't going to pretend like everything will be okay. “It's been five years. You're married. You probably have a—”

“I'm not married. And I definitely don't have a kid.” His eyes shift down to your belly then he says, “maybe I could, though. With you.” 

“What are you talking about?” He didn't get married? 

“I called off the wedding. I made sure that no one would ever want me. So trust me when I say, I am never letting you go again.” Titus doesn't want anyone but you. “You got what you wanted. My undivided attention.”

“That isn't…” You let out a sigh. “That isn't what I want.” 

“Then what do you want? Tell me and I'll give it to you. As long as you're mine.” 

“I'm not property to be owned, Titus.” You're a human being. You discovered so much about yourself over the last few years. You don't want this life anymore. 

You want to be free. 

“You can't buy me.” You tell him, remembering how he tried to all those years ago. 

“You're right.” Titus's words shock you. “I can't buy you. But I can make sure I've ruined you just as much as you have ruined me.” 

He lets go of your wrists then. And points down the hallway. 

“Run, princess.” He shrugs off his jacket and then unbuttons his white collared shirt, draping it over you. “Because the moment I catch you, I'm going to make sure your body belongs to me.” 

You blink at him, not believing his threat. But then he goes, “ten…nine…eight—”

You run right then, pulling your arms through the sleeves of his shirt so it doesn't fall off your body. You can't let him catch you but you also know you can't run far from him. He has that tracker embedded in you.

This is just a game for him. 

Because he knows he will win. 

But he loves the chase, the thrill of catching you. 

Of trapping you completely. 

You sprint outside, picking a direction to go, spotting the giant pool. You must've paused a second too long because Titus tackles you right into the water. 

You shove and kick at him but he grabs you by the waist, tugging you towards him, swimming the two of you back up. You take in a big breath of air before you continue to fight him but he shrugs off your meager attempts, completely unphased by your hands smacking him all over the place. 

“I will tie you up if you keep this up.” He snatches your wrists again but you manage to slip out of his grip because of how slippery you are while drenched in water.

You quickly swim as fast as you can to the staircase that leads out of the pool, climbing your way up to the surface, only for Titus to tug you right back towards him by your hips.

You claw at the rim of the pool, unable to get a grip on the smooth stone, your knees scraping on the step below you with every failed attempt to worm out of his grasp. 

You think you have an opportunity when his hands let go of your hips but then your body stills at the sound of his belt unbuckling and his pants unzipping. 

And you lose the chance to escape. 

Titus has you by the hips, lining his cock up, pressing the tip into you as his body weight holds you in place. You splash water at him as a poor attempt to dissuade him from pushing any further but it only eggs him on. He thrusts more of his cock inside of you, splitting you open like he always has given his size. 

You’re too familiar with the shape of him. It's like your pussy has molded to it because every time he pounds in deeper and deeper, your legs want to give out. Your body remembers how his cock feels inside of you. His body remembers the right pace and the right angle to get your knees to wobble. 

“Titus, please, stop before I—”

“You can cum, princess.” He slides his hands up your sides before drifting inwards, cupping your breasts, tugging at your hardened nipples. “Cum for your daddy.” 

You shake your head, not wanting to. But the tension building in your core is desperate to burst free. Especially when he's playing with your breasts as he pounds his cock inside of you. He knows you love this. You love the feeling of his body holding you down. 

It doesn't help that the sound of the water rippling around you is insanely erotic. Or when you look back at Titus for a brief second and see the way his thin wet undershirt clings to his upper body, showing off just how much he has worked out since you've been gone. He wanted to make sure he was fit when you came back into his life.

He prepared himself for your return. 

This is his sick, twisted way of showing devotion. 

You chew on your lip, trying your hardest not to let a sound out, but he grabs a hold of your hair and tugs, forcing your lips to release the moans you've been keeping at bay. 

Your voice echoes through the quiet estate. 

If there was anyone nearby, they'd hear the crazed sounds you're making as Titus fucks you right through your orgasm, your eyes rolling back into your head, the pleasure searing your skin with heat. 

“See what your daddy can give you?” He pulls you back by your hair so he can hover above your face, his lips brushing against yours. “I can make you feel even better than that. You know I can, princess.” 

He presses a gentle kiss against your lips and you nearly cave, your body shaking at the simple touch of his lips. 

So you have to figure out how to push him away. 

That's why you say without skipping a beat, “I'm not on birth control. If you cum inside me, you have to marry me. I'm not having a baby with a man who isn't my husband.”

Titus slows to a stop then, as you thought he would. You bite back the disappointment you feel when he pulls out of you completely, leaving you feeling so empty. You hate that you feel empty. Because you shouldn't miss him.

You shouldn't feel anything for him.

So why does your heart stop in your chest when he goes, "is that it?” 

You turn around, sitting on the step of the pool, staring up at him. Titus looks down at your puzzled expression, smirking. 

“I said, is that it?” He repeats himself, bending forward, putting his hands on either side of you. 

“I-I…” You can't find the words.

You're not sure if you believe him. 

Why would Titus marry you? 

You're…someone he paid to teach him how to have sex. You're a body he used to warm his bed. 

You're just his sugar baby, aren't you? 

“Earth to princess.” He snaps in front of your face. “Are you going to ask for anything else or can I fuck my fiancé now?” 

“Your…” You're in so much shock that when you feel his lips on yours, you don't know how to react. 

Except for lace your fingers into his hair and pull him towards you, kissing him back. 

Titus smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss, loving how eager you are now that you're all his. 

“Are you being serious?” You breathe out, nervous that this is all some ploy.

“Give me your left hand.” He demands and you listen to him without hesitation.

You watch as he pulls your ring finger into his mouth then bites down on the base, his teeth leaving an indent like a ring would. 

“I'll get you a real ring when we leave.” His eyes roam your body, basking in the way you look with just his unbuttoned shirt on, your bare body peeking out so beautifully in the center. 

“Give me your hand.” You want to do the same to him. 

Titus slips his ring finger between your lips and you bite down on the base hard before you lightly suck on his finger, swirling your tongue around the tip of it. He groans at the sight of you teasing him like you used to. 

“I'm going to fuck that mouth later.” He warns and you respond by sinking his finger further into your mouth, faking a little gag that has him pulling his hand away. “Don't fucking tempt me, princess.” 

“You're really going to say no to me sucking your cock, daddy?” Your words make him clench his jaw, much to your amusement. 

“I'm not saying no. I'm saying wait. Because I want a taste first.” 

Titus hauls your body up until you're seated on the rim of the pool, your legs dangling off the ledge. He spreads your thighs wide open, staring at your pussy, licking his lips. He hasn't done this in a long time. 

He has missed this. 

More than you will ever know. 

There's just something wonderful about your hand in his hair, your hips grinding against his face, his tongue flicking your clit until you cum. He can't get enough of it. He could spend hours right here. 

Maybe he will. 

But you start to whine for more. “Titus, can we go to a bed at least?” 

“You don't like fucking outside? There's no one here. No need to be embarrassed, princess.” He swipes his tongue over your clit again, marveling at how swollen it's gotten from his mouth playing with it. 

“I want to fuck my fiancé in bed.” You look at him with those soft eyes you put on when you want something. He always caves when you act this cute. “Please?” 

“Please what?” He wants you to address him correctly. 

“Please daddy, can we go to bed?” You purposefully dip your hand between your legs, spreading your pussy for him. “Your princess wants you to fuck a baby inside of her.” 

His jaw clicks. Then, he lets out an insane laugh. Before he pushes you onto your back on the stone ground behind you and drives his cock right into you. 

“Titus!” You shout his name as he thrusts deep inside of you, teasing that spot right up by your womb. 

“You asked for this.” He smirks, leaning down to kiss you once. “We fuck like this then we can fuck in bed.” 

You grab him by his shirt and then in one sudden, swift motion, you push him onto his back and straddle him, riding his cock. He groans under you, cursing, “fuck, I've missed this.” 

Titus always loved it when you were on top. It's a great view. Especially when you're enthusiastic about it, grinding against him, pulling him up to kiss you, your hands roaming his chest and arms. 

“Hold on.” He whispers against your lips before he hauls you up from the ground, driving his cock deeper inside of you. 

“Oh fuck.” You grab onto his back, clinging to the wet fabric of his shirt, your legs wrapped around his middle as he carries you back into the house. “Titus, this is—when did you get so strong?” 

“Do you like how strong your daddy got just so he can toss you around?” Titus gives you a cunning smile. “Remember how much you loved it when I'd throw you down and fuck you, princess?” 

He chuckles into your shoulder when he feels your pussy clenching around him. That's enough of an answer for him. 

You cum so hard when he slams you down onto the bed, ramming his cock as deep as it can go inside of you. Stars dance in your vision, your mind going hazy from how quickly your orgasms build. It only amplifies when his lips are back on yours, kissing you with so much desire in every movement. 

By the time he finally cums inside of you, you're spent, wrung out beneath him, your body shivering all over. He has always loved the look of you like this. He'd pay to see you like this everyday from now on. 

But he doesn't have to. 

Because Titus knows you want him as much as he wants you.

And if you ever forget again, he's happy to remind you who you belong to. 

a/n: you know that scene in bridgerton where anthony gets out of the lake? yeah imagine that but titus. that's literally the only reason I wrote this, so I could fantasize about what that would look like. also pool sex. very fun!

Pope wasn't sure if he hated the summer or loved it.

He hung out awkwardly in a chair by the pool, cold beer sweating in his hand under the glare of the early summer sun. San Diego had a habit of being hot nearly all year round, but there was something about the end of spring that had everyone and their mother calling the Codys for a party. Bikinis, drugs, old friends of his brothers he barely talked to. All in the name of summer. By noon the backyard already smelled like chlorine, sunscreen, cigarette smoke, and grilled meat from the burgers Deran was flipping on the grill. Music blared from the speakers mounted under the patio awning so loud it vibrated the large floor to ceiling windows of the house.

With J taking college classes too, there had been more people around. Pope always figured his nephew was more the loner type, same as him, even if girls seemed to flock to the kid anyway. But college had done something to J—it seemed to draw him out of his shell a little. He had more friends around the house, more nights out, more people filling Smurf’s backyard until Pope barely recognized half of them anymore.

That's how they'd met you, too.

You—just a friend of J's, you'd clarified more than once to Pope—who looked so fucking cute in that little red bikini you had on. He could just see the red ties of the bottoms poking from cutoff shorts with the frays brushing your thighs every time you moved. A can of Diet Pepsi sat in your hand with one of those little pink straws poking out the top so you wouldn’t ruin your lipstick. Pope always made sure they stayed stocked in the garage fridge, even if he didn’t spend as much time at Smurf’s house anymore. But when he knew the guys were throwing something, when he knew J would be here, he somehow always found his way back over. Because if J was here, there was a good chance you’d be trailing in behind him sooner or later.

But he often wondered what you and J truly were, no matter how many times you said he was a friend. Why were the two of you tied at the hip so god damn much? It made Pope's knuckles blanch when he thought of all the time his nephew got to spend with you.

Now you were standing across the yard with your head tipped back laughing at something J said while Nicky stood beside you smoking a shared joint, the end burning bright orange each time she inhaled. Smoke curled through the air around all of you, mixing with the sharp chemical smell of pool chlorine baking under the heat. Pope watched J lean down closer to hear whatever you were saying over the music and felt his jaw tighten hard enough to ache.

"Hey—"

He looked over to see Craig handing him a fresh beer. Pope hadn’t even realized the one in his hand was empty already, his knuckles white around the neck of the bottle.

He merely grunted, taking it from his brother.

"You look like you need something harder than a beer, but I know you better."

Pope's lip twitched, hardly stealing a glance at him.

Craig let out a low whistle. “What’s got your panties in a twist today, huh?”

Pope finally looked over at him then. Craig had his sunglasses shoved up into his hair, dark locks tucked behind his ears, blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and amusement.

"Go away." Pope said simply.

"Oh, now I really wanna know." Craig grinned as he sat down beside him.

Pope clicked his tongue against his teeth and twisted the cap off the beer, taking a long drink of the cold amber liquid while his eyes drifted back toward you again. By then the back gate was opening, and he watched your entire demeanor change.

First, it was your smile that slipped. Then your eyes flicked toward the guys coming through the gate, then over to Nicky beside you, and you murmured something to her, but Pope was too far away and it was so fucking loud out here to hear anything. His attention sharpened immediately anyway, ears pricking up like a mutt waiting for a command.

The guys spilling into the backyard were long and lean in only that college-kid kind of way. Floppy hair, muscle tees loose over wiry arms, sunburnt shoulders, a thirty pack of Bud Light swinging between them. Pope knew the type without ever stepping foot on a campus himself.

"Oh, shit." Craig muttered when he followed Pope's hardened gaze.

One of the guys had walked right up behind you, tossing an arm over your shoulders familiarly, and yet Pope saw your whole body go still under it. He couldn’t see your expression from here, only the way your head turned slightly toward Nicky. Across from you, J stood with his beer hanging loose in his hand, watching quietly, his face flattening out into that cold look he’d gotten better at lately. The Cody look.

"Easy, man. She's fine." he heard his little brother say beside him.

Pope felt like he was vibrating as he watched, ready to jump at any sign of this asshole giving you a hard time. He knew you could handle yourself too, but there was something about this guys confidence, how he thought he could come into his house and prey on his girl.

Pope stopped himself there. Not his girl. Not his house, really, either. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until his mouth filled with the taste of iron.

Then you slipped neatly out from under the guy’s arm, moving away from the group while lifting your drink toward the questioning looks they threw after you. Gotta get a refill. you called over your shoulder, as you walked away quickly.

But the second your back turned to them, your expression dropped. Plain annoyance sat across your face clear as day. Your shoulders folded inward a little while you crossed through the yard, weaving between people with your drink clutched against your stomach, making yourself smaller.

A little bit later, when you came back out into the yard with a new cold drink in hand, Craig was talking about some job he'd found—some mattress warehouse with a safe stacked with cash. Pope was only half listening. His attention snagged the second you stepped through the sliding glass door barefoot, little beads of condensation sliding down the side of your soda can onto your fingers.

You paused halfway across the patio, clearly intending to head back toward J, but the view of all those guys still talking around him seemed to make you pause. Your fingers tapped the side of the aluminum can in your hand, and then—to his surprise and horror—your head swiveled, and you were looking at him.

At Pope.

And now you were walking towards him. His heart lept in his chest.

Craig noticed immediately, straightening up in his lounge chair with that easy grin he wore around pretty girls.

"Hey—" Craig started, but you weren't even looking at him.

“Do me a favor?” you asked Pope quietly. He didn't even register the question—the answer would always be yes for you. He was nodding before he knew what you needed.

Your gaze flicked over your shoulder at the sound of footsteps coming across the concrete.

It all happened very quickly, and yet—he remembered it as if it was slow motion.

You bent toward him, fingers slipping around his wrist first, then into his hand—cold and wet to the touch from your soda—and his callouses scraped against your soft skin. You lifted his hand carefully, guiding his arm out of the way so you could turn yourself between and sit down onto his lap. The soft wash of your shorts brushed against the black denim of his jeans, your weight settling over his left thigh, and Pope stopped breathing for a second.

You—you were touching him. Sitting in his lap. In front of everyone.

His hand stayed where you’d moved it, hovering awkwardly over your hip, fingers flexing in midair, his brain choking on what to do next. He could smell your green apple shampoo when you leaned back into him, could feel the heat of your legs through his jeans.

Was this a joke? Had you planned to make fun of him? To show all your little friends how much of a freak he was?

"Just go with it," you whispered into his ear, your hand coming up behind his neck, manicured fingers delicately cupping his skin. Despite the heat, his flesh rose up in goosebumps. You were balancing your soda awkwardly in the other hand while reaching back for his still-hovering arm, guiding it around your waist yourself. Your fingers pressed gently against the back of his hand until he held you properly, as if soothing him.

Most of his palm landed against the rough denim of your shorts, but his fingertips brushed frayed fabric and warm skin underneath. The bare top of your thigh. He wouldn't let himself look at you properly— the skimpy red bikini top showing more skin than he could handle so close to him, bare shoulders shining with the glow of sunscreen and your chest dabbled with sweat. He swallowed thickly.

Your head turned towards the guys who were walking over, and the one in the middle—Asshole who put his arm around you—had stopped completely. His shoulders were tight, his glare ice cold.

But Pope was meaner. He knew how to do this, at least—how to play the guard dog, the meanest, eldest Cody brother. It was a role he slipped into easily, like second nature. The two of them stared at each other for a long minute.

Then J appeared beside the kid, clapping a hand onto his shoulder and saying something about putting their beer in the fridge. The group drifted away slowly after that, disappearing through the sliding door.

You let out a long sigh, your shoulders lightening as your fingers unlatched from Pope's neck. He missed the touch almost immediately.

"Thanks," you said.

Pope looked up at you. You were smiling gently down at him, casual as anything, but he soon realized that you weren't making any moves to get up. Your arm was still around his back, his still on the top of your thigh, but neither of you seemed eager to move away.

He just nodded stiffly. "Sure."

Your smile widened as the two of you studied each other. He watched you lift your soda, bringing the pink straw to your mouth. Pope did his god damn best not to let his eyes flit over your lips as you took a long sip.

He heard a huff of breath beside him suddenly.

"Well, that guy seemed like a dick."

You startled a little, turning your head like you’d forgotten Craig was still sitting there at all.

"Oh, hey Craig, I'm sorry—" you said, and you moved to finally get up, but Pope held on fast. He wouldn't let his baby brother take this from him.

When you looked back at Pope, your brows pulled together faintly in question. Something curious flickered there for a moment, but then your expression softened, like you understood anyway. You leaned down, lips to his ear, "Let me just switch sides, that okay?"

Pope's lips tightened. He suddenly became painfully aware of every awkward thing about himself. The way his hand probably sat too stiff against your waist. The fact that your breath sent a tingle down his spine, making his jeans suddenly feel too tight. And the fact he hadn’t said anything smooth this entire time. Anybody else would've known how to play this—smile, flirt a little, maybe make you laugh. But no, you were the charming one. The one who knew how to flirt, how to handle him.

So, he let go.

You kept your promise, only switching to his other thigh, letting his brother get an eye full of you now. You did the same thing again—bringing your hand around so you could take his, pulling it against yourself without even a moment of hesitation while you looked at the tallest Cody.

“Sick party,” you told Craig, lifting your drink in distant cheers. “How are you?”

Craig smiled back, all shiny teeth and charm as he held his beer up in salute, "I'm doin' good. What's up with your little friend?"

You rolled your eyes, "The guy has been trying to get me to go out with him for weeks." you sipped your drink again, eyes flickering over into the glass windows of the house, watching Asshole and his cronies from afar, "Except his version of taking me out is fucking me in the back his mom's BMW."

Pope was in the middle of taking a sip of beer when you said it, nearly choking.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he demanded. It was probably the most words he’d strung together to you all day. Hell, maybe all month.

But suddenly his head was making up different scenarios, none of them involving you in the back of Asshole's car, instead, he was wondering what the kid's head would sound like bouncing off the concrete when Pope's fist met it.

Your brows jumped a little at his reaction, but you only shrugged, unbothered. “He’s a dickhead. I’ve been trying to tell him I have a boyfriend, but he doesn’t believe me.”

"Do you?" Craig asked.

Pope thought maybe his little brother wasn’t completely useless after all.

He saw you shake your head in his periphery, and his heart, the traitorous thing, began to pound in his chest a little.

“No,” you admitted softly. “And I don’t think our little performance convinced him much either.”

Your gaze drifted back toward the sliding doors just as the group started filing outside again. Pope felt your body tense slightly on his thigh before you muttered a quiet, Oh, fuck my life under your breath. The asshole slowed when he passed, taking another long look at where you sat in Pope’s lap.

And Pope stared right back at him, lip curling.

Once they had gone towards the other side of the pool, he heard his brother say lightly: “I bet if you made out in front of him, they'd buy it.”

"Shut your mouth." Pope snapped, his hard glare turning on his brother.

But you barely seemed to hear either of them. You kept looking over your shoulder toward the yard, eyes skimming from Asshole to J and Nicky talking nearby, chewing lightly at your lip while you thought about something.

When you turned back to Pope and his brother, you had a funny look on your face.

Pope frowned slightly. “What's wrong?”

You hesitated, studying his face. You had lost that easy confidence from a moment before, fingers playing with your straw as you looked at him.

"Would that… ? No, no nevermind." you said, shaking your head. You cut yourself off by lifting your drink to your mouth again, shifting a little on his thigh in the process. The movement dragged your hip against him, making him painfully aware of just how much he was affected by your closeness.

Beside him, Craig made a strangled noise trying not to laugh. When Pope looked over, his brother was practically vibrating in his chair, eyebrows climbing halfway up his forehead while he grinned like a complete asshole.

"Get outta here, go—" Pope barked.

Craig finally lost the fight against his grin. He held both hands up in mock surrender while getting up from the lounge chair and walked away, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Sorry,” Pope murmured once his brother was out of earshot.

He took another swallow of beer and leaned down to set the bottle carefully beside the chair, his movements slower now, more aware of you sitting there against him than anything else.

You shrugged, "It was…a good idea."

Pope's brows pulled together when he looked at you. God, you were so fucking close. The feel of your warm, soft skin against him, the smell of your apple shampoo mixing with sunscreen and the syrupy fake-sweet scent of the Diet Pepsi in your hand. He still couldn't believe you were sitting on his lap. Touching him. Pulling his arm around you as if it natural, like there wasn’t anything strange or dangerous about him to hesitate over.

And now you were looking at him with that look, something behind your eyes he couldn’t immediately sort out, and the fact he couldn’t sort it out made his stomach knot. As uncomfortable as he made people feel sometimes, Pope could still catch onto things. Patterns. He was always used to the way people acted, knew if they were lying because they started acting differently around him. But you never did that with him, and you never looked nervous around him like this before.

A thought occurred to him, one that made his stomach hurt even worse. Maybe you saw him for what he was—scary, mean; Smurf's dog made to heel and bark and bite when she commanded it. He became horribly aware of himself under your searching gaze—how tightly his hand was holding your thigh, how he could still just feel the top edge of your skin, your shoulder bumping into his chest when you'd shift.

And maybe you'd just realized whose lap you were in.

"Andrew…" you murmured, "Are you okay?"

He nodded.

You set your drink down in a hurry, cold aluminum knocking lightly against the concrete beside the chair before both your hands came up to his neck, fingers spreading against his skin as you tipped his face upward toward yours. Your touch was cold, wet from the soda.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry."

You were touching him again. Both hands on his neck. Your face was so close to his. Noses nearly bumping. He could make out every clump of mascara around your eyes, your smudged lipstick. It made him nearly nauseous with want. Your eyes—they were worried. Why were you so worried to be around him now?

"I shouldn't have asked—or even—I don't know, Craig said it and for some reason I thought maybe—"

The gears in his brain finally started catching up after spinning uselessly for the last few minutes, thoughts grinding slowly into place one after another while he stared at your mouth moving so close to his.

What Craig had said… What had his brother said?

I bet if you made out in front of him, they’d buy it.

“You…” he managed finally, his mouth dry as cotton, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Want to…?”

You licked your lips nervously, and the movement nearly derailed his thoughts again immediately.

"Not if it makes you uncomfortable. I just…” You sighed and glanced over your shoulder toward the yard. Your hair brushed lightly across his nose before you looked back at him again.

“I’m gonna lie to you and tell you it’s only to make this guy get off my back, okay?”

“What’s the truth?” he asked quietly, somehow finding enough nerve to force the words out.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip. “I just need you to tell me if it’s okay to do this—”

You leaned closer.

Pope’s hand moved before he could think better of it, wrapping carefully around your wrist to stop you there. So soft—the delicate bones of your joint in his rough hand.

"Y-yes but—what's the truth?" he echoed. He had to know. He had to.

You were hardly listening now, your attention splitting somewhere between him and the movement in the yard behind him, and Pope’s brain kept trying to grab onto something solid, some version of this that made sense, because he had to be out of his fucking mind to think maybe you meant what he desperately wanted you to mean. Maybe you actually—

But then your eyes flicked over his shoulder again, and Pope’s gaze followed yours automatically, catching the group of guys heading back across the patio towards you with J in tow, and suddenly your fingers tightened against Pope's face.

And then you turned into him, and kissed him.

You tasted like aspartame.

That syrupy sweet taste from the soda, like the waxy, cherry lipstick that you kept in your pocket. The smell of apple shampoo and sunscreen filled his nose while your lips pressed hard against his with a little gasp that went straight down his belly and into his dick. You didn’t kiss him shyly either. Pope could tell immediately you were trying to make a point, trying to push this far enough that anybody watching would understand exactly what they were seeing.

When he felt your tongue trace the seam of his lips, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care if this was some ruse to get Asshole off your back, he didn't care if you didn't actually like him, because fuck your tongue felt so good against his mouth. He was opening for you, tasting you back, and he could've sworn—under the noise of the music blaring, of the pool water splashing and people talking over one another—he heard a small, little helpless moan from your throat when he finally kissed you back properly.

His hands tightened around you immediately, both arms circling your waist to drag you closer against him until there was hardly any room left between you—your shoulder pressed tightly into his chest, a little awkward with the way you sat sideways across his thigh, but he didn't give a shit.

It felt endless and too short all at once, your tongues sliding together smoothly while you held his face so tenderly it made his throat tighten, and then little by little that tenderness started disappearing into want and hunger. Your fingers pushed into his hair harder now, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, making his breath stutter against your mouth.

“Holy shit.”

The voice cut through the air beside you like a gunshot beside him. The party seemed to rush back in all around at once—the sounds of people shouting scores for dives off the pool house, music blasting, the sliding door opening and closing.

And then you were pulling back, lips unlatching from his. To Pope’s immediate disappointment it was Deran standing there frozen beside the cooler with a beer halfway out of the ice.

He licked his lips automatically even as he glared at his brother, catching the lingering taste of you on his mouth, and when he looked up at you again your lips were swollen and shiny.

You glanced toward the group of guys across the yard, then Deran with a quick, oh-- hi, Deran, before looking back at Pope. Your hands were still around his neck, and you were leaning in again. But this time, your lips went to his ear.

“The truth is, Andy...” you murmured softly.

Pope felt another shiver move through him at the feel of your breath against his neck, and his grip tightened on your little denim shorts as you said, “…I've wanted to do that for a long time.”

And then, as if you'd merely said thanks, pope, bye! you were pulling away from him, brushing your thumb across his top lip, wiping away whatever lipstick you'd left him with, and you were standing from his lap and walking off through the yard like you hadn’t just detonated his entire fucking nervous system in front of half the party.

Deran let out a low laugh beside him before grabbing a pool towel from the chair nearby and tossing it at Pope’s chest.

“You’re gonna wanna sit there for a minute,” he said. “Wait out that, uh… problem.”

Pope glared at his brother over the towel clutched in his lap.

And so you became official, at least in private. Not much changed with the new label. Pope was still Pope, just as awkward and dry witted as usual, but you decided to seize the opportunity to test new waters with him. He wasn’t just some man you were hopelessly infatuated with anymore, afterall. This was your boyfriend. And you’d spent long enough wondering what it would feel like to hold his hand, or kiss his cheek where his pale stubble showed by most evenings. He looked like he might stop breathing the first time you offered him an outstretched hand one night, staring at it and back at you as if confused what you were asking for. When you prompted him with a soft “Hand, please,” he’d relented, reaching out tentatively as if he expected your hand to turn to smoke before he could reach it. Only when your fingers were curled around his, barely able to keep from skipping as you walked back to his truck at his side, did his hand start to grip yours properly. 

He had a funny way of doing that, you noticed. He would accept physical affection, but would never ask for it. He would never assume you wanted him to touch you, even when you had asked or offered a hundred times before under the same circumstances, and his touch was always light and gentle, barely ghosting across your skin like he was afraid he would grip you too tight and break you. 

The night of your first kiss, you had been drinking. Not enough to be drunk, by any means, but just enough to feel a light buzz throughout your body and for your anxieties to be a bit fuzzier around the edges. Pope had been nursing a beer most of the night, using it more as something to hold and keep his hands busy than to actually drink. You had met at his brother’s bar, taking advantage of the crowd that had come in to watch a surf competition to have an excuse to sit next to your boyfriend without raising suspicions. 

Pope had been clear about wanting to keep you away from his family. You didn’t know his full history with them, but he had looked guilty in his own quiet way when he’d first told you he didn’t want you anywhere near them, quietly apologizing and repeating that it was better that way for you. Once in a while, though, neither of you couldn’t help it. Pope wanted you with him, even if he didn’t always say it with words, so that night you pretended to just be two people sitting at a bar, chatting to each other quietly while one of his brothers held his breath watching a local surfer on the television and another took a girl into the back office for reasons you really didn’t want to know.

You were two shots in when you accidentally asked the question that had been on your mind for weeks.

“Are you ever going to kiss me?”

Pope froze at that, amber bottle still raised where it had been halfway to his lips. His eyes flickered around the room, looking to see if anyone had heard your words that had come out a little louder than planned. 

“You can’t-” He huffed frustratedly, hand running down his thigh as he set his bottle down on the wood counter with a dull thunk. “Not here.” His words were hissed at you, leaning forward as if the drunken girl beside you digging through a bowl of peanuts might overhear him. You rolled your eyes, biting your tongue and taking another sip of your own mixed drink. A man at the other end of the bar had offered it to you minutes before, and you’d accepted, figuring free alcohol was free alcohol. It’s not like you actually had to worry too much about watching your drink, not when your boyfriend loomed next to you, staring at you like a hawk and looking like he wanted to eviscerate any man who looked at you long enough to register your face. Any idiot who was dumb enough to try to pull something around Pope Cody deserved what was coming to them.

You’d sighed, unable to hide your disappointment as you swirled your straw through the fruity drink. “I know.”

You didn’t stay for much longer after that. The surfer the town had gathered to watch finished his set to cheering applause in the bar, but you stayed perched on your stool beside Pope. He hadn’t spoken since your accidental outburst, glaring down at the counter like it was the source of all his problems in life. You wished you could comfort him without risking drawing more attention and raising his anxieties, but the best you could think of was widening the way you sat so one of your thighs brushed against his under the bar top. You were half afraid he’d pull away, and almost sighed of relief when he didn’t. Instead, he pressed his own leg more firmly against yours. You chanced letting one of your hands slide off the countertop to rest on your knee, letting your fingers splay so just the fingertips caressed his knee. The muscles underneath the pads of your fingers tightened for a moment as he adjusted, his back stiffening as he somehow sat up even straighter, but he relaxed after a few seconds, giving you enough comfort to massage small circles on his leg where no one could see.

Your peace was interrupted by a man sliding up beside you. 

“Hey,” he said, giving you a toothy grin that had you missing the drunk girl and her peanut picking.

“Hello,” you said cooly, giving him a polite but tight-lipped smile. Pope stiffened beside you, turning on his stool to stare the man down, his scowl etching even deeper into the handsome features of his face.

“How’d you like the drink?” The man nodded towards the half-filled glass in front of you, the ice starting to melt and mix with the alcohol and fruit juice and whatever else that had made it taste so good. “It looked sweet. Seemed like it suited you.” His gaze dragged over you, dragging slowly over your body like it was his right. Your throat tightened, and Pope’s grip on his beer made you worried he might splinter the glass into his hand beside you.

“It was nice,” you said, keeping your tone curt and facing ahead of you. “Thanks.”

The man frowned. You could smell the booze on his breath as he leaned closer, speaking close to your face. Pope shifted next to you, putting his drink down hard and making to stand up before your hand tightened on the broad expense of his thigh, silently anchoring him down.

“Y’know, you really don’t seem all that grateful,” the man murmured, close enough to make your nose wrinkle. “Those drinks ain’t cheap, you know.”

You force a cheery smile, though you were sure you could be asleep and drooling across the bar and he would barely notice. It probably wouldn’t make much of a difference to him if you were plastered and couldn’t stand on your own, as long as he got what he thought he was owed.

“Like I said, I appreciate it. I’m actually not feeling well though, so I’m going to go find my friend and go back to his. Have a good night.”

You push yourself up to stand, shouldering past the man and walking briskly down the hallway to the women’s bathroom. With any luck he would take the hint and not be waiting for you just outside the door. You paused for a few moments, leaning against the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror. This was not how you’d envisioned the night going when Pope had texted you about a community event happening at The Drop. You’d longed for just one night out with your boyfriend, spending time with his family in a safe way, one that didn’t have his hackles up and his hand on your lower back, steering you away as if you would catch some horrible curse from them.

You rinsed your hands under cool water before shutting off the tap, drying your hands, and steeling your nerves. You were prepared to make a break for it when you opened the swinging door and found a large figure in the narrow hallway, breathing out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding when you realized it was only Pope, his back turned to you to keep a watchful eye towards the bar.

“Hey.” 

He turned, giving you a cursory look up and down, scanning for reasons to worry, the tension in his jaw only fading when you placed a calming hand to his shoulder.

“C’mon,” you urge, nodding back up the hallway and setting off again. Pope followed, only a few steps behind. He waved down Deran from his place behind the bar, saying a quick goodbye while you pushed through the door.

The cool night freeze was refreshing on your skin. The faint smell of sea salt that clung to the town felt intoxicating on its own, making the faint buzz of alcohol feel renewed where it hummed in your veins. You were already stepping into the street to cross it when you heard the door swing open again behind you, the rowdy clammering of drunk patrons spilling out into the peaceful night air. 

You glanced over your shoulder, worried for a moment that it might have been Mr. Fruity Drink himself, but relaxed when you saw Pope’s familiar frame.

“What was that?” he demanded, stalking after you into the street. His usually rigid walk was even more pronounced, shoulder muscles tensed like he was preparing for a fight. If you hadn’t known him so well, he might have been intimidating. 

“What was what?” you asked, brain feeling fuzzy from the lingering alcohol in your system and the irritation of dealing with an unwanted man’s bullshit. “Asking when you’ll kiss me?” “The drink,” he hissed. “You let him buy you a drink. Someone you don’t even know.” His car alarm chirped twice as it unlocked, and he picked up his pace, walking faster to beat you to the truck parked across the street. His hand reached for the passenger handle a second before yours did, opening the door for you like he so often did, even when his eyes blazed with anger. He waited until you were inside before he spoke again, one hand still gripping the handle while the other bore his weight on the roof as he leaned closer. 

“Don’t let strange men buy you alcohol. It’s dangerous.” He was still fuming, and you could see the skin of his chest was a little pinker than usual, his breaths coming fast. “You don’t know what was in that. He could have hurt you, or…” He trailed off, shaking his head like it was an Etch-A-Sketch, trying and failing to dislodge the thoughts that upset him. “You come to me when you want a drink,” he insisted, dark eyes boring into yours. “Got it? Not some piss drunk stranger. Me.”

A slow smile cracked across your face, spreading before you could even realize it.

“You’re worried about the owner of the bar, your own brother who spent half the night oogling male surfers, slipping me something in my drink with you right next to me?”

This wasn’t really about fear for your safety. You knew it and he knew it, that he would never let something happen to you right under his nose. This wasn’t anger either, at least not in the way he wanted you to believe. This was something deeper, something he was trying to hide from you like he was afraid you’d laugh if he called it what it really was.

“Andrew.” He softened at the use of his real name. His shoulders slumped down an inch, his gaze lifting and his jaw going slack where it had been grinding against itself. You turned slightly in your seat, resting your temple against the leather headrest to look up at him.

“Are you…jealous?”

He looked away, pushing himself up off the car to stand up straighter, jaw ticking. He was ashamed, unable to look at you and scowling deeper like he could bury the emotion in anger enough for you not to notice.

“Oh my god. Andrew! You’re jealous over me!”

He grunted weakly, caught somewhere between a scoff and a groan. 

“M’not,” he insisted, but it was too late. He pushed off the side of the truck, closing your door and taking long strides around to climb in the driver’s seat. 

You gave him a moment of silence, watching the way he drew in a deep breath and let it out, hands resting on his knees and not going to turn the key in the ignition.

“Y’know, I only accepted the drink because it was free alcohol.” You spoke softly, not wanting to tease him too much when he was feeling vulnerable. “I wasn’t accepting anything else.” Pope’s jaw worked again, teeth grinding in a way that worried you. He’d be down to the gums if he didn’t knock that off. 

“Are you upset because I didn’t ask you to buy my drinks?”

He still didn’t speak.

“If you want me to ask you in the future, I will. I just didn’t know it was important to you, Andy.” He turned his head, staring down at the gear shift between you, grumbling out his words. “Y’can always ask me. For anything.” He met your eye then, and you were struck by his sincerity. “Anything you want, I’ll get. You just have to ask me.”

You gave him a soft smile. “You’re a doofus.” His brow furrowed, but you held out your hand and he accepted it, wrapping his broad hand around yours like it belonged there. 

“I’ll ask you from now on.” Your thumb moved idly across the back of his hand, drawing small circles on his knuckles, careful of a few cuts that hadn’t quite healed yet.

“Can we talk about how you still haven’t kissed me?”

Pope froze at that, muscles tensing under your touch involuntarily. 

“Do you want to?” He glanced up, almost shy. His muscles relaxed some at the sweet smile you were giving him, nothing but soft adoration written across your face.

“Do I want to talk about it?” you asked, head cocking to the side. “Or do I want to kiss you?” You breathed out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Guess it doesn’t really matter. The answer is yes either way.”

Pope frowned down at where your hands rested together, shifting his grip so your fingers intertwined. 

“I didn’t know if you wanted to.” He spoke softly, voice coming out low and quiet. You could hear the subtle guilt in his words. He didn’t mean to keep you waiting, he was just scared. Scared of trying and being met with disgust or fear, of being pushed away once again.

You squeezed his hand. “Of course I do. I want to do everything with you.” You felt heat rush to your face when he glanced up at you again through his thick lashes, looking equal parts questioning and doubtful. You hadn’t realized quite how your words would sound aloud, but they weren’t wrong. “I trust you. You can try things, or ask for things, and I won’t assume the worst.” You chuckled weakly, brushing hair from your face and trying to ignore how flushed you were still feeling, hoping you could play it off as still being slightly intoxicated. “I’ve probably had much worse thoughts than you, anyway,” you threw out, hoping to lighten the mood. The air suddenly felt too thick to breathe in the truck’s cab.

“Tell me.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Pope was staring at you now, calm dark eyes sweeping over your face to take in every flicker of reaction. 

“Tell you what?”

The corner of his lip twitched. 

“These thoughts of yours. Tell me about them.” 

You wiped your hand on the fabric of your pants, suddenly aware of how clammy you felt under his relentless gaze. This was more than the effect of alcohol, this was all him, your stubborn, awkward, jealous boyfriend. 

“C’mon,” he drawled, head tilted slightly to the side, his big hazel eyes crinkling at the corners from his almost smile. “You were dying to talk about it inside. Didn’t seem to care who could hear then.”

“That was different,” you protested weakly. “I was talking about kissing then.”

He hummed, his amusement growing, eyes dropping to take in the way your breathing quickened, the rough callouses on his thumb dragging languidly over your knuckles.

“And you’re not now?” 

You shot him a glare, knowing full well it held no real heat, even before he gave you the sweetest, most overly innocent smile he could manage. It was rare for him to smile, and this was a real one, showing just a few of those adorably uneven teeth you loved so much.

It was so unfair. He was so carefully reserved all the time, showing only what he wanted to the world, but every time you got a glimpse of the true Andrew behind Pope Cody, it made you want to pull your hair out and bite him on his muscled shoulder, just as a way to be closer to him.

Your hands were on the collar of his shirt before you knew it, dragging him over the center console to kiss his adorable smile. He grunted softly at the movement, caught off guard but not complaining as your lips found his, his hands hovering for a moment over your hips before you pulled back to check his reaction.

“Is this okay?” you whispered against his lips. 

“Yeah.” His hot breath fanned across your lips as he leaned forward, already moving to kiss you again. His hands finally touched you, gripping your hips gently and pulling you closer. He smiled into the kiss, and your heart flipped in your chest at the feeling. You pulled him closer, deepening the kiss, following him willingly when his broad hands tightened on you, guiding you closer. Just when you thought he was going to pull you onto his lap, you were rudely interrupted.

“Hey!” You jolted apart from each other, whipping around with wide eyes and a flushed expression to look for the source of the noise. Pope’s brothers were standing outside the bar, the taller one snickering into the hair of a woman tucked under his arm, while the blond- Deran, you remembered- looked at you with a sickened expression.

“C’mon, Pope!” he yelled, the sound muffled slightly by the closed windows of the truck. “Don’t be doin’ that shit in front of my bar! You can’t make it the ten minutes home first?”

The other one, Craig, spoke up, listing to the side, leaning on his date to help keep him upright, a bottle still gripped in his hand. 

“Don’t listen to him, man!” he countered. “Take it while you can get it!” Deran smacked Craig in the chest, saying something about expecting it from him, and the next thing you knew, they were in a slap fight like they were children, trying to put each other in headlocks and messing up each others’ hair. Pope sighed heavily as Craig’s bottle shattered on the pavement, and his date stalked away with a huff when Deran yelled at him that he was going to have to clean that up later.

“Are they always like this?” you asked with a chuckle, turning back to your boyfriend.

He shook his head. “Usually they’re worse.” He turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life. 

You glanced back out the window to the wrestling brothers. Craig had Deran pinned, but the youngest brother didn’t look like he was close to giving up yet.

“They going to be able to get home safe? Craig definitely shouldn’t be getting behind a wheel.”

Pope hummed, throwing his arm behind your headrest as he put the truck in reverse. You looked at your lap, trying hard to be good and not let having his thick arm thrown around you, effectively caging you in, have an effect on you. Not now, at least, when you’d already blown your cover he’d tried so hard to maintain.

“Deran won’t let him. They look out for each other, when they’re not beating the shit out of each other.”

You laughed. “Looks like I picked the right Cody,” you joked. He met your gaze when the truck stopped moving backwards, pausing for a moment to give you a humorous look, a small smile tugging on his lips before shifting gears to pull onto the main road. 

“You definitely did.” His hand reached across the console, palm upraised and open, and intertwined his fingers with you when you accepted it. 

“You still sure that was okay?” You spoke quietly, still somewhat nervous that you might have overstepped by just grabbing him like that. “I definitely blew our cover.”

Pope glanced towards you as he pulled up at a stoplight. He tilted his head down, silently asking you to meet his gaze, which you did after a few reluctant seconds.

“Did you hear me complaining?” You breathed out a weak laugh, but he smiled, just a crooked corner of his mouth raising. The creases along his face caught the light from the street, bathing him in a warm pink hue. “It was better than okay. And that’s assuming those two remember anything in the morning.” The light changed, and turned his attention back to the road, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll talk to them tomorrow, tell them to keep it to themselves. They’re not the worst of it anyway.” He glanced over at you. “Think we should continue that conversation when we get home though. Want to hear more about those thoughts.”