ꜱɪʟᴠᴇʀ ɴɪɢʜᴛ

👨🏽👨🏽👨🏽👨🏽👨🏽

Your dad used to watch Magnum P.I. reruns. He was older than your mom who loved F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Both shows had this actor with a thick, dark mustache that you found kind of...stupid?

So when you met Jake Lockley, you thought he was short. You thought he looked like someone from another century, wearing a flat cap. And sporting a big, 70s or 80s (according to your dad) mustache.

Oh, he was handsome. So very handsome. But you never saw yourself with a mustache man.

Didn't stop you from saying yes to a date.

The first time he kissed you, the mustache tickled your lips and you liked it. A lot. You knocked his cap off his head, getting your first real look at his chocolate curls.

You wanted to hit him upside the head as you asked why he would hide that gorgeous hair. He winked at you. "A little mystery is good."

You had to admit, he wore his thick, dark mustache well. And it did add to his air of mystery.

But all bets were off the first time he went down on you.

For one thing, in your experience, guys were assholes and most of them were too selfish or too stupid to go down on you, or at least do it properly.

But not Jake. He took you out somewhere nice. He asked you to wear a dress, making sure it was okay with you first.

Dinner was delicious and you had a pleasant buzz from the wine.

Then he took you for a drive. He loved his car and he loved to drive you around. He fucked you for the first time in the back seat. You didn't even stop to consider why grownups would fuck in a car because he was so damn sexy, and his car was really quite posh.

Expensive leather seats felt good against your back when he thrust in and out of you until you screamed his name.

Tonight, he sat you in the back seat, pushed up your dress and licked into the wet core of you. Your palm slapped the roof of the car as you whined out his name, followed by a string of curses.

"That fucking tickles," you gasped, letting out a little shriek as he spread your thighs further apart and went to work.

He tongue fucked you like an expert and his big, bushy mustache tickled and teased your clit perfectly. You gripped his shirt collar and yanked his face against you, drowning him in your slick.

He moaned and licked you faster. Your fingers sank into his curls and you bucked against him, fucking his face until those sexy coarse hairs found the perfect rhythm against your clit.

You seized in unimaginable pleasure, screaming his name, making a mess of his leather seats, and his handsome face.

Jake was awfully pleased with himself. "Now you see why I keep this thing."

"Get over here," you laughed, kissing him hard, turned on even more by the taste of yourself all over his soaked mustache. "And get inside me now."

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Jonathan: Yeah, hi. You told me this episode was about mental health.

Nathan: It is about mental health. Yours. You’ve got a lot of issues I’m tired of hearing you whine about. I figure I’d have you on the pod, set you straight. Metaphorically. In an orgy, no one’s really straight, right? Or else, what’s the point?

Steven: Sorry, um, but why am I here?

Nathan: Anyone who fucks you is having group sex.

Steven: That’s not how it works.

Nathan: It works how I say it works Stevie.

Steven: It’s Steven. Unless you’d like me to start calling you Nate.

*tense silence*

Nathan: Steven it is.

Jonathan: I don’t really want to talk about orgies. Being single isn’t easy. I have a difficult enough time with one woman, let alone seven.

Anselm: Seven! I like your sense of ambition, Jonathan.

Nathan: Have you ever had an octo-orgy, Anselm? Eight seems like a lot.

Anselm: Well, once there gets to be more than three or four bodies, people do tend to couple off to do the fucking, but if everyone’s in close proximity, it’s still very satisfying. You can reach out your hand and feel all sorts of things.

Steven: What sorts of things?

Anselm: Wouldn’t you like to know?

Steven: … yeah… I… I would. Kind of why I asked, yeah?

Anselm: Fair enough. Picture this. You’re balls deep in a hole of your choosing, really having a go of it, as you Brits say. And, well, what’s this?, a wonderful pair of bouncing breasts from the woman next to you who’s riding, let’s say for example, your friend, the handsome Jonathan Levy.

Jonathan: Hey, hey, hey, leave me out of this.

Anselm: You pull out of your current lover and as you stand, the woman takes your cock in her mouth. Underneath her, Jonathan fucks her harder-

Jonathan: *exasperated* Please don’t involve me.

Anselm: Don’t be rude, Jonathan, the woman loves to be shared. Anyway, later, I’m fucking Jonathan-

Jonathan: What? I- we- how did you-

Nathan: Good luck, dude. It’s like being fucked with the business end of a baseball bat.

Jonathan: I didn’t- we haven’t-

Anselm: I’ll be very gentle, Jonathan. I assume you’re virgin territory back there?

Steven: Surely every man’s had things up the arse, though? Fingers or whatnot?

Anselm: Interesting. You are a surprise, Steven.

*sound of zipper and belt*

Nathan: Anselm, don’t unzip your pants. The studio is for work not sex. We’re not having the orgy right now.

Anselm: I seem to be the victim of false advertising.

*sound of zipper and belt*

Jonathan: *sounding angry* Nathan, when you wanted to consult with me about philosophy and ethics, I agreed. It was interesting work, and a lot of money. This, however, is too far over the line. My sex life is none of your business. It isn’t fodder for a podcast. My ex-wife could hear this. My other ex-wife could hear.

Nathan: Oh please, we all forget you even had a second wife. Why do you care if Mira hears? She’s the fucking worst. If I had an ex like that, I’d want her to think I was out every night fucking anything that moved. She cheated on you, and it’s time you stop letting her call the shots.

Jonathan: Well, you and I are very different men.

Nathan: I think you should have some fun, that’s all I’m saying. That’s why I invited Anselm.

Steven: Again, why am I here?

Nathan: I don’t know, dude. You seem ready to cut class to get ass.

Steven: Wot?

Anselm: I believe what Nathan is saying, in his own inept way, is that this is an intervention of sorts. Jonathan, we may not know each other very well, but you’re going to break under the weight of your expectations for yourself. You need release.

Jonathan: *takes a deep breath*

Anselm: Do you need my oxygen tank?

Jonathan: No. Wait, the last time we were here together, we talked about inhalers. Why are you still carrying that thing around?

Nathan: It probably has drugs in it.

Anselm: It does. Anyway, Jonathan, I think your life would be greatly improved by sex with more people, more often. You’d be less self-conscious, take yourself less seriously.

Steven: I lived quite isolated for most of my life, but it wasn’t really by choice. I think you need a push to get you out and into the world. Like I did. Well, not quite like I did, where I discovered there was an American man living inside of me, beating the living daylights out of bad guys and invisible jackals… Then I discovered there was a third guy inside of me.

Anselm: Oh, I’ve had that happen!

Steven: You have?

Nathan: You two aren’t talking about the same thing. Steven has DID. Anselm has… a third guy inside of him sometimes. Jonathan, I could lend you three to four human-looking robots. Fully functional.

Anselm: Please, take him up on the generous offer. Say what you will about Nathan Bateman, but he makes the best sex dolls I’ve ever had the pleasure of owning.

Jonathan: I don’t want a sex doll. I don’t want an orgy. I want one person to love forever.

Anselm: That’s a very sweet sentiment. You can have that and still have group sex, though.

Jonathan: *sigh* It isn’t that I want to be inhibited. I guess I want what I had. Even what I had wasn’t what I thought I had, though, now that I think about it. You’re right, Steven, I haven’t been pushing myself to date or really put myself out there. Maybe something drastic is the smart move. At least it would be decisive. I have trouble with that.

Nathan: You’re not indecisive. Your divorce made you think you are. Your ex fucked with your head on a level that even I admire. Trust me, you’re as opinionated as I am and inside, you’re just as much of an asshole about it as I am.

Jonathan: ...I think you mean that as a compliment, so thanks.

Steven: Anselm’s invited me to his estate to look at his collection of Egyptian sexual art, very ancient and very interesting. Would you care to join me? Bit of an academic experience, which we have in common, and a bit of a sexual one, which is more Anselm’s purview.

Anselm: I quite enjoy a weekend, just the men, once in awhile. I could have my cousin dress up like a turkey and we could go shooting.

Steven: Don’t really like guns.

Jonathan: Absolutely not.

Anselm: I’ll have him put on the costume anyway, just in case you two change your minds.

Steven: And Anselm, maybe you could show us your little collection of sex robots.

Anselm: My, my, Steven you’re quite the negotiator. I may have use for in business as well as whatever else we find we like to do together.

Jonathan: Well, a weekend away might be nice. I’ve never really been on a trip with friends.

Anselm: In the evenings, we can have wine and watch the pair of lovely female robots Nathan programmed give pleasure to each other. Trust me, you’ll be unable to keep your hand off of yourself. If you only want to interact with the females, of course I would respect that. I, for one, think Steven’s cock is probably very pretty and I would love to pay it special attention.

Steven: Oh, that’s kind of you. I’m sure yours is nice as well.

Nathan: What about mine?

Anselm: It’s an impressive piece of equipment, Nathan. You know I’m very fond of it. Don’t be insecure.

Nathan: I’m not insecure, but I arranged this entire fucking thing and I’m not even invited.

Steven: Course you’re invited! I just thought you wouldn’t want to come.

Nathan: I don’t, but you should still invite me.

Anselm: Here’s what we’re going to do. Everyone is invited to my home, where we’ll look at art, look at sex, and participate as much as we’d like to.

Nathan: I’m busy.

Anselm: I haven’t even said what weekend it will be.

Nathan: I’ll be busy.

Anselm: You’re such a rude, naughty boy. I ought to put you over my knee.

Steven: Have you ever spanked a woman, Jonathan?

Jonathan: No, but I came close with my ex. Sort of. The last time we did it.

Steven: What about a man? Could you spank a man?

Jonathan: I think I could, maybe. I don’t think I’d have the same hang-ups with it. Why do you ask?

Steven: I’m not being funny, I just think Anselm would let you. Expanding your horizons, and all that.

Jonathan: How about this? I won’t rule anything out, as far as the weekend we’ll all spend together. I don’t love the word ‘orgy,’ but I guess it can be whatever it turns into.

Steven: That’s alright with me. Anselm?

Anselm: I love a challenge, and I think Mount Levy would be quite worth the climb.

Nathan: Who’d be doing the mounting?

Anselm: If you want to know, you should attend.

Nathan: I’m not really an orgy guy. More than three people on a bed is difficult to control.

Anselm: Why would you want to control anything? That’s the fun of it.

Nathan: Well, someone has to be in charge.

Anselm: *high-pitched laughter* You think you’re in charge of anything? Please, if this were a ship in an emergency situation it would go me, Steven, Jonathan, then you.

Steven: *swallows audibly* Me? Why’m I second on that list?

Anselm: You’re a born leader, and Jonathan here is the very picture of professorial authority. I find it’s the quiet, rather awkward ones who are more likely to guide things in a meaningful way, especially in a group setting.

Steven: I’m not opposed to that idea actually.

Nathan: You know what, I’ll clear my schedule. I think I want to see this in person.

Anselm: And, I hope, be an active participant.

Nathan: Why the hell not?

Jonathan: *quietly* This better not awaken anything in me.

Nathan: What’d you say, Jonathan?

Jonathan: *mumbling* Nothing.

Nathan: Great, looks like I solved yet another problem. I should get some kind or prize for this shit. Now, I have to go pack a suitcase full of zero clothes and all of the lube. Until next time, I’m Nathan Bateman and do yourself a favor, have a little fun this week.

**Outro Music Fades Up**

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The Commander's eyes lit up when he saw you, blowing wide with genuine surprise. The shock only lasted for a moment before his mouth did that thing: corner turning up in what you considered a condescending smirk, but what most people in the Resistance called his "sexy smile."

Ughh.

The whorish attire wasn't just for you. Your team dressed Poe in a black silk shirt, open in the front, the cut dipping past his sternum, almost to his stomach. Tight, matching pants hugged his ass and thighs and his high cut riding boots accentuated his legs even more.

You laughed out when you saw him. Was this a holodrama? Was he playing the role of a sexy space pirate? You'd encountered a few real space pirates. They dressed in found and stolen armor from head to toe, but in holos, pirates always had these huge slits and dips in their clothing, revealing copious amounts of skin.

"Shut up," he grumbled, his confidence taking a hit at the way you dismissed him.

So the two of you, scantily clad, undercover, ordered drinks and pretended to be obsessed with one another - Poe's idea. Damn him.

"You need to relax," he murmured against your bare neck. "So stiff, sweetheart. Have a drink."

"I am on a mission," you hissed. "I'm dressed like a whore. I'm following orders - your orders. I don't have to like it."

The way you said that - about following his orders - went straight to his crotch. He shifted uncomfortably. The pants were apparently the current fashion of this planet, but damn if they weren't tight. And rather smooth against his skin.

"Come on, we're gonna be here for a while. You couldn't look any less convincing," He murmured on your ear. "Sit on my lap. Act like you don't hate me for one mission. I'll get Leia to reassign you next time."

Your skin flared with heat at the invitation to sit on his lap, and he was already moving you there before you could protest.

But your heart sank at the thought of getting assigned to a new team. As infuriating as your Commander was, you loved your team and you were good at what you did. You all truly helped the Resistance.

"There, that's a little better," he told you, and, for once, you didn't detect condescension in his tone.

He'd hauled about half your body onto his, facing him. Your thigh was slung across his lap, breasts mashed against his half bare chest. This forced your already tiny skirt to ride up, placing your crotch against the thick meat of his thigh. Nearly.

No, you wouldn't do that. You swallowed thickly, using the strength of your core and your opposite knee, digging into the bench seat beside him, to hold your center up off his thigh.

He didn't seem to notice. One hand folded you close, mindlessly rubbing up and down the bare curve of your back, while the other reached for his drink. He downed it in one gulp, then raised two fingers at a passing server and tipped his head up to order another.

The server ogled him, and then you, smiling seductively, before scampering off to do their job.

"See, now we look convincing," he breathed against your cheek, holding his hand firmly in place, despite the temptation to slide down and squeeze your delicious ass.

"Fine. Good. I'll take that drink now." You sighed irritably.

The server returned a moment later, and you downed your drink, desperate for the liquid courage. You were already weary from holding your body up off of his, but you couldn't sit down, not like this.

If you did, he would feel your soaked panties. You were convinced by now, that you were so wet your desire would drench through his flimsy pants and then he would know.

And could not know.

Everybody wanted the Commander. You couldn't be just another one of them. He respected you. Requested you for missions. Trusted you.

So, no, you could not be on this whorish mission with him, dressed in this, and liking it. You would pass out from holding yourself up before you let him feel how wet you were.

Poe sipped his drink, eyes scanning the room carefully. You dutifully scanned behind him, noting people and groups. And weapons.

"I won't ask you to do this again," he said apologetically. "You could have said no. You're my best undercover. That's why I asked. Don't make me beg you to sit the fuck down."

That sobered you. "S-sorry. I thought this position was okay."

You were apologizing? Never happened. He expected a, "Fuck off, Dameron."

"You're so tense," he went on, setting his drink down and brushing his fingers up and down your bare arm. "You can kick my ass later. I'll probably even enjoy it, but -"

"Fine, dammit," you hissed, allowing your body to sink down on his, your drenched panties squelching as your core met his thick thigh. Fortunately the music boomed all around you, drowning out your soft moan.

He shifted to plant his boot more firmly and hold you up better. The motion pushed his thigh muscle hard against your barely covered cunt. You gasped out, reacting on instinct. Your hips canted forward, meeting his motion and the pressure was so...delicious.

"There we go." His hands gripped your hips now, heated breath teasing your ear. "Get comfortable. I won't bite. Not unless you're into that."

You predictably groaned in annoyance, which made him smile against your skin. "You're beautiful. I know you'll beat my ass for it, but I had to say it. Just this once, Lou."

You were his Lieutenant. So he called you Lou.

"D-don't say that. We're working. I can't...I can't." You couldn't concentrate. You had failed to scan your surroundings for the last few minutes.

"No, you're right. Sorry." He eased back, remembering to pay attention and do his duty. But he was distracted by how good you smelled, how you felt against him. And he could have sworn he heard a moan rumble from your chest to his.

The hot center of you rested on his thigh, driving him to distraction. Almost subconsciously, he shifted his leg again. You rocked your hips in response, your eyes fluttering closed.

Oh.

Oh.

His grip on your hips tightened. He cleared his throat. "Possible target on your six. Don't look." He subtly dragged you forward, pushing his thigh deliberately into your cunt.

"O-okay," you panted, barely rolling your hips in response. "Should I -"

"Just...stay." He dragged you forward again, pushing his leg up into you with less subtlety and more force. "Let me watch. Stay right here for me."

You hummed an agreement, eyes fluttering closed again as your back-and-forth tease crept closer and closer to outright scandal.

By now, Poe's fingertips dug into your flesh as he worked you back and forth on his thigh at a medium tempo. That's when he really felt it.

You were soaked. Wetness seeped through the fabric of his pants, hot and slippery. He groaned, deep and hot against your throat.

Your arms wrapped all the way around his neck and you started to grind.

He couldn't believe it. You, of all people. You couldn't stand him.

And now your panties were soaked?

"Just like that. That's good."

You slightly bristled at the sound of his voice. But he forced you down, helping you work yourself faster and harder, little gasps of pleasure passing your lips.

"I want you to stay right here. Can you do that for me?" He kissed your neck before breathing hotly on your ear. "You're fucking soaked. Using me so good. Don't stop, okay?"

"Poe," you gasped, fucking yourself faster, the friction of your panties rubbing your clit deliciously as the meat of his thigh pushed your lips apart. Your whole body flexed as you worked yourself eagerly down, chasing your release. "We should...w-we -"

"Don't stop. That's an order." His mouth found yours in the dark of the club. He sucked on your lips, growling as his tongue slipped in and tasted the alcohol on your breath.

You wanted to punch his lights out for giving you a fake order at a time like this, but it was wise of him to silence you with a kiss. On and on it went, wild and frantic and wet. The lace of your panties strained against your clit and pleasure surged through your body.

You seized in his arms, moaning loudly against his mouth, gushing wet and hot all over his pants. One strong forearm flexed along the curve of your back, supporting you as you collapsed against his chest.

Your thigh brushed his swollen, stiff cock and he hissed. You'd heard rumors, but to be the one to get this reaction out of him, was like an instant drug.

"Time for you to follow my orders, Commander," you lowly growled against his ear, climbing all the way across him. Straddling his lap, you rocked your hips against his erection, licking back into his mouth.

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The wedding was arranged, but you both became completely enamoured with each other. At the first meeting between families and chief stewards, you felt like a pawn in a game of politics until you were alone with him. Leto treated you like a partner, eager to know you. One day, he suggested a wording change in the invite, adding 'love'.

You would scan over the wording revisions of the invite, not thinking much of it, but realize the revision had been added, and your heart would start to race.

"With Great honor the House Atreides is commanded under the Watch of the Landsraad to invite ______ To the marriage of His Grace, Duke Leto Atreides Rightful Lord of Caladan, Defender of the People with Scion'Your Name' Of House 'lastname' as they bind their Houses in fidelity, alliance, & love. The ceremony will be held upon Caladan, ancestral world of House Atreides."

You never thought there would be meetings about paper. What paper matched the house colors the most? Is the understated linen cardstock the choice, or the regal elegance that's represented with a metallic paper? You both reached for the metallic, and your hands brushed. He cupped your hand as you both looked at the sheen of the paper in the light. After that, you found him reaching to brush the back of his hand against yours.

The next supervised meeting was both of you sitting and writing out the invitesmeant for each other's families, as you tell each other about each family member.

As the list of invited dwindled, you suggested helping him seal the invites for delivery. You could pour the wax, and he could press the seal. It didn't need to be both of you doing this, but it lasted well past the time allotted in the daily schedule for invites.

Duke Leto wanted to see you more, wanted your opinion on flowers, food, and music. It's a union of two houses, two families, two people. He didn't only want the Chief Steward of your house to make decisions on behalf of the family, but also wanted your input.

He really let you have space to grow your voice. The stewards were too focused on tradition, stiff rules, and customs, but seldom asked your opinion. Against the steward's wishes, you chose flowy fabrics in soft colors in comparison to the stiff fabric and house colors you were leaving behind.

The song choices were stately, solemn marches, but you were able to insist that they consider a song of your choice that you loved from childhood. When Leto heard it and saw how you softly swayed with a smile, he insisted it would be the music to your first dance as a married couple.

After that meeting, he had the song played for you one more time, and took your hands in his, and you both danced. 'Practice' is what he insisted. As the song came to an end, he kissed your hand, and it was the only thing you could think about for days.

The day of the wedding came with all the spectacle and wonder. Everything was perfect. No rain. The vows were memorized to prevent trip-ups, but when he finished reciting the memorized line, he continued, "Today I am not only a duke who takes this union for our houses. I am a man who has gained a beautiful life partner today. I vow to you today, and every day forward, to protect you and cherish you as fiercely as my people. As my partner and as my equal. I vow to love you, not just by arrangement, but by choice. Whatever comes, I choose you. "

Just like the vows you both broke apart from, the kiss protocol was also broken. It was supposed to be brief and chaste. Caught up in the moment, you both kissed each other deeply. He holds you close as your hand cups his face, feeling the soft hair of his beard. It's a brief moment, but your foreheads rested together as you smiled, knowing you both chose each other.

Some close-ups:

Sources: iStock Reference

He laughs. It’s deep and warm. You get the feeling he doesn’t do it that often. The laughing. Not the sex. The sex, it seems like he has plenty of practice with.

His presence, secure and comforting, fills the limo, surrounding you like a safety blanket. Not that you believe in that kind of thing. From friends, definitely. From family, sometimes. Not from a man. And not one who’s rich, and probably a douche because they all are.

A great lay, though.

Your breasts are sore and sensitive from his lips and teeth, from how that criminally handsome beard has scrubbed against you from tits to tail.

“Leto, right?”

He nods.

“Thanks for the intermission, Leto. Now, zip me up.”

You sit up, turning away from him. Leto’s thick fingers trace along your spine. The tip of his tongue follows, making you shiver. Before you can say anything about it, he zips up your dress, brushes your hair back over your shoulders, tucking a few stray pieces behind your ears.

He has the most beautiful eyelashes you’ve ever seen on a man. Dark, deep, brown eyes that pull you in.

His lips part and you gently cover his mouth with your hand. “Don’t ask a second time. Someone as good looking as you doesn’t need to act so desperate.”

Amused, he reaches behind you to the bar set in the side of the limo to get a white cocktail napkin.

“Do you have a pen in that tiny purse?” he asks, eyeballing your minuscule evening bag, blood red with a crystal strap.

The corner of your mouth lifts. You do actually. You write your number down for him. “I’d put on some lipstick and kiss it for you, but I only wore lip gloss tonight.”

You hand him the napkin.

“Oh, I know,” Leto says, folding the napkin carefully and putting in the pocket of his pants. He licks his bottom lip, which is a little red from how you’d sucked on it. “I am going to ask a second time, though.”

It doesn’t surprise you that he’s used to getting what he wants. You bristle a little, but only because it’s in your nature. You’ve always resisted someone who tries to tell you what to do.

He’s polite about it, but the truth of the matter is that this was great sex and he probably wants to keep having it. End of story. You’re not sure why part of you is pushing him away.

No, that’s a lie. You know why.

A guy like this can have anyone he wants. He’ll probably bang a waitress on his way out the door tonight. Better to leave on your terms.

“We can have dinner in a week,” you say, trying to hide the brush-off, but it’s pretty obvious sounding. “Give me a couple hours heads up and I’ll meet you at, what I assume will be a very fancy restaurant.”

You wish he’d drop it. It’s not reality. It was fun, but this is as far as it goes.

Leto’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, like he’s scrutinizing whatever you’re really telling him, beyond the friendly words.

“Count on it. I’m not going to forget about you,” he says evenly.

Your heart thumps in your chest. “I know,” you say dismissively. “I didn’t mean that-“

“You did,” he says, his hand wrapping around your wrist and squeezing gently, “but I won’t. I promise.”

You almost wince. You really wish he hadn’t used the ‘p’ word. It’s basically meaningless to you. Whenever a man promises you something, you immediately file him away in the ‘never see him again’ category.

It's a shame. You’d really liked this Leto guy.

“Right. Well,” you shrug, “maybe I’ll see you again.”

You gather your bag and wrap, open the limo door. Leto holds your hand to help you out, but he stays in the limo. Before he lets you go, he kisses the back of your hand. It should be cheesy, should make you cringe away. As much as you like sex, you’ve never been much for romance. The way Leto does it, though, looking up at you with those big, brown eyes…

Your smile falters. You really need to get away from him before you start getting ideas that will break your heart.

“Goodnight,” you mumble, making sure you don’t catch a heel on the curb as you run back across the street toward the gala, holding your dress up so you don’t trip either.

It’s so difficult not to look back one last time and see if Leto’s watching, but as you open the door to the museum where the gala’s being held, you hear the sound of a car door closing and you know he’d waited until you were safely inside.

You have just enough time to freshen up and get back to your seat with your friends before another boring speech starts. But who cares because you’d just had two orgasms and the waiters are wheeling in the dessert carts.

A stuffy old man in a too-tight tux steps up onto the stage.

You pick out a cream puff from the dessert cart. And a raspberry tart. And a brownie.

“And now,” says the man you’re ignoring, “we’d like to hear from our host this evening. The man without whom this wonderful charity wouldn’t exist. The honorary head of the Atreides Foundation, and CEO of Atreides Industries, a man who needs no introduction.”

People clap like it’s a concert. Like he’s the Pope or something. You glance up to see who owns the ass everyone’s trying to kiss.

Oh.

You know that ass.

It’s a really, really good one.

Leto.

Leto Atreides.

The Leto Atreides.

The Leto Atreides you’d just sucked off in his limo before you’d laid under him for a good half an hour, moaning and begging, hearing him say the filthiest things while he fucked you into absolute heaven.

Well, you think to yourself as you wrap your desserts in a cloth napkin so you can get the hell out of here as fast as possible, there’s no way a billionaire isn’t sleeping with a different woman every night. You’ll never hear from him.

*****

Unknown: It’s Leto. It’s been a week since we met. Dinner tonight?

You lick hummus off your thumb. You’d just gotten home from your part-time nanny gig and have enough time for food and a nap before you pick up an extra bartending shift. You don’t really want to, but Saturday tips are too hard to pass up.

You save Leto’s contact info.

You: It’s 5pm on Saturday. I’m busy. Why’d you wait so long???

LA: If it were up to me, I would’ve had you all week. You’re the one who wanted to do it this way, sweetheart.

You smile to yourself. For some reason, you know he’s not being an asshole, just patiently pointing out facts. Also, he followed instructions and hadn’t texted you for a week. It’s kind of sexy.

You lean back against your kitchen counter, glad your roommates are out so they don’t see you blushing and smiling over a boy. But you’d told the bar you’d pick up a shift tonight. Plus, you’d seen this great vintage Coach bag at one of your favorite shops and convinced them to hold it for you until the end of the month. So, you need the money.

It would be fun to go on a date with one of the richest guys on the planet, but it wouldn’t go anywhere beyond that. You’re too smart to be that delusional.

Maybe you could hit him up when you got out of work, though. You wouldn’t mind sleeping with him again.

LA: I’ll pick you up in 3 hours.

You: Can’t. Better luck next time. I gotta go fuck a different hot billionaire tonight.

*knock, knock, knock*

Still holding your phone, grinning, you go to your front door and get up on your toes to look through the peep hole.

“Oh my fucking god,” you whisper.

Leto’s brown eyes and sardonic grin stare back at you.

Your phone buzzes.

LA: Open the door.

You do, eyes huge and a breathy, disbelieving laugh on your lips.

First of all, because he’s here at your apartment.

Second, he looks so hot you want to rip his clothes off with your teeth. He has on a soft, casual button up in rich blue, and jeans that you can tell were $500 easy, gorgeous leather shoes, and a jacket that could probably buy you groceries for 6 months.

“I promised,” he says with a smile like honey over butter.

You glance away, just to break the spell a little. “No offense, but men lie.”

“You’ll learn that I don’t.” Leto offers you a huge bouquet of flowers from behind his back. A riot of color, no discernible theme, just heady smells and spilling greenery. It’s perfect. It almost brings a tear to your eye, how much beauty there is in the chaos of it.

“Whoa,” you say, hardly able to hold it in your hands. “Okay. You can come in.”

Leto follows you inside. You feel him looking at your stretchy yoga pants and midriff shirt as you put the flowers in the only thing in your apartment that will hold this massive bouquet, a tall pot meant to boil pasta.

“You really didn’t know who I was, did you?” Leto asks, only briefly giving your place a look before zeroing back on your face.

“Sure I’ve heard the name Atreides,” you shrug, filling the pot, trying to wrangle the flowers into it. “It’s on the side of buildings and hospitals. I never thought guys like you were real, though, Leto.”

“Well, I’ll just have to make you scream it again so you don’t forget,” he says smoothly.

He joins you when you carry it to the living room. You set it on the coffee table. It blocks the TV. Oh well. You’d rather look at these anyway.

“I really can’t have dinner with you tonight. I have to work,” you say apologetically, sliding your hands into your back pockets.

You hadn’t thought he was close enough, but you realize Leto might have more moves than you thought because he manages to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close until your hips bump together and you can feel the bulge in his jeans.

“Dinner tomorrow,” he says.

“Lunch?”

He nods. He leans in and you hold your breath, wanting to feel his lips and beard against you again. Instead, he lifts his face and kisses you on the forehead.

“Can I pick you up at noon?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You clear your throat, never turned on by something so innocent before.

Leto lets you go, smiling like he knows exactly how he makes you feel. “We’re good together, you and I.”

“How do you figure?” you ask doubtfully.

“I think women only want me for money. You think men only want you for sex. I think we’ve both been selling ourselves short, don’t you?”

“The money and sex are part of it. Let’s not fool ourselves,” you tell him.

“The money and sex are fun, but there’s more here.” Leto’s hands glide over your body. “Are you seeing anyone? Sleeping with anyone?”

You shake your head. “Not anymore.”

“Good.” Leto’s big hand cups your face and he kisses you.

He tastes like sweet mint and forever.

Dangerous, dangerous man.

How he has the self-control to leave you un-fucked is truly unbelievable. You lock the door behind him, not without squeezing his magnificent ass, though.

You know it’s kind of messed up to wonder if his patience is really just a mind game. But that’s dating, right? Even with a guy who seems nice, you can’t help but keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Oh, shoes.

You check your phone.

If you leave now you’ll have time to stop and pick up a new pair of shoes for your date with Leto tomorrow. Your tips will cover the bill, but you’ll have to kiss that bag goodbye.

You don’t mind, though. You’d rather be kissing Leto.

*****

You overdress for a lunch date. But if you can’t wear a slinky purple dress and heels for Leto fucking Atreides, then what are all these clothes even for?

Plus, when he picks you up, he’s speechless for a full three seconds and it’s maybe the most beautiful you’ve ever felt. He’s wearing a suit with no tie, the top couple of buttons on his shirt undone. Casual and expensive looking, as opposed to how he usually dresses, all-business and expensive looking.

His hands find your hips as he leans in for a kiss.

“I’m sorry I left your gift in the car,” he says, running his hands over your figure like magnets to metal. “A dress like this deserves to be applauded right away.”

“If you want to come in for a few minutes, you can applaud it into a pile on the floor. We might even make it to my bed.”

Leto chuckles. “Very tempting, sweetheart, but I want to take you out on a real date.”’

You sigh dramatically, like it’s some kind of chore to go out to a meal with a man whose facial hair alone makes you ovulate immediately.

He nudges you out of your apartment, luring you with another kiss.

“This is my head of personal security, Duncan Idaho. He’s driving us today.” Leto introduces you at the big, black SUV.

Duncan seems like a goofball who could detach someone’s head from their neck in three seconds.

“Ma’am,” he grins.

“Head of security? Are you expecting an assassination attempt?” you ask jokingly.

You feel Leto’s hand twitch at the small of your back, but Duncan opens the car door.

“Don’t worry, I’m an excellent driver and good with a knife.” Duncan says with an easy smile. “Plus, this whole thing’s armored.”

Leto gets in the car behind you and you scoot up closer to him. The privacy partition’s up. You have no idea what kind of car this is, but it seems pretty beefy for everyday driving around.

“You’re not really in any danger, right?” you ask.

“I’d never put you in harm’s way,” Leto says, his fingers skimming over the thin strap of your dress. He blinks slowly, as if distracted by your bare skin for a moment. “Do you like gifts?”

“Don’t change the subject,” you tap his nose with your finger, “but yes, I do.”

You scratch your fingers through his thick salt and pepper beard.

Leto licks his bottom lip, then reaches into the back seat pocket while he explains. “We have a long-running feud with another family. Sometimes, they kick up a little dust. The car and security are just precautions.”

He holds out a long, black velvet box. You know that shape, and the logo.

“Jewelry already?” you ask, excited, but not sure you should accept whatever it is because you just know it was really fucking expensive.

“I want you to know I’m serious. This won’t be just sex.”

One of Leto’s hands stays snug around your waist as his other flips open the box.

It’s an emerald-cut diamond tennis bracelet. There’s no way it’s worth less than half a million.

It’s your turn to be speechless. You watch, literally slack-jawed, as his capable fingers take it out of its case and secure it around your wrist.

“Do you like it?” he says, close to your ear.

“Um,” you try to recover from the out-of-body experience of Leto Atreides gifting you jewelry so expensive, it’s going to be like lifting weights to go to lunch with him.

“It’s from the family archives.” He sounds a little less sure of himself, probably due to the fact that you’re still quiet. “It made me think of you.”

“Leto,” you say, thankful your voice decided to work again, shaky as it sounds, “I love it. It’s too much, though. You realize that, right?”

He nods, running his fingers back through his hair.

“It’s so beautiful.” You can’t take it off. It’s too perfect. “How about we consider it a loaner?”

Leto’s dark eyes sharpen. “You’re not a loaner kind of woman. You might see yourself that way, but I don’t.”

So he’s as good with words as he is with his hips. Hmm.

“You know, it’s hard to say no to love-bombing when you sent down the equivalent of a handful of nuclear detonations.” You hold up your wrist.

“I’m not trying to do that. I’m rich. My gifts should be proportional, that’s all.” He frowns, shifting to get more comfortable as the car starts moving. “How about this, you wear it for today, while we’re together. If you still want me to hold onto it for you, I can put it in my safe at home. Wear it or keep it, whatever you want.”

You hold it up to the light. Even through the tinted windows it sparkles.

“Okay,” you agree, kissing him on the cheek as a thank you. “You seem like a good negotiator. You’re not one of those business guys who inherited everything, but you tank it all because you’re useless, huh?”

Leto raises an eyebrow at you. “No. I’m not,” he says, drier than the Sahara.

You burst out laughing and Leto cracks a smile. You throw your arms around him, and the making out is immediate and intense, all the way to the restaurant.

*****

The most expensive French restaurant in the city, a private table, the chef greets Leto by name.

That’s not what makes it a great first date, though.

Leto makes suggestions, but doesn’t push. He goes along with whatever you want.

He moves his chair so he sits closer to you. He asks you about a painting you have hung near your front door, about your family, and movies, and travel.

You have to dig to get him to talk about himself actually.

He’s not exactly humble when he does, but he’s Leto Atreides, what’s to be humble about? Facts aren’t bragging. He was a billionaire when he’d turned 18.

You hold his hand through lunch, which amuses him to no end.

You coax him to feed you little bites from his plate. He drops a piece of poached fish right into the sauce and it splashes everywhere. No one’s perfect. He seems close, though.

Your heart drops when he says he’s leaving town tomorrow. Just for the week, a business trip.

A little distance should feel good. You don’t want to get too close too soon, but you can’t help but be sad. You can tell Leto doesn’t like disappointing you.

“Have dinner with me,” Leto says.

“When you get back?”

He shakes his head. “Tonight.”

You laugh. It’s already been a 3-hour lunch. “What the hell, sure, but I need to go home and change. Can’t wear the same outfit on two consecutive dates.”

Leto lets go of you and reaches into his jacket for his wallet. He takes out a wad of money and holds it out to you.

“I have to check in on a project while we’re down here. It should take me about an hour. I don’t like the idea of you going home and slipping through my fingers. Take this. You can go shopping and Duncan will pick you back up,” he says.

You hold the bills in your hand. “Does this make me a prostitute?”

“You’re too much work to be a prostitute,” he says with a wry smile.

You roll your eyes playfully. “Then a concubine, maybe. How much money is this?”

“A grand or so,” Leto shrugs. “I have more money than I know what to do with. You, however, are not like anyone or anything I’ve ever seen. I can provide for you, sweetheart, financially. Emotionally, I admit I’ll need a little work.”

At least he’s up front about it. Although, he doesn’t need as much work as he thinks he does. You guess even almost perfect, billionaire, titans of industry have their insecurities.

Your gut tells you his intentions are good. More than good. He’s honest, and there’s an earnestness to him, just under the surface. He means what he says.

You believe him. It’s more than most guys get from you.

And you do love shopping.

“Well, with a stack of bills like this, I can definitely get a decent change of clothes.” You put the money in your purse. “Although, I’m not sure it’ll cover underwear.”

“Let me take care of you, and you won’t need any ever again.”

“Lay off the charm. I already said ‘yes’ to everything.” You lean in to kiss him.

He responds only with a crinkling of his eyes. He’s not much for public kissing, you’ve noticed. You sit back again, willing to save it for when you’re alone. He’s more than respected you, so it’s the least you can do.

“There’s a boutique I like, usually out of my price range, a street over. Duncan can pick me up there when you’re done,” you say.

Leto glances over your dress. It’s not really warm, and it has an open back, and no sleeves or shoulders. It’s breezy out, another overcast Seattle day. It’s only a block to walk, though.

Without a word, Leto takes off his suit coat and drapes it over you.

To your absolute horror, you feel your face get warm.

“If I’m not allowed to suck your face off in public, you need to cool it with the romantic gestures,” you grumble.

Leto gently pulls your hair out from under the collar of his jacket. “No.”

You snort a laugh. You hadn’t really wanted him to stop anyway.

His lips twitch, which only makes you want to kiss him more. You settle for playing with his hair, where it meets the back of his neck.

“I know a really great restaurant, about 20 minutes out of town, along the water,” Leto says, his eyes turning more bedroom-y, his hooded lids a little heavier, “but we could also eat at my place. Only if you want to. It’s-“

“I pick that. Your place, please.”

He exhales through his nose, not out of impatience or annoyance. He seems relaxed, one hand on your thigh, the other holding yours.

“You really make me re-think my rules about PDA,” he mutters. “A lot of my rules, actually.”

He stands, holding his hand out to you, and keeping it as you walk out of the restaurant. Leto fills Duncan in on the afternoon plans.

“We’ll drop you off first,” he says.

“I’m used to walking in heels,” you say. “I don’t mind. Actually, after that lunch, I need a walk anyway.”

Leto looks like he wants to argue, but he bites his tongue.

Instead, gives you a quick, firm kiss on the lips. Right there on the street.

He looks a little embarrassed afterward, only nodding before he gets in the car.

Duncan shuts the door and looks at you, really looks at you.

“Never seen him do that before,” Duncan mumbles, giving you a congratulatory nod.

Even though the windows are tinted, you’re sure Leto watches as you walk away. You give the car a wave over your shoulder before you turn the corner.

Not a bad guy to have wrapped around your finger, but it’s already more than that. You’ve never met a man so irresistible that you want to love him, or even worse, trust him.

Leto seems like he needs a little fun in his life. A little color.

You spot a dress in the boutique that might do the trick. It’s a beautiful, rich teal and one of those designs that makes it impossible to wear a bra.

If you tease Leto enough, he’ll probably break the delicate shoulder straps. You’d love to see that.

You try on the dress. It looks killer under Leto’s suit jacket, the diamond bracelet throwing light in the dressing room like a disco ball at a party.

The dress, underwear (which are just for show, but gorgeous and lacy), and a pair of shoes. It comes to just over two grand.

“I guess I got a little ambitious,” you say with a smile. You count the cash Leto gave you. “Just the dress and underwear, please. The shoes are beautiful, but I’m a little short.”

The sales clerk shakes her head. “No worries about the shoes. We can just put them on your card.”

You’re about to tell her that you’re already stretched thin in the credit department, especially if you want to keep looking like something Leto can’t keep his hands off of.

“I just finished putting your card on file, I mean,” the clerk says.

You blink at her. “What?”

“While you were trying on the dress, we had a call from your, well, he didn’t say,” she says politely. “He gave us a credit card number to keep on file for you, no limit. Courtesy of Leto Atreides.”

“Holy shit,” you mutter to yourself. You smile at the clerk. “I’ll take the shoes, then. Do you mind if I change in the dressing room? I’ll wear it all out.”

“Of course. Would you like us to hold the clothes you’re wearing, or I can have them couriered to an address tomorrow.”

“No, I’ll take them with me, thanks,” you say. “This is a level of service I’m not really used to, no offense.”

She nods. “Well, the Atreides name carries a lot of weight in Seattle. In the whole world, actually.”

The clerk shows you into the changing area again, polite to a fault. She tells you they’re ordering for spring already, to stop by again if you want a private consult or special order.

You tell her you’ll think about it.

The implications of being with someone as high profile as Leto never occurred to you. He’s one of those rich guys who stays out of the public eye, but there’s no hiding his name and family.

Then again, what do you care? His name and family aren’t really what you’re in it for. It’s about how Leto makes you feel. Beautiful. Special. Spoiled.

Leto’s waiting in the car when you walk out of the shop. You can almost see his mouth water as you slide into the seat next to him.

“How was work?” you ask.

Leto gives a slight shake of his head, irritated from whatever he’d been dealing with.

You lean in and kiss his cheek, then keep kissing him, marking a line to his lips before he captures your mouth again. His tension melts under your hands and it feels like the accomplishment of a lifetime.

Maybe Leto is the love of a lifetime. Your lifetime.

As if he can hear your thoughts, Leto pauses kissing you. His nose rubs against your cheek, the soft scratch of his beard hair brushes on your skin.

“I want this to be the first night of many,” he says.

“I could get on board with that. Thanks for the shopping spree by the way.”

“No, you misunderstood.” Leto’s brown eyes shimmer at you, his eyes as dark as his sense of humor. “All of these clothes are mine. When we get to my house, I demand you return them.”

“Then what will I wear?” you ask with faux confusion.

“Nothing.” Leto kisses down your neck, pushing aside his jacket to get to your shoulder.

“You’re demanding, you know that? You think you can just snap your fingers and get whatever you want out of me?” you tease him.

Leto’s fingers glide under one of the dress straps. If you weren’t in the car, you’re sure it would be ripped by now.

“No, sweetheart, you’re the one who can snap her fingers and get whatever she wants. I can’t believe it took me this long to find you. I don’t plan on letting you go any time soon. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

You thread your fingers into his beard. He looks up at you.

“That’s a dangerous offer, Atreides.”

“It’s a serious one. Anything you want, sweetheart, you have it. You have me.”

The first night of many, he’d said. It will be. You’ll give him every night you have, for the rest of his handsome life.

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With every passing moment, the constant ticking in the otherwise silent house bore into his skull, almost berating him.

'Tick. Tick. Tick.'

'Wrong.'

'Shame."

'Guilt."

"Shut up," he hoarsely whispered, fingernails digging into the wood.

"Shut up, shut up!"

"I didn't say anything." You emerged from your daughter's bedroom after tucking her in for the night. "Please don't wake her up. It took me forever to get her to sleep."

He squeezed his eyes shut in anguish.

"Who were you talking to anyway? Me? Steven?"

HIs jaw clenched as he swallowed hard. "Not a chance."

You frowned, confused. "What? Why? What did he say?"

"Nothing," he muttered. "Is she okay?"

You sat down on the couch perpendicular to Marc. "She's okay."

Your assurance brought no comfort.

The muscles of his arm strained so intensely you thought he might break the chair. He couldn't even look at you.

"Marc, she's okay," you repeated, although your words gave him no real relief.

He scared her. Maybe scared you a little.

A boy in your daughter's kindergarten class pushed her down on the playground. She was okay for the most part, but she cried during her bath. The soapy water stung her scrapes and bruises formed alongside them. Her little palms also bore the marks of catching her fall.

Marc thought she was watching TV before bed as he asked you how you handled the situation at school.

But, hearing mom and dad talk about the boy at school drew your daughter's curious mind toward the two of you.

She darkened your bedroom door just in time to hear her dad saying, "How could they let this happen to her? What kind of fucking school is this?"

"Marc, hold on, just...calm down," you advised, but seeing marks on his little girl sent him off the deep end.

"Don't tell me to calm down, not about this. Who the fuck put his hands on her? I'll kill him."

Your daughter's face scrunched into an anguished pout as she burst into tears. "Don't kill him, Daddy."

"Oh my god, baby," you gasped, running to scoop up your frantic daughter. "It's okay, it's okay. That's not what Dad meant."

Marc suddenly pushed off the chair in the living room, shuddering at the thought of his daughter's face, horrified by his words. By him.

Afraid of him.

The only thing he'd ever wished for his child was to never be frightened of him.

He stalked to the bedroom and shut the door, leaving you alone and defeated.

Marc found you on the balcony a while later, listening to music on your phone and jotting something down in a spiral notebook. It was a journal of sorts, where you drew little illustrations, made notes to clear your head, and journaled.

Fearing the worst but hoping for forgiveness, he brought you a cup of tea, saucer and everything, the way Steven made it for you.

"Here," he said gruffly, thrusting the offering toward your face, startling you in the process. His hand trembled and the cup toppled to the ground, shattering.

You jumped, letting out a shriek of surprise.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I - I wanted to -"

"Are you okay?" You asked him, stashing your notebook and rising to meet him. “Did it burn you?”

He dropped down to frantically pick up the mess he'd made, haphazardly grasping at the glass shards, when you knelt in front of him and reached for his hand.

"Don't do that. You'll cut yourself."

"I have to...I have to -"

"Marc, stop. Stop."

Abandoning his task, he sank down to the ground, against the chair opposite yours, head bowed in anguish.

"I'll clean it up," he muttered, pushing his hands through his curls and yanking hard. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I…” His voice broke as he slumped forward, interrupted by an anguished sob.

Easing down beside him, you reached for his hand to stop him for pressing his palms into his forehead and starting to pound.

Your heart burned and broke for him, but swelled with love for his efforts. You were honestly surprised he hadn’t disassociated under such duress. You only wished you knew the best way to connect to him or comfort him. But you were only human. The fact that he accidentally scared your daughter and stormed off into the bedroom for the last two hours hurt. You tried not to take it personally but it stung.

Then he made you tea? For Marc, that was as big as a marriage proposal. Reaching over for your phone, you paused the music.

“Baby…” you whispered, gently tracing your fingertips on his back, slowly easing into rubbing up and down, which tended to ground him. “I’m here. It's gonna be okay.”

“I can’t lose you,” he mournfully choked out, slumping over onto your lap.

“Lose me? Marc…” Raking your fingers through his thick hair, you hushed him. “That’s not how marriage works. Maybe you fucked up. We’re parents. We fuck up. Spouses too. It doesn’t mean you’re going to lose me.”

It took him several minutes to get his bearings, but you let him cling to you, wrap his arms desperately around your torso as you soothed him.

Finally, you helped him turn over so he could rest across your lap. You pushed his damp curls out of his eyes with one hand, while soothingly rubbing his chest with the other.

“I scared her,” he hoarsely whispered, peering up at you. “You saw her face. She’s afraid of me.”

“She’s not. You know she’s not.”

He sniffed, nodding once. “I fucked up.”

You smiled at him sympathetically. “You didn’t know she was listening. I didn’t either. We should have put her to bed first. That’s on me too.”

“I just… I saw those marks on her body,” his voice broke. “I never wanted her to feel any pain.”

“You want to protect her. Believe me, I spent a half hour with the principal. I want the same thing. I bet a thousand dads have said the same words.”

He slowly sat up, touching his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry you had to take care of both of us tonight. You have no idea how much I hate that.”

Hitching your thumb toward the broken tea cup, you said, “I think I have some idea. You hate making tea. You must have felt really bad.”

“Fucked that up too.”

“Believe me, you didn’t. I felt so alone before you came out here. Thank you for doing that.”

“You’re thanking me?”

“Yes. You love our daughter. You love me. We’ll figure the rest of it out.”

You could only imagine how much it hurt Marc to frighten his only child, so when you woke up the next morning and found her sitting on his lap, reading a story together in Steven's chair, the world felt right again. You heard her ask if they could make you some tea in your favorite cup.

He winced, admitting that it accidentally broke, but rebounded beautifully by carrying her to the kitchen to pick out a different cup. As he opened the cupboard, you heard your daughter say, “There it is!”

“This is the best one, huh?”

“Yes, it has our picture on it."

Marc turned the mug this way and that, admiring the family picture on it with your girl. "It's a good picture, huh? Do you like it?"

"Yeah, but Dad?"

"What, baby?"

"Can we have a brother?"

But as you forced your heavy lidded eyes open, you trembled in fear.

Glowing, white eyes stared back at you under a white hood. You twisted away from...whatever horror had come to drag you to the afterlife.

Suddenly, the hood, the glowing eyes and the black mask covering its face dissolved to reveal...

"Grant?" You choked out, using what little strength you possessed to spit your father's enemy's name.

Millionaire Steven Grant. The only man in three counties who wouldn't bend the figurative knee to "the king of everything." Aka, your father.

Your father's organization owned this city. The cops, politicians, everyone with deep pockets.

Everyone except the Grants.

And this infuriated your father beyond measure. He'd ordered the death of Elias and Steven Grant multiple times. Never worked.

Mr. Grant must have gotten fed up because you were kidnapped two days ago.

"Not Grant," the man corrected, reaching for your shackles.

Terror spiked through your body but you wouldn't die a coward at your enemy's hands. "Here to finish the job yourself? I'm surprised you would bother to get your hands dirty." You coughed, throat parched with thirst.

He tutted condescendingly, continuing to loose your bonds with one hand, while his strong arm wrapped around your body, supporting your weight.

Despite the fight in your words, you sagged against him, exhausted, terrified and dehydrated. "Don't bother if you're just going to kill me."

"I'm here to take you home, hermosa."

He finally freed your hands. Your arms dropped to your sides like lead and the jerking motion made you start to cry. "It's hurts, it hurts so much.”

"Shh, shh, I got you." The white-caped Steven Grant scooped you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing, despite being much shorter than you imagined. In an instant, the black mask and white hood covered his incredibly handsome face once more, and his eyes glowed their haunting white.

You passed out.

You'd heard about Moon Knight for months. A vigilante, some said. A hero to others. A menace to criminals.

Like your father.

Though you would never say it out loud. No one would.

Some people said he wore a crisp, white suit, kind of like the mascot for that fast food chicken place. Others swore he wore a white cape, and was bandaged like a mummy, head to toe, in all white.

But this...person, if he even was Moon Knight, did have a white cape, but his suit was more like black, body-hugging body armor.

Stunning, really.

Of course, you were too frightened, infuriated, thirsty, hungry and exhausted to exactly ogle your savior.

The mystery man took you to a tiny room in some warehouse in the side of town where your father's minions did their dirtywork.

He handed you a sealed bottle of water and a package of crackers. You snatched them and devoured them both. He said nothing until you were done. He handed you a second water bottle, which you also drained in about thirty seconds.

"Do you have more?"

"Take it easy," he cautioned. "Give it a few minutes."

"Do you have more?"

"Soon. I promise."

He knelt down in front of the small sofa where you were halfway sitting up. You wanted to lie down so badly, but what if you needed to run?

"Are you going to kill me?" You whispered, weakly.

"No," he answered resolutely. "I wouldn't have bothered saving you just to do that."

"Why did you do this to me?"

Confusion wrinkled his forehead as his dark eyebrows shifted curiously. "I didn't do this. Why would I help you if I did this?"

"Because of who I am. And because you're Steven Grant."

Even a small amount of arguing with him took the last of your energy. You slumped over on the couch.

The last thing you heard before you passed out was, "I'm not. My name is Jake."

The man in the black body armor and white cape swore his name was Jake Lockley.

You sipped some soup he brought you, noticing there was a stack of fresh clothes, a wash rag and a brand new bar of soap, along with other hygiene items.

Your wrists were bandaged. He must have done that while you slept. The intimacy of him tending your wounds while you had no knowledge of it made you shiver.

"Are you the Moon Knight?"

"I am."

"Is Jake your secret identity? You're like Batman, right? Rich guy - Bruce Wayne by day, Batman by night?"

"Jake is my name."

You frowned, confused. "So Steven Grant is your secret identity. Like Clark Kent?"

"Uhhh...something like that, I guess."

"Why did you help me? Steven Grant hates my family."

"He doesn't, actually."

You groaned. "Whatever...you hate us?"

"No."

Okay, to be fair, Jake was a part of a system. He could explain that to you later, maybe. Steven didn't hate your family. He wasn't very fond of your father, but he just wanted to keep as much of the city out of your father's grip as possible.

Marc, his other alter, definitely hated your father. But Marc held grudges.

Steven found out that someone, a rival group within your father's organization, kidnapped you and planned to blame it on the Grant family - on Steven and his father Elias. He sent Jake after you.

Jake was more than happy to take care of the men who laid a hand on you, especially since they were blaming Steven. Both you and Steven were innocent in all this.

So Jake took them out - all of them. He sent their remains to your father, so he would know his own people turned against him, and hurt you.

"You're probably wondering why I didn't take you to the hospital," Jake told you, after relaying as much of the story as possible in one sitting. "It's not safe. As soon as it is, I'll take you home." He nodded to the clean clothes, and then to a doorway. “Shower's in there. Towels too.”

You stayed with him another day. He changed your bandages, made sure you were fed and clean.

And he told you all about Marc and Steven.

You asked him why and he simply shrugged. "Know your enemy?"

You smiled at him sadly. "You don't seem like my enemy. You saved my life."

"Yes, I did. You're welcome," he said smugly, but he was teasing.

"Does my father really believe the Grants had nothing to do with this? He knows you saved me?"

"Mostly," Jake told you. "Maybe we should tell him together. Try to end all this."

Your eyes widened. "You mean that. Don't you?"

He nodded earnestly. "Our fathers are enemies. We don't have to be."

That's how the biggest enemies in Chicago made peace: with a controversial wedding in early autumn.