You were on top, and he was gone.

Clark had his hands on your hips, but he wasn’t guiding you anymore—he was holding on. Fingertips pressing deep into your skin like he needed the anchor, like without it, he might float up and out of himself. You were soaked, your thighs slick and trembling as you rode him, dragging his cock deep and tight with every roll of your hips.

His head was tipped back into the pillow, jaw slack, breath catching every time you sank down.

He groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel so good—baby, I…”

The rest got lost somewhere between a moan and a breathless sound, the kind he only made when he was too far gone to think straight. You could feel the way he throbbed inside you, thick and desperate, every pulse of him tightening as you moved just enough to keep him there, not enough to let him go.

And he looked ruined.

Hair damp, curls sticking to his forehead. Lips parted. Chest rising fast as he tried to breathe through it. You’d seen Clark focused. Seen him furious, calm, sweet, in control.

But this—this was something else entirely.

You moved slower just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, his cock so hard inside you it ached. He tried to lift his hips, tried to chase your rhythm, but the sound that left him was rough and shaky.

“Please,” he managed, voice breaking. “I—just… please.”

Please what?

He didn’t even know. Didn’t care. 

He was drunk on you, overwhelmed, his whole body shaking with how badly he wanted to come and how hard he was trying not to. You leaned forward just enough for your chest to brush his, and he whimpered, hips bucking without meaning to. It made you both gasp.

Just as you were both getting lost in it—

The world reminded you it still existed.

A sudden flash lit up the room. Bright and blue, sharp as static, cutting in through the gap in the curtains. It caught the curve of your back first, then spilled across the sheets in a stuttering burst of light.

You barely registered it at first.

Just a flicker. Just noise.

Then came the sound. Distant, but deep—an explosion, low and heavy, like thunder breaking over the skyline. 

You blinked once, then twice, chest tightening as your body tried to stay focused, stay with him, stay inside the heat still rolling between your hips.

But your mind followed the chaos. 

You looked toward the window.

Another flash came. Brighter this time.

You caught movement. Then more light. More sound. Something was happening—out there, past the glass, the city flashing with too many colors. You didn’t know what it was. Didn’t have to. You just knew the look of it. The weight of it.

Trouble.

The kind that called for him.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Clark wasn’t moving.

He wasn’t listening, wasn’t turning toward the noise. Wasn’t tensing to go, to suit up, to fly.

He was still beneath you. Still buried deep. Still trembling as he held you tighter, chest rising fast, jaw clenched like he was trying to block it out. The light kept flashing. The sounds kept building. But he didn’t stop.

You opened your mouth.

“Cla—”

He shook his head once, sharp and fast, like he couldn’t stand to hear what you were about to say.

“Don’t,” he rasped, the word rough and splintered as he dragged you back down onto him, hard.

The sudden depth tore a gasp from your throat, swallowed almost instantly by the sound he made—low and guttural, like it had been ripped straight from his chest. His head pressed harder into the pillow, neck taut, the muscles there straining as his throat worked around the noise that rumbled through him.

He tried to speak again—something broken and half-formed about the Justice Gang, about how they could handle it—but the words fell apart the second your body clenched around him.

Whatever point he was trying to make instantly unraveled into a groan.

Another explosion ripped through the night, rattling the walls. Clark didn’t even flinch. He only held you tighter, his thrusts turning ragged, hungrier.

“Please,” he breathed, the word cracked and frayed. “Don’t stop. You don’t know how—how good you feel.”

The words tumbled out between moans, each one softer, more ruined than the last. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t try. His breath came hard and uneven, every exhale a mix of whimpers and praise as your hips rolled over his.

He kept begging you to keep going, and you tried—God, you tried—but he wouldn’t let up. His hands stayed anchored to your hips, dragging you down harder, faster, forcing you to match the rhythm only he seemed to know. Each movement pulled a sound from him that sounded too raw, too human for someone the world saw as a god. 

Your body trembled, thighs shaking from the effort, from the slick heat between you, from the way he wouldn’t stop. The room filled with it—his groans, your gasps, the sound of your bodies colliding again and again until it drowned out everything else.

Outside, the city flashed. The sirens screamed. The night roared.

But inside, under you, Clark was gone. Nothing more than a pussy-drunk mess, stammering through moans about how perfect you felt, how he couldn’t get enough, how he needed more. 

Every breath was a plea, every word a surrender. His eyes stayed on you like he couldn’t look away, pupils blown, mouth parted, wrecked beyond reason.

Whatever battle raged beyond those walls would have to burn without him.

Because right now—

Superman was fighting a battle of his own. 

One he had no intention of winning.

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You had been here since three, sewing a button back onto Nick’s Act Two vest because Nick treated costumes like they were suggestions rather than pieces of clothing. You liked this part. The fixing, the adjusting, the last-minute saves nobody noticed unless you failed at them. There was comfort in being backstage. The lights never found you there.

Allie, unfortunately, had never respected comfort when a crisis was available.

“Marissa can’t go on,” she said.

You froze with the needle halfway through the fabric.

Allie took that as an opening and rushed forward, talking fast enough to outpace your panic. “She has no voice. None. She opened her mouth and sounded like a haunted kettle. The director is one missed cue away from lying facedown in the lobby. We tried calling her understudy, but her understudy is apparently in Boston for her cousin’s engagement dinner, which feels fake, but I don’t have time to prosecute that right now.”

You stared at her. “Allie.”

“You know the part.”

“I know the part because I’ve heard it eight hundred times while hemming skirts.”

“You know the part because you whisper everyone’s lines under your breath when you think nobody can hear you.”

“I do not.”

“You recited half of Act Two yesterday with three pins in your mouth.”

Allie crossed the room and dropped into the chair beside you, which was dramatic considering she was in a satin gown and had no business sitting anywhere near the lint roller pile. “Please. I know you hate this. I know you like being back here, and I know you’re going to tell me you’re not an actor, but you know every cue, every scene change, every line Marissa has. You know where she stands. You know when she crosses. You even know when she’s supposed to cry, which is more than Marissa knew until yesterday.”

That made you want to laugh, which was unfair. Allie weaponized humor when begging. It was one of her strongest and most irritating gifts.

“I can’t just walk on stage because I’ve been in the room a lot,” you said, though your voice had lost some of its certainty.

“You won’t be walking on because you’ve been in the room. You’ll be walking on because you’re the only person who can save us from performing a romantic drama where one of the main women is represented by a lamp.”

“A lamp?”

“It was Dean’s suggestion.”

“Dean is here?”

Allie’s mouth twitched. “The hockey boys are here. Dean came because he heard the phrase ‘costume department’ and misunderstood the tone of the evening. Garrett came because Dean promised there would be snacks. Logan came because…”

She stopped herself, which was your first warning.

You pressed your hands over your face. “That is not helping.”

“I know,” she said, sounding a little too pleased with herself, “which is why I’m only going to mention the relevant part. Logan asked if you were around.”

Your hands dropped.

Allie watched the information land with an almost unbearable amount of satisfaction. She was one of your favorite people on campus and also, at times, a woman who deserved to be locked in a prop closet for everyone’s safety.

“He asked if I was around?”

“He said, ‘Is your costume girl here?’ which I found reductive, but he meant you.”

“That could mean literally anyone in this room.”

“There’s only one girl he looks for when he comes backstage.”

You hated that your stomach did something stupid at that. Logan had been around a handful of times, usually when post-rehearsal plans somehow migrated to the green room or when one of the guys got dragged into carrying set pieces because the drama club had no budget and too much faith in hockey-player upper body strength. You knew him in pieces. His laugh in the hallway, his habit of picking up whatever someone dropped before they realized they had dropped it, the way he acted like every conversation was casual even when his attention made your skin warm.

He was easy to talk to, which made him dangerous. Guys like Logan could make you feel like you were standing under a spotlight even when they were only asking if you wanted the last slice of pizza.

“That still does not mean I can perform in front of him,” you said.

Allie’s face softened, and that was worse than the begging. “You won’t be performing for him. You’ll be performing because you can. And because if you don’t, I’m going to have to watch Dean’s lamp idea come to life and I may never recover.”

You let out a breath that felt like it had been living in your chest for the past five minutes. Outside the costume room, someone shouted for tape, someone else shouted that the tape was not where it was supposed to be, and the director’s voice rose above both of them with the brittle calm of a man preparing to lose his mind artistically.

You looked at the dress hanging on the rack. Marissa’s dress. Your dress, technically, since you had taken it in at the waist, shortened the sleeves, replaced the buttons, and stitched the inside seam after she stepped on it during tech week. You knew how it moved because you had made it move properly. You knew the character because you had dressed her.

Allie followed your gaze and wisely said nothing.

“I’m not kissing Nick,” you said finally.

Allie sprang up so fast the satin of her skirt snapped around her ankles. “The stage kiss was cut yesterday because Nick has the romantic presence of a damp sock. You’ll be emotionally yearning from three feet away, which is basically theater’s entire brand.”

“I need the script.”

“You don’t need the script.”

“I need it so I can panic with structure.”

Allie shoved it into your hands, then grabbed your shoulders with both of hers. “I owe you my life.”

“You owe me coffee for a month.”

“Done.”

“And you’re telling the director this was your idea when it goes badly.”

“It won’t.”

“Allie.”

She squeezed your shoulders. “It won’t!”

You wanted to believe her. The problem was, believing Allie Hayes had gotten many people into many situations, most of them loud, glittery, and poorly planned. Still, twenty minutes later, you were standing in the wings wearing Marissa’s dress, your own clothes folded over a chair in the costume room, your hair pinned up by Allie’s frantic hands. The director had looked at you like you were both his salvation and his next cardiac event. Nick had tried to give you an encouraging thumbs-up and immediately hit his knuckles on a fake bookcase.

Everything smelled like hairspray, dust, and hot stage lights.

You heard the audience settling on the other side of the curtain. Low voices, shifting seats, someone laughing too loudly near the front. Your pulse seemed to have relocated to your throat.

Allie appeared at your side, radiant in her costume and only slightly terrifying. “Remember, you enter after my line about the letter. Cross to the table, pick up the envelope, stare at it like it ruined your life, then Nick enters.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. I’m telling you because I need to be doing something with my mouth or I’m going to scream.”

That almost loosened the knot in your chest. “You’re very calming.”

“I’ve been told I have the energy of a beautiful emergency.”

Before you could answer, a familiar voice came from the side hallway. “That explains a lot, actually.”

You turned.

Logan stood just beyond the curtain line in dark jeans and a Briar Hockey hoodie, a folded program in one hand. He looked like he had wandered backstage by accident, except Logan never really looked lost. He looked curious. Curious and a little caught off guard as his eyes moved over you, not in the obvious way that would have made you want to disappear, but with a quiet pause that made everything feel suddenly too warm.

Allie pointed at him. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot be back here being distracting. She is saving the entire production.”

Logan’s gaze flicked to Allie, then back to you. “You’re going on?”

“Apparently,” you said, trying not to sound like your bones had turned to paper.

His expression shifted. The teasing eased out of it, leaving something softer behind. “That’s kind of badass.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out nervous, but real. “I’m replacing a girl with laryngitis in a student play, Logan. I’m not storming a castle.”

“Feels castle-adjacent.”

Allie made a strangled noise. “John Logan, if you make her laugh so hard she forgets her blocking, I’ll make you sit through every musical I’ve ever loved and test you afterward.”

Logan held up both hands, the program still caught between his fingers. “Leaving. I only came to tell you Garrett spilled soda on Dean and they’re arguing about whether that’s a bad omen.”

“It is not,” Allie said.

“Dean says sticky thighs are never neutral.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile, and Logan caught it. There was a tiny beat where the backstage madness blurred around the edges, where he looked at you like he was going to say something else and decided against making it a joke.

“You’ve got this,” he said.

It was simple. That was what got you.

Not loud confidence, not a big speech, not some teasing line about being impressed before you had done anything. Just his voice, steady and certain, like he had no trouble imagining you walking out there and surviving it.

Then Allie shooed him away with both hands, and the stage manager hissed for places, and the curtain went up before your body had a chance to catch up with your choices.

For the first few minutes, you waited in the wings and listened.

You had heard the opening scene so many times you could practically see it without looking. Allie’s entrance, the laugh from the audience when she delivered her second line, Nick’s first missed pause, recovered quickly enough that only the people backstage winced. Your fingers curled into the skirt of your dress, smoothing fabric you had already smoothed six times.

Then Allie said the line about the letter.

Your cue.

For half a second, your feet did nothing. All the confidence you had borrowed from Allie, from Logan, from the fact that you knew the play better than some of the people performing it, slipped out of reach. Beyond the wing, the stage stretched wide and bright. The audience was a dark shape past the lights, hundreds of eyes hidden in shadow.

Then Allie turned slightly, just enough that only you could see her face, and widened her eyes like she was trying to physically drag you into the scene.

You stepped out.

The lights hit first. Heat across your cheeks, down your neck, over the front of the dress. The room was both enormous and impossible to see. Your hand found the table because you knew exactly where it was. Your fingers closed around the envelope because you had placed it there yourself before curtain.

You stared at it like it ruined your life.

The first line came out quieter than Marissa’s usually did, but it came out. Then the next. By the third, your voice had stopped shaking. By the fourth, you were no longer thinking about the audience.

You were thinking about the letter, the room, Allie’s character watching you with pity she was trying to hide. You were thinking about the argument you had heard rehearsed for weeks, and how, somehow, standing inside it felt different than listening from a stool in the corner with a seam ripper in your hand.

In the audience, Logan forgot about Dean’s ongoing whisper campaign against the sticky soda on his jeans.

At first, he had been watching because you were you, and because seeing you walk onto a stage in a dress he knew you had probably altered yourself was enough to make his brain stall for a second. You were always in motion when he saw you backstage. Carrying hangers, pinning hems, ducking past actors with a headset around your neck, smiling when someone thanked you and then vanishing before they could say anything else.

He had thought you were shy. Not in a bad way. Just quieter than Allie, which was not hard, and less interested in being the center of the room than pretty much everyone in the drama club.

Then you started speaking.

It was not the kind of performance that announced itself. You did not walk out and demand attention. You earned it line by line, until the audience stopped rustling, until someone in the row ahead of him leaned forward, until Dean whispered, “Wait, she’s actually good,” and Logan elbowed him without looking away from the stage.

Because you were good.

Not cute-good. Not impressive-for-someone-who-got-dragged-into-this good. You were good in a way that made Logan feel like he had been missing something obvious for weeks. You knew when to pause. You knew how to let a line sit. When Nick came in too early, you shifted half a step, lifted the envelope, and made his mistake look like impatience written into the scene.

The audience laughed in the right place. Allie looked like she might cry from relief.

Logan watched your face change under the lights and had the unsettling thought that maybe you had been this interesting the whole time, and he had only been catching glimpses from the hallway.

By the final scene, you were flushed and a little breathless, but you were still there. Still holding your own. Still making the room follow you.

When the lights went down, the applause came fast. You blinked into the darkness as if waking up. Allie grabbed your hand for the curtain call and squeezed so hard your fingers hurt, but she was beaming, and the sound of the audience rose as you stepped forward with the rest of the cast.

You found Logan by accident.

He was standing with Garrett and Dean near the middle aisle, clapping with a look on his face you did not know what to do with. He was not laughing, not teasing, not performing his own ease back at you. He looked proud, which felt impossible and strangely intimate for someone who had only learned you were acting twenty minutes ago.

You looked away first.

Backstage after the show was worse than going on.

At least on stage, you had lines. Backstage, you had people touching your arm and telling you how amazing you were, the director saying something about instincts, Nick apologizing for the missed cue while also trying to pretend it had not happened, and Allie announcing to anyone within hearing distance that she had discovered you, like you were a small Victorian orphan she had pulled from the fog.

You escaped to the costume room under the very legitimate excuse of changing before someone made you talk about your feelings.

The second the door closed, you leaned back against it and exhaled. Your body felt floaty and exhausted, like all your nerves had burned through their fuel at once. The dress itched under one arm. Your hair was falling out of its pins. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You had just started unfastening the top button when someone knocked.

“If that’s Allie, I’m not doing interviews,” you called.

“It’s not Allie,” Logan said through the door. “And I don’t know enough about theater to conduct a good interview.”

Your fingers stopped on the button.

You opened the door partway, mostly because leaving Logan in the hallway felt more embarrassing than facing him. He stood there holding a small bouquet wrapped in green paper, looking faintly uncertain in a way you had never seen on him before.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He glanced down at the flowers like he had only just remembered they existed. “The woman in the lobby said these were for performers. I believed her because she had a cash box and seemed powerful.”

You took them before your hands could decide to shake. They were simple, a few bright flowers tucked together with baby’s breath, the kind of bouquet probably meant for parents to buy at the last second. Somehow that made it sweeter.

“You didn’t have to get me flowers.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that vibe from you.”

“What vibe?”

“The one where compliments make you look like you’re searching for the nearest exit.”

You huffed a laugh and stepped back into the room, letting him follow because standing in the doorway suddenly felt too exposed. “I’m not good at this part.”

“The acting part?”

“No, weirdly that part was fine after the initial terror.” You set the flowers gently on the makeup table, away from the sticky crown. “The after part. People saying things.”

Logan nodded like that made sense, and instead of filling the room with easy jokes, he looked around. At the racks of costumes, the spools of thread, the labeled bins, the dress forms with half-finished pieces pinned to them. His attention moved over the room the same way it had moved over you earlier, taking things in rather than skimming past them.

“You made all this?”

“Not all of it. Some pieces were pulled from storage. Some were altered. Some were built by the department.”

His mouth curved, but his eyes came back to you with that same open steadiness from before. “You were incredible.”

Warmth rushed up your neck. You busied yourself with removing a pin from your sleeve that did not need removing. “I knew the lines.”

“Knowing the lines explains the words. It doesn’t explain the part where the whole room went quiet because they were waiting to see what you’d do next.”

That silenced you for a moment.

Logan did not look pleased with himself for saying it. He looked almost surprised, like he had meant to keep it lighter and failed. That made it harder to brush off.

“I almost didn’t go out there,” you admitted.

“I saw.”

Your eyes lifted.

He leaned back against the edge of the table, making sure not to disturb the makeup brushes or the crown. “You had this half-second where you looked like you were going to run straight out the back door. Then Allie did something with her face.”

“Allie’s face has ruined many lives.”

“Probably saved a few too.”

You smiled down at the pin in your hand. “She knew I could do it before I did.”

“She was right.”

The room seemed quieter than it had a minute ago, even with the muffled noise of people celebrating in the hallway. You could hear the cast laughing, Allie’s voice rising above the rest, Dean complaining about something with full commitment. In here, with Logan standing close enough that you could see the place where his hoodie sleeve had been pushed up his forearm, everything felt softer around the edges.

“I’m not auditioning for the next one,” you said, because you needed something between you that was not the way he was looking at you.

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were about to.”

“I was thinking about it,” he admitted. “But I’m learning you respond badly to pressure.”

“Smart.”

You laughed, and his smile deepened, not triumphant, just pleased that he had gotten you there. It made you remember every other time he had found you backstage or in Allie’s room or at a party where you were never quite part of the loudest group. How he always seemed to notice when you went quiet, but never made a show of it. How he asked questions that sounded casual until later, when you realized he remembered the answers.

Maybe he had been seeing you more than you thought.

Logan’s gaze dropped briefly to the dress. “Do you need help getting out of that?”

Your eyebrows shot up.

He immediately closed his eyes for half a second, like he was replaying his own sentence and suffering through it. “I meant in a respectful, theater-costume, probably-a-row-of-buttons-you-can’t-reach way.”

“You’re very smooth.”

“I was before I watched you emotionally destroy an audience. Apparently that had consequences.”

The laugh that came out of you was softer this time. You turned, gathering your hair over one shoulder, and presented him with the back of the dress before you could overthink it. “Three buttons. Then you are leaving so I can change.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His fingers brushed the fabric at your back, and the quiet shifted again. He was gentle with the buttons, slower than he needed to be, or maybe you were just aware of every second because it was Logan standing behind you in the costume room, undoing the dress you had spent a week fixing for someone else.

He finished the last button and stepped back immediately, giving you space.

“All set,” he said, voice lower than before.

You turned around, holding the dress in place with one hand. “Thank you.”

He nodded, but he did not move toward the door yet. “For the record, I liked you backstage too.”

Your chest tightened.

Logan looked a little nervous after saying it, which was absurd because Logan had once flirted with a waitress while Dean loudly knocked over an entire basket of fries beside him and had not lost focus for even a second.

“You liked me backstage?” you asked.

“I mean, yeah. You’re kind of hard not to like.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then let his hand fall. “But tonight was different. Not because you were suddenly someone else. More because you were already you, and then everyone else got to notice.”

You had no idea what to say to that. It was too much and exactly enough, and it landed somewhere deeper than a compliment about the play.

The hallway door flew open before you could answer, and Allie appeared, stopping short when she saw you and Logan facing each other in the tiny, overstuffed room.

Her eyes flicked to the flowers, then to Logan, then to the undone buttons at the back of your dress that you were still holding closed.

“Oh,” she said, delighted in a way that promised future problems.

“Allie,” you said.

“No, no, I’m not here. I’m a hallucination brought on by applause and emotional vulnerability.”

“Go away,” Logan said, but he was smiling.

“I am going away. I’m leaving so naturally that nobody will even remember I entered.” She backed out slowly, still pointing between the two of you with the kind of silent excitement that made you want to throw a spool of thread at her. Somewhere in the hall, Dean called her name and asked if theater people kept snacks backstage, which finally dragged her attention away.

The door closed again.

You and Logan stared at it for a beat before you both started laughing. It broke whatever had been hovering between you, but not completely. It only made it easier to breathe around it.

“I should change,” you said.

“Right. I’ll wait outside?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” He picked up the program from where he had set it on the table and tapped it lightly against his palm. “But I want to walk you out after. If that’s okay.”

It was more than okay, which was why you had to look down at the flowers instead of directly at him. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

Logan smiled like he knew exactly how much effort it took you to sound normal. “Good.”

He left, and you changed into your own clothes with shaky fingers, the dress going back on its hanger with more tenderness than it probably deserved. When you stepped into the hallway a few minutes later, Logan was waiting by the wall of old production posters, talking to Dean and Garrett. Dean was mid-sentence, gesturing dramatically with a pretzel he had found, but Logan’s attention shifted to you immediately.

It should have been embarrassing, being noticed that quickly.

Allie hugged you so hard you nearly dropped the flowers, then got swept away by three cast members and a director who wanted to discuss tomorrow’s performance. Garrett gave you a warm congratulations. Dean told you he had always believed in you, despite absolutely not knowing you were in the show until intermission, and then wandered off when someone mentioned pizza.

Logan stayed.

The two of you left through the side exit, away from the lobby and the last of the audience. Outside, Briar’s campus was cool and dark, the theater lights spilling gold across the pavement. You clutched the flowers against your chest as you walked, your shoulder occasionally brushing his.

For once, Logan did not rush to fill every silence. He let this one sit until it felt less like awkwardness and more like a place to rest.

“So,” Logan said eventually, “when you become famous, I’m going to need everyone to know I brought you your first bouquet.”

You glanced over at him. “That was my first bouquet?”

“For theater, probably.”

“You’re making a big assumption.”

“Am I wrong?”

You tried to hold back a smile and failed, which was apparently answer enough because his grin softened in that quiet, pleased way that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.

You walked a few more steps before you said, “I’m really not auditioning.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I believe you.”

“You sound like you don’t.”

“I sound like a guy who would sit through another play if you were backstage,” he said. “Or onstage. Or running the whole thing from a headset.”

The warmth in your chest returned, slower this time, spreading all the way down to your fingers around the bouquet.

“You’d come just because I was backstage?”

Logan looked at you under the theater’s side lights, the teasing still there but softer now, almost secondary. “Yeah. I would.”

The answer was too easy for him. Not thrown out for effect, not polished into something it wasn’t. Easy because it was true.

You stopped near the edge of the steps. He stopped too, close enough that the night air between you felt thinner than it should have.

“I don’t really know what to do when people look at me,” you admitted.

Logan’s gaze moved over your face with enough restraint to make your stomach flip. “I can look away.”

You shook your head before he finished saying it. “I didn’t say I wanted you to.”

His smile faded into something quieter.

From somewhere behind you, the side door opened and Allie’s voice carried into the night. “I’m not interrupting. I’m just witnessing something, hopefully magical.”

“Allie,” you called back, mortified.

“I’m gone,” she said, immediately not sounding gone. “I’m disappearing. Like a supportive ghost.”

The door shut again before either of you could answer, and for a second, you and Logan just stared at each other. Then he laughed under his breath, warm and disbelieving, and the sound loosened the last of your nerves.

“We’re never hearing the end of this,” he said.

“Probably not.”

“Worth it?”

You looked at the flowers in your hand, then at him. For the first time all night, being seen did not make you want to hide. “Maybe.”

Logan’s eyes dipped to your mouth, then came back to yours like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. You didn’t. His hand lifted to your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheek, and the bouquet crinkled softly between you as he leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost a question, but it did not stay uncertain for long. You tipped closer, one hand curling into the front of his hoodie, and Logan made a quiet sound against your mouth that you felt more than heard. He kissed you like he had been waiting through the entire play for the chance, like every line you had spoken under the lights had somehow led him here, to the side steps of the theater with your first bouquet pressed between you.

When you pulled back, he stayed close, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“I’m still not auditioning,” you whispered.

Logan smiled against your mouth. “That’s fine.”

Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours. 

Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.

Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer. 

Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.

Then there was getting fucked…

There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. 

If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately. 

If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count. 

If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either. 

Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.

Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.

For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down. 

Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.

Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.

Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.

You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…

Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.

You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.

Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them. 

People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.

The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.

You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.

“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.

You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.

You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.

“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”

He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.

You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”

Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”

You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.

“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.

“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.

Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.

“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.

He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.

“You seem awfully confident about that.”

“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”

Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.

“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”

“Need five minutes,” he muttered.

You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”

The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.

Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.

The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.

“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”

“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.

He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.

“Come open my door.”

“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.

“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”

Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.

You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.

Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people. 

Brutally honest people usually were.

At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.

HR would’ve had a heart attack.

That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.

The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.

Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.

“What’s wrong with Scott?”

You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.

Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.

Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.

You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”

Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”

“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”

“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”

You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”

Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”

Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”

“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”

You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”

Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately. 

The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.

“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.

Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.

The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.

Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.

By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.

You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.

“What’s your current issue?” you asked.

“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.

You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”

You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”

Scott snorted.

“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”

“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”

“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”

“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.

Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.

“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”

“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”

You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.

“Can we leave now?” you asked.

Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.

“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.

Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…

Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.

“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”

Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”

You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”

“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”

“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”

“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”

You barked out another incredulous laugh. 

“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”

“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”

“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”

The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.

His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.

You drove home in complete silence.

No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.

This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment. 

For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.

By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.

Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.

The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.

Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.

Scott followed behind you quietly.

You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.

The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.

Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.

The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.

Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.

The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him. 

Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.

Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.

At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.

“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.

“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.

You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.

Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.

You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.

At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.

Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.

You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.

You stared at each other for a second too long.

You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.

One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.

You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.

You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.

You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.

"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.

"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness. 

Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.

He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.

The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.

"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.

He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.

He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.

He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.

“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.

As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.

He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.

From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.

Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.

He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.

Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.

His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.

Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.

You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.

You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.

Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.

You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.

The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.

For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.

Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.

Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.

“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”

“You’re right.”

You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees. 

“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.

“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”

Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”

Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”

You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”

His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”

Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”

“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”

“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.

“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”

Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.

The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.

“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.

NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.

It just wasn’t the truth.

You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically. 

Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.

The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.

At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.

You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.

One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.

You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.

The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.

If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.

You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.

Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.

The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.

"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.

You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.

Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.

The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.

He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.

You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.

Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.

"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.

He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.

"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.

He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.

As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.

"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."

The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.

Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.

"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.

He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.

Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.

Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.

With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.

The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.

Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.

You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.

"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.

There was no going back after that day, not to abstinence, disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.

Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.

What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.

You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.

The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.

You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.

Off-season made it worse.

Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.

Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.

So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.

It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.

He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.

There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.

Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.

He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute. 

The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.

He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.

"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.

It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.

Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.

"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.

You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.

The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.

As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.

In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.

"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.

The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.

He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.

A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.

Good sex stopped mattering. 

Great sex became expected.

Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.

But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.

So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.

You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!

☆ Here's part 2!

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”

He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.

“What?”

Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”

The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.

Not mine.

They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.

So you just stare at him.

At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.

His gloves, first.

They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.

Your gaze flicks lower.

His shirt, too.

Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.

He cleaned up.

The thought comes through the haze in pieces.

Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.

You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”

Simon watches your mouth form the words.

Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.

His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.

“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”

A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.

You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.

“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”

Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.

His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.

Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.

“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”

Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.

For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.

But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.

“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”

Your nails bite into his shoulder.

“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“

His hips move before you can say anything else.

A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.

“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”

Your stomach twists.

You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.

He pulls out just to thrust in again.

Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.

Simon feels it.

“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.

There is blood on him.

Someone else’s blood.

Graves’s blood.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.

You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.

Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.

Simon watches the realization move across your face.

“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”

The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.

You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.

He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”

For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.

His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.

“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.

Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”

Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.

It doesn’t.

It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.

But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.

It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.

Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.

Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.

Simon feels it. Of course he does.

He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.

Your face burns.

“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.

His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”

The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.

Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”

“There she is.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.

Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.

“You liked that.” He croons.

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.

“N-no.”

His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.

“Liar.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.

And now he has caught you reacting to it.

Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.

Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.

“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.

His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.

“You should be callin’ me reckless.”

Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.

His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.

It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.

“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.

You swallow. “You can’t—”

He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.

Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.

Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.

“I can’t what?” He murmurs.

You try.

You really do.

You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.

“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”

“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”

You can’t.

Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.

Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.

“Too far gone to scold me now?”

You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.

And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.

“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

“Simon—”

“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.

“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”

Your face burns hotter.

You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.

But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.

He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”

“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”

His eyes flash. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.

“Try that again.”

You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.

“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”

“Probably.”

“Price is going to—”

“Already did.”

You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”

His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.

“Read me the riot act.”

Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”

“Yes.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”

Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”

God. You think he’s lost his mind.

“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“

He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.

“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”

His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.

“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”

The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”

You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”

“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”

You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.

He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”

You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.

“And if he talks about you like that again?”

You barely manage the whisper. “What?”

Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.

One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.

“Leave it.”

Your breath trembles. “Why?”

His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”

And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.

Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.

It’s not an invitation or an offer. It’s an order.

Your clothes are abandoned in a pile by the door.

The waters hot enough to steam, all but hissing as you slowly sink it. Simon waits until you’re in to your kneeling in the water, then he strikes. Big hands paw at your hips, spinning your back is to his chest and then pulling until your hips are flush with his. 

His hand finds you under the water, creeping up over your hip so he can dance his fingers along your ribs. Like an instrument, he plays you. Simon caresses up your torso inch by inch, each relaxing you further into his chest. A soft pet over your stomach, walking his fingers over your lungs, tracing the curve of your breast before finally splaying his entire palm over your sternum.

The last step presses you into him completely, the firm landscape of his chest cradling your body like it’s been waiting for you.

You feel his heart beat against your, strong and rhythmic, steady enough to lull you to sleep.

That is if Simon had any intention of letting you sleep.

It’s only a few minutes before it turns, what was his chin crooked over your shoulder, becomes kisses peppered along your neck.

What was soothing circles rubbed into your hip, becomes a hand between your thighs, pressed as close to your cunt as possible without actually touching it.

What was the soft press of his thighs beneath you, becomes the undeniable poke of his hard cock.

You preen into his touch, like a cat greedily soaking up his attention. You hum. back arching against him as you spread your thighs to better welcome his hand.

Your body sags, every nerve singing for him.

Touch me.

Something low rumbles in Simon’s chest, a noise caught between a chuckle and satisfaction.

“Missed ya.” He says, lips pressed to your neck as he speaks.

Another hum pairs with your answer. Hips lift slightly beneath the water, searching for his touch as your own hands reach back to tangle in his hair

He’s been home long enough that it’s finally starting to grow out, not past his ears but enough length for you to tug on.

“Yeah,” Simon grunts, pressing a kiss to the skin where your neck meets your shoulder before hooking his chin over it. “Missed her too.”

Finally, he goes for your cunt.

As soft as the bath makes him, Simon Riley is still a brute. There’s no delicate trace between your folds or circles on your clit. Just the hard press of his finger as he forces it into your cunt.

Just one, but you swallow him to the knuckle anyway, hand tightening in his roots as you whimper.

The bathroom becomes an echo chamber, every noise bouncing off the tile and trapping you in their hazy. A cacophony of moans, mewls and gasps surrounding you as one finger becomes two, and then three.

His movements are lazy, half-baked and hardly focused but still practiced enough to have you threatening to fall apart.

Except that’s not even really his goal.

He slides them out of you just as you start to feel that familiar band in your belly. The pulling of your orgasm getting closer and closer and closer until suddenly his fingers are gone.

You whine, high pitched and pathetic as your try to follow his hand, hips jerking enough to make the water threaten to spill over the sides of the tub.

You’re met with solid brick wall of man. His arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush back to him once more.

You don’t even know how he gets the angle, too busy being manhandled to care about anything when his cockhead notches at your entrance.

Thick and bulbous he sits against your hole, holding himself there and refused to push in.

You feel yourself pulsing against him, body itching in a place only he can scratch.

“Please Simon!” You beg, voice broken by desperation.

There’s no mercy though, only Simon’s grunt in your ear and his firm grip.

“Been waiting all day to get ya like this.” He mutters, deep voice rattling your bones. “All I did was think about it.”

He pushes in, but not nearly enough, hardly feeding you even a full inch.

“Thinkin’ about this cunt,” his palm splays out over your pelvis, low enough to dance above your clit. His fingers dig in slightly, grabbing a the soft flesh as if to claim it. “Thinkin’ about you and me and this tub.”

He hums, pressing a deceptively sweet kiss beneath your ear just as he pushes in another inch.

“Skipped the salts and everything.” He tells you. “All so I could get you like this.”

He punctuates the last word with one sudden thrust, burying himself the rest of the way in.

He sighs, a long ragged exhale as if it nearly pains him to be finally inside you.

Your body on the other hand, sings. Your bones lighting on fire at the sudden intrusion, clamping down hard around his length as you rattle around him like a wind chime.

Simon continues holding you in place though, heavy arm around your waist keeping you pinned against him and him inside you.

His free hand moves, sloshing the water as he reaches for something on the tile.

You hear the slide of cardboard, then the click of a lighter.

You’re not sure when you closed your eyes, but when you open them you’re greeted with a fresh puff of smoke. It billows in-front of your face, painting the sky as it taunts his attention in from of you.

His name is hardly above a whisper when you finally manage to say it. “Simon-“ you choke, “please…”

Simon pays you no mind, taking another huff and holding it in his lungs. You can feel them against your back, expanding and deflating with every tortuous hit.

“Just sit tight. He says, reaching the hand with the cigarette around and holding it to your lips. “Be my patient girl won’t ya?”

Desperate for anyway to take the edge off, even more so please him, you accept. Letting the smoke buzz through your system as inhale.

Simon makes a happy noise behind you, patting where his hand still rests above your cunt.

The nicotine rush hits you hard, setting your skin on fire and then soothing your veins with ice. Your cunt clenches down on him again, this time more so a reaction than a plea.

You melt further into his touch, happily accepting another hit.

With no where else to go, nothing else to be, and nothing else to think about, you let yourself surrender the same way Simon did.

His words echo in your ear.

My patient girl.

And despite all your complaints, you know he’s right, because when it comes to Simon there’s nothing you wouldn’t let him do.

────────

He was supposed to be off on Sundays- practically unreachable. It was a clause in his final contract that he signed almost 11 months ago. He had Sundays off with no disruptions. No calls, no emails, no meetings- and absolutely no work. So, when his phone rang through the quiet confines of his loft-style apartment, he groaned out in frustration.

Leave me the fuck alone, Paul…

He thought, slumping further into his couch as he slung his forearm over his eyes. He had nothing on his agenda besides a well-needed nap and some light D&D manual reading. He didn’t even plan on leaving his apartment. Just that.

So, when his phone stopping ringing, Eddie let out a sigh of relief- trying to doze off again before it started ringing again. Not even a five minute pause between the last call.

Whatever he wants, he can leave a goddamn message like everyone else.

He would get to it on Monday. Maybe. If he was lucky.

But no.

On the third attempted call, Eddie jumps off the couch with a groan- stomping over to his wall phone before picking it up.

“Munson.” He murmurs gruffly as he leans against the wall impatiently.

“Eds! Jesus Christ, kid! Pick up your damn phone when I call.”

“What do you want, Paul?” Eddie drones, already wanting to be off the phone as fast as he picked it up.

“Look, kid, I know you said no Sundays but-“

“Nuh-uh.” Eddie cuts him off “No. You know the rules. The only thing I asked for when we renewed my contract was that I get to be unreachable on Sundays. This-“ Eddie gestures to the phone in his hand even though he knew his manager couldn’t see him. It was all for emphasis, really.

“This is not unreachable.” He finishes “It can wait until Monday.”

“Look, kiddo, I know what you said but I don’t think this can wait.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll have to wait. I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

“Do not hang up on me, Munson! I know you’ve only got a month left of this but at least respect me enough to hear me out when I speak to you.”

“Fine,” Eddie sighs, rubbing his temple in exasperation “What do you want?”

“I’ve got a gig for you. Trust me, kid, you’re gonna love it.”

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Y’know, Paul, I feel like I’ve heard you say that before.” He points out.

“Nah, kid. I mean it. I’ve got something you’re gonna love. Meet me in my office in an hour.”

“What!?” Eddie exclaims “Hold on! Wait-“

But before Eddie could argue, his manager had already hung up- leaving the other end dead as he stood there in disbelief.

That fucking bastard.

────────

To say that the porn industry had made him jaded would be an understatement.

After three grueling years, a lot of fucking, faking it, and getting off enough women to start a Jim Jones-style cult- Eddie had had enough. He was retiring. For good.

The announcement to the porn industry had been a shock to everyone. Eddie “The Freak” Munson; the sex-industry’s “Prince of Porn” (Or “The Prince of Pussy” as some called him, for some odd reason) was leaving behind his legacy as the ladies’ favorite male pornstar. No one has seen anything like it. It was practically unfathomable that someone of his caliber- someone who jackhammered his way into the hearts of millions- was walking away.

To almost every man in America, Eddie “The Freak” Munson was living their dream. Eddie, however, was bored, tired, and lonely. It was fun while it lasted but he was ready to move on. You could only fuck so many blondes with huge tits and daddy kinks until it got completely played out and repetitive. It also didn’t help that, outside of filming, he wasn’t even interested in sex.

True be told, sex had become the last thing on his mind. Not that he couldn’t fuck anyone he wanted. Hell, he was sure there would be a line halfway to Europe if he did. He just didn’t see the point. It was like eating the same meal everyday for the rest of your life. You get tired of it pretty damn quick. What was the point of sex without the emotional connection? The passion? The lust? It was just a waste of time and energy.

Eddie rolled into his manager’s office an hour and a half later, taking his sweet time as he parked his van at the studio. He walks past the receptionists, sending a wink their way as he walked through to Paul’s private office suite. There have been many occasions when he overheard the girls at the front-desk fawning over him after he had just wrapped up a scene with some “up and coming” star that was completely underwhelming.

Sometimes he even thought about taking home one of the receptionists and dicking them down just to see if he felt something. That he wasn’t completely numb to getting someone else’s rocks off. But Paul would surely have his ass if he found out. Sometimes Eddie wondered why he even cared.

“Where the hell have you been?” Paul exclaims, turning towards Eddie once he walks through the door “I was just in the middle of calling you.”

Paul puts the phone down as he watches Eddie plop down into one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

“Yeah, well, I’m here now. What are your other two wishes.” Eddie deadpans.

“You’re lucky that production pushed back today’s shoot by another hour otherwise you would’ve missed out on what the hell I even called you in for.” Paul chastises, earning an eye-roll from his client.

“Which is?” Eddie points out “You had me race across town in traffic and you haven’t even told me that the hell for. Let’s get on with it. What’s this gig you’re so obsessed about?”

“I found a girl for you.” Paul announces excitedly as if he were a matchmaker and not a manager for sex workers.

“….Okay.” Eddie replies slowly “That’s it?”

“Would you lighten up?” Paul replies incredulously “I’m getting there, okay? Just give me a minute to, you know, set the scene.”

“Paul, I don’t pay you 10% for you to ‘set the scene’ and waste my time. Let’s pick a lane here, and stick to it.” Eddie states, not mincing words. One thing he learned fast during his first year in the industry was that mincing words was what got you used up and stomped on.

“Alright. So, I found this girl. Her manager came to me. Her company is putting together a flick. Oral Fixation 5 or some shit like that. Anyway, they’re looking for a male costar for her. They want someone good. It’s the girl’s first time with a partner. She mainly does solo work. She’s a bit skittish but cute. Different than the type of girls you usually work with.”

“So, you want me to fuck an amateur?” Eddie asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No, no. Not an amateur. She’s been on film before.”

“Has she fucked anyone on film before?” Eddie challenges, eyeing his manager judgmentally. Leave it to Paul to call him in on his day off to ask him to fuck some newbie that probably has no idea what she’s doing.

“See, that’s the thing, you wouldn’t be fucking her.” Paul explains.

“Then what would I be doing? Feeding her bon-bons?” Eddie asks.

“Like I said, it’s an oral flick. No fucking. Very simple stuff. She basically does most of the work herself. She’ll start off solo, get herself nice and ready, you come in and eat her out, make her come, she’ll suck you off, let you come on her face and voila! Done! You’ll be out of here by noon tomorrow. So, whaddya say?”

“….What does she look like?” Eddie asks, leaning forward in his seat. He would be lying if he said his interest wasn’t piqued. No actual fucking? Just some light oral work, a blowjob, and then done? Didn’t seem that bad.

“That’s why I wanted you to come in!” Paul explains “She’s here. In Studio B shooting some stuff for Hot & Horny. You can head over, give her a good look, see what she can do, and then we can book it if she makes the cut. Maybe if she’s up to your standards, we can use her for your big flick. But you have to decide today before someone else snags her. She’s cute, kid. A real looker. I don’t see her staying small for very long.”

“Really?” Eddie asks, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Really.” Paul assures him “What’re you thinkin’?”

“Alright.” Eddie sighs, standing up from his chair “Let me see her.”

────────

When he walks into Studio B, Eddie is expecting to find another cookie-cutter run of the mill porn girl. Big fake silicone tits, lip injections, and an overly-enthusiastic fake orgasm. Bonus points for bleach blonde hair. What he didn’t expect to find was you- the complete antithesis of all of the other girls he’s used to. You were a breath of fresh air.

You stood off to the side of your set- a cute little bedroom set up complete with frilly pink floral sheets, heart shaped pillows, and cute little teddy bears. Boy band posters were taped onto the fake set walls to mimic the feel of a girl’s bedroom. College student, girl-next-door. Young, hot, and sexy- and, boy, Eddie was into it. He was so fucking into it.

Production staff began setting up the scene, placing several different adult toys onto the rose-printed lacy duvet. A smorgasbord of pleasure instruments. Eddie was no stranger to solo girls scenes. He’s gotten off to many of them. But this one was different. He was sucked in- intrigued.

You were standing in a silky robe, covering up whatever production has asked you to wear. All Eddie could get a glimpse of was the thigh high white stockings with lace trim that adorned your long, sexy legs. No heels. Interesting.

You were talking to a set manager, batting your long mascara-ed eyelashes as your pink, kissable lips spread into a sweet smile. The set guy said something that got you to laugh, your head tilting back as you let out an adorable sexy laugh- your hair draping down like a luscious waterfall.

Fuck, you were hot. So, so hot.

“Told you she was a looker.” Paul chimes in as he sidles up beside Eddie- too distracted to notice that he was even in the vicinity “What are your thoughts so far?”

Eddie didn’t want to reveal his hand just yet. He didn’t want to seem too eager.

“Let me sit in for this one. I wanna see what she does.” He replies slowly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Before he knows it, the director calls you over- motioning for you to enter your set and get yourself situated on the cutesy pink bed.

Alright, Eddie thought, Show-time.

Before the cameras begin to roll, you gingerly untie the silk sash of your rope- taking it off to reveal your lingerie ensemble before handing it off to a set manager. Eddie’s mouth immediately went dry.

There you were in all of your glory, decorated head-to-toe in a baby pink lacy lingerie set that Eddie wanted to unwrap- desperately. You wore a bra that was practically see-through, your perfect tits hardly covered by the lace that adorned them. Through the fabric, he could spot your perky nipples- his mouth beginning to water at the thought of rolling his tongue around them- his hands full of your gorgeous breasts.

You wore a pair of lacy matching panties. Your beautiful cunt barely hidden beneath the fabric. Covered up just enough to leave him wanting more. Teasing him. You were a vision. You sat primly on the bed, your legs tucked to the side- like a proper lady- as you waited for your cue to start. Eddie began to move closer- not wanting to miss this.

He sidled up to the small herd of production members, standing firmly as a few of them greeted him with a nod. They were probably wondering what the hell he was doing there. He normally didn’t sit in to watch scenes. He was more known to shoot his own shit, get dressed, and leave as soon as possible. Yet, here he was, metaphorically sitting on the edge of his seat as he waited for you to start.

As if by the grace of god, the set director calls action- signaling to you that the camera was rolling. There wasn’t even a hint of intimidation as you started off slow and tantalizing. You place your fingers over your lips, blowing your signature kiss to the camera. Those lips. Those pouty, pink lips. Eddie hadn’t seen anything yet and he was already hooked- those soft kissable lips drawing him in. Soft lips that he wanted wrapped around his cock.

Continuing on with your tease, you trail up your body with your cute little hands, reaching up to your chest- gently massaging your tits through your lacy pink bra. The movement was slow and sensual, your hands kneading your perfect breasts- pushing them together seductively as you began to look straight into the lens of the camera.

Okay, Eddie thought, this was definitely not your first time doing this sort of thing.

He could tell, immediately- his eyes taking in the way that you were confident and deliberate with your touches. The way that your hands trailed up and down your body- grabbing, kneading, and tracing your irresistible curves. You were comfortable. In your element. Eddie could tell right away that, when it came to getting yourself off, you were definitely no amateur. He had barely even seen anything yet and he knew- and all he wanted was to see it in real time.

You reach up to hook your thumbs into your bra straps, sliding them off your shoulders as you bit your lip- batting those pretty eyelashes at the camera lens. Reaching behind you, you began to unclasp your bra- sliding it off agonizingly slow. Eddie’s breath hitches as his eyes lock onto your bare tits- nipples hard and perky as you playfully toss the discarded bra onto the floor beside the set bed.

Eddie couldn’t help but smirk, loving the way that you teased the camera- staring it down as if it were the viewers at home. The sad, unfortunate losers that weren’t anywhere near as lucky as he was to see it in person- to even be offered the opportunity to get on his knees to please you.

You kneel onto the bed, giving the camera a good view of your lower half- your lace panties and stockings still on. Those fucking stockings. Eddie could feel the blood circulating to his dick, causing him to grow hard against the zipper of his jeans. You had barely even done anything but play with your tits and he was already starting to leak precum.

These days, it took a lot for Eddie to physically react to things. Being overly-exposed to sex in this industry tends to do that to you. So, the sheer notion that he was getting hard and horny for you when all he had seen so far were your breasts was pretty damn close to miraculous. You were barely even into your scene and he was sure that he’d have to use one of the private dressing rooms to rub one out afterwards.

You ran your hands down your stomach, staring down the camera as you caressed lower and lower down your body until you reached the waistband of your panties, biting your lip as you plunged your right hand into the fabric. Eddie had to stop himself from groaning at the sight. He had seen plenty of women touch themselves- he was a pornstar, for fuck sake- but the way that you did it was hypnotizing. His eyes become glued to your clothed core as he focuses on the way that your fingers moved and teased yourself behind the thin fabric.

So fucking hot. So goddamn sexy.

He wanted to see more- needed to see more.

Your nimble little fingers teased your clit, working behind the thin fabric of your panties as you threw your head back in pleasure- your hair cascading down as your free hand reached up to one of your breasts. You pinched the nipple between your fingers, letting out a light little moan that had Eddie’s dick stirring beneath his boxers.

Fuck, that’s hot. Eddie thought. Keep going, baby. Show me how you do it.

As if you could read his mind from across the room, your eyes open- flickering over to him as you inch your hand further down into your panties. You insert a digit inside of your pussy, causing yourself to gasp as the sensation.

Shit.

Eddie watches your knuckles work their way inside of your cunt as he strains himself to get even just a glimpse past what’s behind those pretty lace panties. He could bet that they were fucking sopping wet by the way that your muscles didn’t tense or stutter when you inserted another finger. You probably slid it in with complete ease. Like it was nothing- and that was so incredibly hot.

It went on like this for a while. Eddie staring at your lower half as you toyed with yourself from behind the panties. Just when he thought he was on the brink of getting blue balls, you slowly slipped your fingers out of your panties- the production lights on the studio set picking up the way that your digital glistened with your arousal. It was a fucking sight. Such a sight that Eddie didn’t even think about you upping the ante- taking your drenched fingers and sliding them into your mouth, wrapping your lips around them as you sucked them clean.

Holy..fuck.

Suddenly, the director called cut- the sound of his orders causing Eddie to snap his head over in horror.

Cut? No. No, no, no, no, no! You were just getting started! What the fuck?!

“Alright, babe, second act. Lose the panties and get into position. Legs spread, okay?” The director calls out, causing Eddie to sigh in relief. You weren’t wrapping yet.

Thank god!

You nod at the director, hopping off the bed as you begin to take your panties off, sliding them down your legs. Where Eddie was standing off-set, he had the perfect view as you bent over further and further to push your underwear off. You were bend over so low that he had a full fucking view of your glistening wet pussy, and he was right- you were sopping. It took all of the fucking strength and self-control he had to not stomp onto that set, pull down his jeans to free his raging hard cock and jam it into your fucking cunt. God, he’s never wanted to fuck someone so badly in his life. He wanted to tell production to fuck your solo scene so that he could start fucking you.

You straighten up, now standing as you kicked off the panties- leaving you completely nude aside from the white thigh-high stockings. You climb back onto the bed, perched near the edge as you opened your legs- sitting spread eagle in front of the camera. Eddie was fully convinced that he was about to pass out.

That perfect little pussy. It was wet, pink, and tight. The prettiest he’s ever seen and he’s seen a lot during his career. Yours was the first to make him go weak in the knees, wanting to sink down in front of you at the edge of the bed as he spread you open and devoured you- acting as if you would be his last meal.

Production came rushing in to fix your hair, smoothing away any imperfections before running off set- gearing up for your cue. You waited patiently like a good, good girl. Hands to yourself as you awaited permission to continue and, if it were up to Eddie, he would reward you. For being so good. So patient.

The director begins rolling, cuing you in to start and Eddie was hooked and ready to see what you would do next- spread out in front of him. Your eyes catch the camera, your hands roaming down to your core as you begin to play with your clit- now uncovered. No barriers in-between. Thank god.

Your middle finger does all of the work, slowly circling your sensitive little button as you throw your head back again, letting the sensation take over you. Letting your hands freely pleasure yourself as if no one were watching- as if it really were you in your bedroom alone. That, Eddie decided, was what made it so hot. You weren't putting on a performance for anyone. There was no theatrics, no drama- no over the top acting. It was you. Just as you were. Enjoying every little bit of it- and, goddamn, was it sexy.

You let out soft little moans and gasps that went straight to Eddie’s dick, twitching in his pants at the way that you sounded. You sounded sweet- melodic. Music to his ears as your breathing picked up. He stared as you moved your fingers from your clit and down through your folds, wet and glistening as you spread your arousal all over your sex. You were drenched. In all of his life, Eddie never even thought about wanting to be an appendage, but holy shit was he jealous of your fingers.

You use one of your hands to spread yourself open for the camera, causing Eddie’s eyes to almost roll into the back of his head. He was seeing so much of you and he hadn’t even met you yet. But he couldn’t help but watch. He couldn’t look away.

You sink the middle finger of your other hand into your pussy, pushing it in until you reach your knuckle- so fucking deep with that little finger of yours. Eddie couldn’t help but want to take over, wanting to use his much bigger digits to fill you up just how you deserved.

Eddie watched as you slip another finger in, framing your soaked core with your pointer and pinky finger. The way that you touched yourself was hypnotic, putting him in a trance as you ramped yourself up closer and closer to your orgasm. Your moans grew louder, breathing heavier and more needy. Because there was something you needed- Him. Or maybe that’s delusional of him to think. But he knew that he needed you. He was hungry for you and he wanted a taste.

You begin fingering yourself, expertly delving your fingers into your pussy as you fucked yourself with your digits just the way that you liked. Eddie studies this, watching the way that you liked it- wanting to replicate it. No, he wanted to do it better. So fucking good that you couldn't even fathom the idea of anyone touching you but him. He was so drunk on your pussy and he hadn't even so much as touched it yet. He was fucked.

"Alright, angel." The director calls out, catching Eddie's attention for a moment "How about we get some footage of you with one of the toys? Get a really good build-up, climax, we'll do a closeup of the aftermath, and then we're done. Sound good?"

Toys? Eddie forgot about the toys. He was so fucked. He probably shouldn't watch this, knowing that he could very well finish in his pants- but he didn't care. He was rooted to the spot. Too addicted to move. He was drunk on you and your sexy body and your perfect pussy. He needed this. He needed to see you come undone. He needed something to think about tonight as he jacked himself off so hard that he would probably chafe. He'd have to use lube. His own spit wouldn't cut it. There's no way that he could rub himself raw when he knew that he was going to be lucky enough to be in your mouth the next day. Sucked off by those pouty pink lips.

His own thoughts and the view of you naked on that bed, toying with yourself, was becoming overstimulating. It was like an outer-body experience to watch. Even though he didn't feel like he was in his own body, he knew that there was nothing he wanted more than to be inside of yours.

His eyes are glued to the scene as you daintily reach for the toy of your choice. A purple Jack Rabbit style vibrator. You click it on, watching as the toy came to life in your hands. Eddie couldn't help but think about how much bigger he was than that stupid toy. How he would be able to reach places inside of you that the vibrator couldn't even come close to reaching. Places that you probably didn't even know existed. You deserved to be fucked like a queen. Not by some inadequate toy. Even still, he watched as you pressed the tip of the toy to your clit- causing you to gasp loudly in reaction.

Fuck, Eddie thought as he watched you slide the tip of the toy past your clit and through your folds- marveling at the way that your body shivered in reaction. The way that your body responded to pleasure was oh so delicious. Eddie was eating it up like he was starving.

He watches as the toy collects a thick coating of your arousal, making it so wet that Eddie had to bite his lip to keep from moaning.

Fuck, you were so wet.

You slide the toy back up towards your clit, pressing the tip against it harshly as your eyes fluttered shut- causing you to buck your hips.

So fucking sensitive.

You swirl the toy against your clit as you breath catches, followed by a soft moan that escaped those pretty lips.

Fuck, baby, let me hear you.

As if you could hear his thoughts, you let out a needy whine. You needed more. It wasn't enough. Not even close.

Before he could process it, you had begun to insert the toy into your pussy- falling back onto the mattress underneath you as you started to thrust it inside. Flicking your wrist with a motion that had you whimpering desperately. The vibration inside of your cunt causing your walls to contract around the vibrator- making it a tight squeeze to continue thrusting.

Eddie's eyes were wide as he watched. The sounds of your moans, the faint buzzing of the vibrator, and the wet squelching sound of your pussy completely overtaking him. Fuck, this was hot. The most erotic thing he's ever fucking seen.

You continue fucking yourself with it, picking up the pace as you sit yourself up enough to watch you fuck yourself with it.

Shit, yes! Bet you like to watch yourself get fucked, don't you?

You mouth falls open as you watch how slickly coated the toy was as you pushed it in and out of your pussy. Eddie was jealous that it wasn't his dick covered in your arousal, making it so easy for him to slide in and out of your cunt at an ungodly pace. He wanted it so fucking bad that his knees were weak.

Without warning, you finally find that spot. That perfect spot deep within you that had you going crazy. Toes curling, gasping for air, moaning out like crazy as you squeezed your eyes shut. You were close.

Fuck, baby! Just like that! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You pushed that pathetic little toy as deep as it could go, your mouth falling into a perfect little 'O' as you got closer and closer and closer.

Show me how you like it, baby. That's right. So fucking good!

Soon you couldn't control yourself, bucking your hips as you thrusted it in and out of hole as your moans became more loud and desperate.

Fuck, sweetheart, doing so good. You're almost there. Need to watch you cum.

You began to reach your peak, practically sobbing as you kept working for it.

C'mon, baby. Give it to me. Let me see it.

And as if on cue with his dirty thoughts, you cry out in pleasure. Finally peaking as your thighs began to shake, whimpering as you came all over that stupid toy- your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave.

Fuck, yes! That's it! Fuck, you are so fucking hot! Jesus fucking Christ!

You rode out your orgasm, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. It was so fucking hot. Eddie didn't know how he had gone this long in his career without fucking you. Without knowing you existed. A perfect little sex kitten that he wanted to play with. Hell, you alone were giving him second thoughts about retiring. Not before he could fuck you in every possible way imaginable. Fuck, he was so fucking into you that he could surely invent new ways to fuck you that had never even been thought of before. He'd have to create a whole new updated version of the Kama Sutra with you as his sole muse.

"That's a wrap! You did great!"

The director praises you as you slowly begin to sit up on the bed, hair wild with a blissed-out look on your face. Eddie had never seen someone look so beautiful post-orgasm.

A member of the production crew came over to you and handed you your silk robe. You stand up with shaky legs as they helped you put it on- making yourself modest after that fucking smoke-show that you had just given everybody. Eddie didn't know how no one else was crashing down like he was. He was leaking so much precum that he would probably need new pants. But it was worth it because you were...wow.

"See? I told you." Eddie whips his head over to catch his manager standing there next to him. Had he been there the whole time? Had Eddie been talking out loud? "What do you think, kid?"

Eddie's mouth was dry. He felt dehydrated from just watching. He felt like he needed to down a gallon of water after watching you get yourself off like a fucking professional. With an intensity that he's never fucking seen before.

"Is she still available?" Eddie croaks, his heart hammering in his chest. What if another guy had swooped in and booked the gig right under his nose while he was too busy ogling at you?

"I could give her manager a call and see if it's still open. I know they reached out to a few guys. That Chris Infamous guy being one of them. The jacked up one with the muscles. You know who I'm talking about."

Chris Infamous? Over his dead fucking body!

“Paul, go call her manager right now and tell them I’m in. Like, now.”

────────

The whole way home, he had been antsy. He had waited an hour after your shoot in his manager’s office as he called up your manager in an attempt to get in touch with them. There was no luck. Paul had missed them every single time- and Eddie made him leave a voicemail every…single…time. He couldn’t let this opportunity slip through his hands.

Eddie tried to busy himself with his previous plans that he had before leaving his loft earlier that day but he just couldn’t focus. The words in his Dungeons and Dragons player manual just blended together and his mind would wander off, causing him to read the same sentence over and over again.

He couldn’t keep his mind off of you. Your soft, supple body wrapped up in that pink lingerie. Those goddamn white stockings that you had kept on the entire shoot. The way your pussy glistened with your arousal underneath the production lights. Eddie was addicted- transfixed. He needed to do this scene with you.

He throws down his player’s manual, tossing his head back onto the couch. He stares up at the ceiling as he lets out a frustrated grunt. Waiting back for a response was torture. He just needed a yes or a no- hopefully a yes. God, he was hoping for a yes. But if the gig was taken, he wished he would know sooner rather than later in order to kill the anticipation.

He reaches onto the coffee table for his pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and placing it between his lips before lighting it. He took a couple of drags, the taste of nicotine barely doing anything to calm his nerves. He was so pent up. He had been ever since your scene. He was hot and bothered.

His mind drifts back to thoughts of you. Your perfect tits that would fit perfectly in his hands. Your perky nipples that he wanted to roll his tongue against, tasting them. But he mostly thought about your sex. What you would taste like. He imagined that you would be sweet- candy-coated beneath his tongue as he ate you up. Liquified sugar in the best way.

Eddie could feel his cock twitch beneath his pants as he fantasized- wanting to bury his head between your soft thighs as he worked his tongue against you so ferociously like it would be the last thing he’d ever do. He’d never wanted someone as bad as he wanted you- wishing that he could toy with your sensitive little button with the tip of his tongue. Teasing you until you begged for more.

Eddie began to unbutton his pants, feeling the ache in his cock that was dying to be satiated. He needed a release. His head was so full of you that he needed to do something to quell the heat that he felt in his groin. He needed to cum.

He pulls down his zipper, feeling a sense of relief as the pressure of the metal enclosure against his hard cock was finally removed. It was like releasing a long, pent-up sigh. He was painfully hard. Practically throbbing underneath his boxers as he slides his hand down past the fabric, gripping himself as he attempts to pull his dick out. He winces at the sensitivity he felt on his cock head.

When he pulls his dick free from his jeans, he looks down to find that his tip was nearly red, angry at the lack of attention that it was receiving. It had been a long time since Eddie had touched himself. He normally didn’t have to with the kind of work that he did. But this was different, he needed this. He needed relief.

He wraps his hand around his length, slowly moving it up and down the way that he liked but his member felt nearly hot to the touch. He was so worked up that it had made him ultra-sensitive to every little thing. Every stroke, every little flick of his wrist. He could feel everything with ten times more intensity than normal. And, god, he didn’t want this. He didn’t want to jack himself off to completion on his living room couch. No, he wanted to sink his desperately hard cock into the velvety soft walls of your incredible cunt.

A pearl of precum leaks out of his tip, slowly dripping down until he collects it with his finger-swiping it up to use as lubricant and he began to buck his hips into his hand. It shouldn’t be his hand. It should be you. He didn’t want to settle for anything that wasn’t you. But he’d have to until he hopefully got the real thing.

“Ah! F-fuck!” He gasps as he picks up a faster pace, wanting to reach his peak as quickly as possible. He was desperate for it. He was needy and fucked out by the images of you that kept playing out in his head.

You on the bed with your legs spread wide open for him, ready to take whatever it was that he was willing to give you like the good girl you would be. Like the good girl he just knew that you were. He stroked himself fast and hard as he thought about how he’d want you to take his cock. He wanted your legs slung over his shoulders as he pounded into you hard enough to have you sobbing. He wanted to wrap his hand around your throat and jerk you back onto his cock as he fucked you from behind. He wanted to fuck you like a whore. Like you were made for it.

“Fuck, baby…” Eddie whimpers, more precum oozing from his tip as he imagined that it was your hand instead of his. Stroking him with those soft little hands of yours as you stared him down with those gorgeous eyes. Marveling at just how crazy you could drive him- at just how badly he wanted you.

“Shit….just like that, sweetheart. Fuck.”

Eddie could feel himself getting close, his breathing picking up faster and faster until they became needy grunts- trying to chase his high.

“Shit, shit, holy fuck…”

He kept stroking and he wouldn’t stop until he got there. Not when all he could think about was just how hot you looked when you orgasm. When all he wanted was to fuck you so good that you had to beg him to stop. How he wanted to make you cum on his cock over and over again until you couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to take you apart just to put you back together again.

Just when he was ramping up to his finish, a few seconds away from blowing his load into his hand, the phone rings- snatching him right out of his fantasies.

Fuck. No!

He growls in frustration, jumping off the couch as he stumbles towards the phone- barely stuffing his angry cock back into the confines of his jeans. A denim-clad prison.

“What?” He huffs as he picks up the phone, his breathing still heavy and ragged from touching himself.

“Eddie, listen, I got in touch with her management.”

“Fuck!” He sighs in relief, resting his back against the wall. “What’d they say?”

“They were pretty psyched that you wanted in, kid. Turns out you were first choice for them. Which is great because they were an inch away from giving the gig to Chris. Good thing I called when I did. Anyway, you got the gig. They’re excited. The girl’s excited.”

You were excited? Wait…You knew who he was?

“Wait, she knows who I am?” Eddie stammers, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“Oh yeah.” Paul laughs “Apparently she’s a huge fan.”

“Fuuuck. No shit?” He asks, trying to fight the grin on his face. He felt on-top-of the-world fucking incredible.

“Have you ever known me to pull your leg, kid? She asked for you specifically. By name. Lucky you, playboy!”

Yeah, Eddie thought. No fucking kidding!

“She asked…for me?” He still couldn’t believe it. You were out-of-this-world gorgeous and you wanted him to be your first on-screen partner? Eddie hadn’t experienced an ego-boost this big since…well, ever.

“Yeah, kid. First on her list. She was worried we wouldn’t accept what her management was offering but I told her we’d make it work.”

Fuck, he would do it for free.

Wait…

“You spoke to her?” Eddie asks, jaw practically hitting the floor.

“Oh yeah,” Paul replied “She personally returned my calls. Wanted to thank us for accepting.”

“No fucking way.” Eddie swoons. It just kept getting better.

“She also wanted me to tell you that she hoped you were impressed at the shoot today. She said she was a little nervous when she saw you but hopefully you didn’t notice.”

You...naughty…little…minx. You had known that he was there the entire time? Fuck….

“Anyway, call time for tomorrow is eight a.m.” Paul adds “And Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t fucking be late.”

────────

The next morning, Eddie had woken up early.

Not because he had something to do or somewhere to be. No vastly important errands that he needed to run. Eddie had woken up early because his body couldn’t stand to stay dormant and asleep any longer. Because, for once in a long time, his reality was better than sleep. He had something to look forward to- you.

He had never felt this way before, never took his work too seriously- honestly, what was there to take seriously? He just showed up, fucked, picked up his check, and went home. He never put much thought into things. He just did them. But today was different. Today, he seemed to be putting too much thought into everything.

He agonized over whether or not to drink coffee, worried that the caffeine might make him come off hyper or on edge when he finally had the opportunity to speak to you. He debated foregoing breakfast, giving himself an excuse to invite you out to post-work brunch if things really took off between you two. This was the start of all of his worries. The closer it got to his call time, he got more and more in his own head.

He was suddenly hyper-aware of everything about himself. Anything that you could nit-pick when you finally met. Did you like tattooed guys? What if you didn’t? Would you think his tattoos were stupid? Did you prefer guys with short hair as opposed to long hair? What if he wasn’t your type at all in the slightest and none of this even really mattered? It only got worse by the minute.

Then he reminded himself that you knew him. You’ve seen his work. You were a fan. There was obviously something you must have liked if you chose him out of any other guy in the industry. You were so pretty that you could have requested anyone you wanted- and you chose him. Eddie desperately wanted to know why.

He prepped and primped himself in the bathroom like a teenage girl. He took extra care in the shower, scrubbing every inch of himself vigorously with the soap that smelled extra good.

He washed and conditioned his hair. Hell, he actually brushed it and applied product instead of just running his fingers through it and calling it good. He fucking styled it- putting it into a low bun with a hair tie that he found in his medicine cabinet. He knew just how much wearing his hair up drove women crazy- and he hoped that you weren’t any exception.

He paid extra attention to his downstairs area, making sure that he was perfectly trimmed and proper for you. The last thing he wanted was for you to get on your knees for him and be met with an unkempt jungle. He wanted things to be neat and tidy. He also hoped that landscaping the bush would make his dick appear prettier- something that you’d want to put in your mouth.

An hour before his call time, he was shaking like a leaf. He felt like he was in high school again, nervous and skittish around the female population of Hawkins High. Which was ironic considering what he does for a living these days. Over the years following graduation and leaving that hellhole, Eddie had begun to gain a sense of self-confidence. His demeanor changed.

He became sure of himself, finally believing that he was worth women’s attention. That he was far more attractive than he initially gave himself credit for- and the critical feedback on his work as a porn actor definitely proved that. If twenty year-old Eddie could see just how many women would flip their shit over him, he’d have probably dropped dead in disbelief. But none of those women mattered. None of the porn girls that he had previously filmed with mattered. Even the girls from Hawkins didn’t matter anymore. You mattered.

The whole drive to the studio was anxiety-inducing. Multiple people tried to cut him off on the freeway- gotta love L.A. traffic. Some douchebag in a fucking Corvette flipped him off because he forgot to use his blinker, which seemed to worsen Eddie’s mood as he just kept overthinking himself. How was he supposed to talk to you, let alone shoot a scene, when he couldn’t even drive straight?

When he finally pulled up to the studio and parked his van, Eddie was officially a wreck. He had no idea what to do with himself. You were probably already inside trying to pretty yourself up for your scene together. Eddie couldn’t help but wonder what you would wear- hell, why did he even care if you wore anything at all?

He wondered if you were just as nervous as he was. Granted, you had an excuse. This would be your first scene with a partner, meanwhile, this wasn’t anywhere close to Eddie’s first rodeo. Yet, he felt like a virgin on prom night.

He enters the studio, trying to act normal as the front desk girls greet him. Even the choruses of “Hi Eddie…” in their seductive voices weren’t enough to get him out of his own head. He just gave a small wave and a slight tinge of a smile on his lips. Normally he would’ve leaned up against the receptionist desk and flirted- given them just a scrap of his attention. But not today. Not when he felt like he was going to be sick.

He drifted all the way back to Paul’s office, casually knocking on the door a couple of times before letting himself in. His manager looks up from his desk, suddenly adopting a confused look on his face once he laid eyes on Eddie.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Paul asks, tilting his head in confusion.

The comment takes Eddie aback, immediately causing his stomach to drop. Was he missing something? He was supposed to be here…right? Then he felt the dread seep in.

Fuck. The shoot’s cancelled. No way. There is no…fucking…way.

“I…uh…I’m confused.” Eddie replies slowly, shaking his head as he tries to keep it together. This could not be happening.

“Aren’t we shooting today? I came before call time. Did they fucking cancel?” He panics, running his ring-clad fingers through his hair in agony. Fuck!

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down.” Paul says “Nobody cancelled. Shoot’s still on.”

“But…I thought…you said you were surprised that I’m here.” Eddie tries to reason.

“Yeah,” Paul nods, looking at Eddie as if he were nuts “I’m surprised that you’re here before call time. I’ve managed you for the past three years and I can barely remember a time when you’ve ever shown up on time. Let alone early.”

“Oh.” Eddie replies, dumbfounded.

Well, at least the shoot is still on.

“Are you wearing cologne?” Paul asks, looking Eddie up and down as he stood awkwardly in front of his desk.

“Oh.” Eddie breathes “Yeah.”

That has Paul even more confused. Eddie always smelled nice but it was always just his natural scent- laundry detergent, a woodsy musk from the deodorant he wore, and a hint of cigarette smoke. Eddie never deliberately put on cologne unless he was trying to impress someone- and Paul knew this.

“Alright, well…” Paul starts, not knowing what to say to make things less awkward than it already was “Your leading lady is here. Dressing room A.”

“She’s here already?” Eddie gapes, taken by surprise. He thought he had more time to prepare. For what? He didn’t know.

“Yeah, kid. Unlike you, the leading lady happens to know a thing or two about punctuality. Speaking of which, why don’t you go see how she’s doing? Bet she’s sweating like a sinner in church. First time on-camera partner and all that.”

“Do you think she’s nervous?” Eddie asks, out of concern but mostly to gauge if you could be nervous because of him.

“No idea, kid, but it would be nice for you to have a conversation with each other. You know, before you stick your dick in her mouth.” Paul suggests.

To which, he had a great point. Eddie probably should go and say hi. Hopefully he can pull himself together enough to be charming and personable for you. Or, if anything, at least make you feel a bit more comfortable with him before he went down on you in front of a whole camera crew. This could either go very well for him or become a complete disaster.

────────

Eddie stood outside of your dressing room door, his body so tense that he felt like stone. On the other side of this door was you- the girl of his wet dreams that he somehow, begrudgingly, didn’t know existed until yesterday. To say that he was nervous would be an understatement. Eddie’s stomach felt like it was tied in knots and the last thing he wanted was for you to see that he was nervous. No, he had to play it cool- confident and sure of himself. He could do this. Even if it was all a facade.

He begins to knock, so nervous that he could practically break into a sweat over it. He was definitely glad that he decided to wear cologne today but then Eddie began to worry that maybe the cologne would make it seem like he was trying too hard. He was worried that you could sense it and that it would turn you off. Turning you off was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.

He could hear shuffling from behind the door, the sound growing closer before the handle turned and the door swung open- revealing you. All dolled up with completed hair and makeup. Wearing that short little silk robe. As soon as you saw him, your face broke into a smile.

Okay, Eddie thought, that’s a good sign.

“Hey,” he smiles, trying to be smooth but it was so fucking hard when you looked at him with those eyes “I’m Eddie. I’m…uh…I’m your scene partner for today.”

Not that he had to introduce himself. You knew exactly who he was. You had gotten off to his scenes more times than you could count.

“Right, of course!” You exclaim, extending out your hand in greeting as you introduced yourself to him. Eddie raised his eyebrows when he noticed that you hadn’t given him your porn name. No, you had given him your real name.

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you….properly.” Eddie jokes, causing you to laugh. God, he loved the way your lips curled into a smile- how your eyes lit up. You were so damn pretty.

“Me too.” you nod, looking at him for a beat too long to be accidental. With a cheeky little glint in your eyes as you casually looked him up and down.

Oh, Eddie thought, so we’re flirting now?

“You mind if I come in? Or are you going to make me hang out in the hallway?” Eddie teases “Which I wouldn’t mind. As long as you keep looking at me like that.”

Your heart flutters in your chest “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.” You bite your lip nervously- and, boy, does Eddie notice.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” He smirks “So, you gonna let me in or?”

“Right!” You shake your head “Come in.”

You step aside, letting him walk through the door before closing it for privacy. Not that you expected anything to happen. Not off-camera, at least.

Eddie walks over and sinks down onto the small loveseat that was against the wall in the dressing room. He sits seductively, legs spread apart as he leans back on the sofa like he owned it. Honestly, he was so charming that he could tell you that he did, indeed, own it and you’d believe him. You, on the other hand, sank down into the hair and makeup chair across from him.

“So, I…uh….I should probably say thank you for accepting. My management probably already told you but it’s my first time doing a scene with someone else. I normally do solo work.”

“So I’ve seen.” Eddie replies, a cocky smirk on his lips. He wanted you to know that he had seen you in action. Not that he needed to tell you. No, he just wanted to remind you of the fact.

“So, my manager might have told me that you had requested me specifically…..by name.”

As soon as the words left his lips, your face began to heat up in embarrassment. “He told you that?”

“Mhm.” Eddie hums, his eyes devouring you.

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry,” Eddie smiles slyly “I was pretty flattered, actually. Not gonna lie, it kinda gave me a big head.”

And, to tell you the truth, I wanna show you my big head, Eddie wanted to say.

But he didn’t want to come off crude and overtly sexual during your first meeting.

“Really?” You mumble bashfully, trying to look anywhere but at Eddie but it was so hard when he was so fucking hot.

“Yeah.” He confirms “Especially coming from a girl like you. So, tell me, sweetheart….why me?”

The sound of his deep, sexy voice calling you sweetheart was enough to make you light-headed. Lord have mercy….

“Well,” you sigh “My management really started to float the idea of me doing stuff with a co-star. They thought it might push my career a bit more and give me more opportunities. To be honest, I wanted to do it but I didn’t want to do it with just anyone. So, I told them that I would only agree to do it as long as I could pitch at least one guy that I thought I could feel…comfortable with.”

You thought you could feel comfortable with him. You had chosen him because there was something about him that you felt was different than all of the other porn guys. You were far too shy to admit it but Eddie was your favorite male pornstar. You didn’t know what it was about him but he just felt safe. Like you wouldn’t be completely in your head if you were to work with him.

You had seen so much of his stuff that you had witnessed exactly how he treated other girls-putting their pleasure first so much so that he made sure to at least get them off twice before he finished, himself. It wasn’t just that but how soft he seemed with them. Like every one of them and how they felt was important. For your first time, you didn’t want to feel like a piece of meat. You wanted to feel cared for. You were certain that Eddie Munson would be the perfect guy to pop your first-time cherry with. He didn’t want to settle for anything else.

“I make you feel comfortable?” He asks, looking at you in a way that had you on the brink of melting into your seat. However, truth be told, it was Eddie who was trying not to lose his shit. You felt comfortable with him. You had chosen him because there was something different about him than the others. You felt something.

“That’s, uh, really flattering.” Eddie clears his throat, trying to stifle the very turned-on moan that he felt coming. "Can I maybe ask why you feel comfortable with me? Y'know, so I can lean into it while we're shooting the scene?"

And so I can use it as spank bank material tonight…

“Well, I don't really know what it is exactly.” You begin, wringing your hands nervously in your lap “I guess it’s the vibe you give off. I’ve seen your stuff and I just….there’s something about how you treat the other girls that makes me feel like I’d be safe. Cared for, I guess.”

“Okay, yeah." He nods.

Keep it together, Eddie. Jesus Christ...

“I want to make sure you feel cared for. It's important to me. Especially it being your first time. I'm really flattered."

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah, of course. How could I not be?' Eddie admits “You're, like, super gorgeous....and you picked me, for some reason."

He says it as if he's not one of the most sought after guys in the industry. Like he was nobody. Like he couldn't have a harem of girls hanging all over him if he wanted to.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m looking forward to it. Making you feel cared for...and safe."

"Thanks, Eddie." You reply bashfully "That means a lot to me."

"Um....so....since we're being truthful and shit...can I admit something?" He asks, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"Yeah." You agree "Absolutely. Safe space and all." You smile and, god, it makes Eddie's dick so hard.

"I...uh...I've kinda got a little crush on you." He blurts out before he can back out of saying it.

"Oh." You breathe, your eyes widening in surprise "You have a crush...on me?"

Eddie fucking Munson just admitted that he had a crush on you.

"...Yeah." He winces "I've kinda been down bad for you since yesterday."

"Really?" You repeat "Me?"

"Why do you keep saying it like it's hard to believe or something?" Eddie laughs.

"I mean....because it is. You're...you know..."

"I'm what?" He pushes, wanting to hear you say it.

"You're Eddie 'The Munch' Munson, for god's sake."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Eddie laughs "That’s a new one."

"I mean...it's not not factual." You argue "When you...you know...eat pussy like that....you could have basically any girl that you want."

"Hm." Eddie hums, as if he were doubting it.

"Oh please," You tease "Don't act all modest. You know you're gifted."

"Oh, I am, am I?" He flirts, a cheeky smirk spreading across his lips.

"As if you don't know." You scoff, trying to avoid his gaze. But how could you when he was so hot?

"Well, sweetheart, that's really flattering coming from you." He compliments "At least I know that I have a pretty good chance of pleasing you later."

The comment went straight to your core, causing you to shift in the hair and makeup chair as you clamp your thighs together. You tried to be inconspicuous about the fact that him and his words had such a strong effect on you, but Eddie's eyes shift to your long, sexy legs as you crossed them in your seat. His lips curl into another smirk. He was loving this.

"Don't look at me like that." You practically whisper, your face heating up bashfully.

"Like what?" Eddie teases, that fucking shit-eating-grin still plastered on his face.

"I don't know. Like-"

"Like I wanna eat you?" Eddie interjects, raising an eyebrow at you seductively.

Cocky asshole....

"What if I do wanna eat you, sweetheart?" He asks, leaning forward as he rests his elbows on his knees, staring you down.

"I-"

"'Cause I do. As a matter of fact, since this is a safe space and all, I'm going to tell you that I wanna eat you so fucking bad. Real bad."

You were so fucking wet. Holy fucking shit.

"And if I'm being real honest, baby, I wanna eat you so good that I make you cry. But I get the feeling that you just might like that."

"Eddie..."

"But only if you want me to." He adds "I don't wanna misinterpret anything."

He couldn't misinterpret anything if he fucking tried. How you felt about him was so fucking obvious.

"Anyway," He says, quickly standing from his seat on the sofa. “I should probably go freshen up for you. Y'know, seeing as I'm about to get really lucky in the next..." He checks his watch "Thirty minutes."

He looks up from his watch, his big brown eyes falling upon you- drinking you in.

"See you out there, Princess."

────────

You were so fucking nervous. You stood off-set, watching as production set up lighting- making sure there was the right amount of brightness on the scene stage. The set was a small brick-walled room with an expensive looking black leather sofa in the middle. White shag rug underneath it and some vibrantly green foliage plants in the background.

It was reminiscent of those “casting couch” scenes that porn companies liked to shoot- but this one was classy. Not cheap and sleazy. Like it was the middle of someone’s living room- a glimpse into a private passionate moment between a couple and not just two strangers fucking. Eddie Munson was going to eat you out on that couch. The thought of it made you somehow even wetter than you already were.

Just as you were allowing yourself to get lost in the fantasy, you feel a large hand on your waist- causing you to look over to find Eddie standing next to you. Staring at you with softness in his eyes.

“Doing okay?” He asks, searching your face for any indication that you weren’t, indeed, doing okay.

“I’m okay.” You breathe shakily “Just a little nervous.”

“Don’t be.” Eddie whispers, leaning into you so intimately that only you could hear “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just me. You’re safe with me, okay?”

And somehow those five little words felt like they’ve lifted so much weight off of your shoulders. He was right. It was just him. You could trust him.

“Okay.” You whisper, looking into his warm, brown eyes. Everything was going to be okay.

“How about this…” he starts, beginning to think “If things become too much or you need to stop, I want you to tap my arm twice. I’ll get them to cut and we’ll take a break.”

“Won’t they get mad?” You ask, your voice tiny and uncertain.

“It doesn’t matter.” He states “What matters is that you’re comfortable. This is about you, sweetheart. Without you, there’s no scene. You have the upper-hand. You are in control here. Nothing happens here that you don’t want to happen. Understand?”

“Yeah.” You nod “Okay.”

“You trust me?”

“I trust you, Eddie.”

“Good.” He nods “Because there’s nothing to worry about. If things start to get overwhelming with everyone watching just close your eyes and just focus on feeling, okay? That’s my job. To make you feel good.”

You didn’t think it was possible to be even wetter than you had been before but Eddie being sweet on you had practically opened up a floodgate inside of you. If it weren’t for the scene, you’d throw yourself at him right there.

“Well, hopefully I’m able to return the favor.” You say “I’ve never done that before…on camera.”

You were alluding to giving him a blowjob. It’s not like you haven’t given blowjobs to ex-boyfriends and casual hookups before. But this was different. You would be sucking off Eddie Munson- a man that’s probably received far too many blowjobs to count. He’s probably experienced some mind-blowing shit and there’s no way that you’d ever be able to compare to what other porn girls have been able to do to him with their mouths. You were embarrassed to even try.

“Sweetheart, I’m sure you’ll do just fine, trust me. I’m not picky.” He laughs “Blowjobs are like pizza. Even when it’s not the best pizza, it’s still good because it’s pizza. Not that I expect you to be bad or anything.”

“…I don’t know if that’s supposed to be encouraging or not.” You reply, starting to retreat back into your own head.

“Sweetheart, what I’m trying to say is that it’s going to be fine. Don’t think too much about it.”

“But how could I not think about it when-“

You were cut off by Eddie grabbing for your hand, squeezing it affectionately as he looked into your eyes.

“I thought said you trusted me.” He points out, raising an eyebrow at you.

“I do.” You reply hastily “I just-“

“Like I said, focus on feeling. When we get to that part, I just want you to focus on what feels right. Things will be fine. Honestly, there’s also nothing sexier than a girl that’s into it, y’know?” Eddie explains “You don’t have to be the best at something. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you enjoy doing it and I want you to enjoy yourself. ‘Kay?”

“Okay.” You nod, letting his words sink in.

“Also, sweetheart, with lips like those, I’m sure you suck cock like a champ but I guess I’ll just have to wait to find out.”

Your heart skips a beat at his dirty confession and you almost think about smacking his arm before one of the production managers approaches you.

“You’re on in five.” They say “Start stripping down and we’ll get you on set.”

You felt your blood run cold.

“Hey,” Eddie whispers, voice low as he strokes your back with one of his large hands “If it gets to be too much just look at me, okay? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here the entire time.”

You take a deep breath before nodding. Eddie gives your hand another squeeze before letting you walk to take your place on set. He had successfully gotten you out of your head even just a little bit. Now Eddie just had to get himself out of his own head about cumming too soon.

────────

Eddie stands back near the camera as the director calls action. He had been watching you like a hawk, eyes peeled for any sort of sense that you were beginning to panic. He stared as you dropped your robe, handing it off before gingerly taking a seat onto the black leather sofa.

“Alright, start off slow like you normally do. Take as much time as you need. Start off with slowly taking the panties off. We’ll do some light touching, maybe some fingering. Get yourself nice and ready then Eddie’s gonna come in and take care of you.”

Hearing those words immediately felt soothing to you.

You look over towards the camera and lock eyes with Eddie. He was right there like he told you he would be. He winks at you, setting off a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.

You began to follow directions, waiting for the director to give you the okay before you started. Then you began to do what felt right. Just like you were doing a solo masturbation scene. You began to touch and caress your body, getting yourself worked up as you got into the scene.

You began with your breasts, reaching your hands up as you began to knead them through the red lacy bra that you had chosen for this scene- something that made you feel sexy and confident. In your head you began to repeat it like a mantra.

You were sexy and confident.

You are sexy.

You are confident.

You could do this.

You push your tits together, thumbs rubbing over your nipples through the lace bra and you gasped at the feeling. You shut your eyes, allowing yourself to be in the moment and just feel. Just like Eddie had told you.

Eddie, on the other side of the set, was watching. His eyes were hyper-fixated on every little thing. The way your soft hands roamed your supple body and you tossed your head back in pleasure as you teased yourself. He was too far away but he was sure that you were letting out the tiniest little moans as you touched and squeezed and felt your sexy body with gentle hands.

Eddie had been halfway hard all morning but now his cock was starting to respond to every little thing you did. Every pinch, every grasp, every flick of your fingers against your tits. He could’ve sworn that it was starting to get hot in there and your bra wasn’t even off yet.

“Okay, honey, start to naturally drift down more. Get to the panties and take them off. We want it nice and slow, alright? Tease the camera.”

Tease the camera? Eddie definitely won’t be lasting long enough for the planned cum shot if you kept going on like that. But he didn’t dare say it out loud. He didn’t want to immediately gain a reputation for finishing fast even when he had so much pornographic proof out there that he wasn’t a fast shooter. You were the first girl in the industry that made him worry that he was going to finish in his pants as soon as he got a taste of you.

Nevertheless, your hands began to drag down, lower and lower until they reached the waistband of your panties. Red lace just like the bra. You didn’t even have to feel yourself to know that you were ready to go. You knew as soon as you had locked your eyes on Eddie from where he stood off-set that you were going to be drenched. But your right hand still delved into your panties, swiping at your folds as you felt just how wet you were.

Eddie watched, heart pounding as he stared at your hand down your little red panties-playing with your sopping wet core until you slowly removed your fingers. Drawing them out to reveal a thin coating of your arousal. Eddie’s breath hitched as your eyes bore into him. You were staring at him. Your gaze was locked in on him. All of this was for him.

You bring your slick fingers to your mouth, maintaining eye contact as you popped them into your mouth, sucking them nice and clean.

Fuck, you dirty girl….

Eddie’s dick begins to strain against his jeans at the action. God, was he ready to find out what you tasted like. He couldn’t take the teasing and direct eye-contact for much longer. He was so fucking ready for you.

Meeting the expectations of the director, you slip your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, seductively shimmying your hips as you pulled them down tantalizingly slow- agonizingly slow. Eddie watches with greedy eyes.

You laid back onto the sofa, panties wrapped around your thighs as you begin to lift your legs up, pulling the wet lacy fabric the rest of the way down your legs that were lifted slightly into the air- giving the camera a nice view of your pussy. Thighs pressed together in a way that had Eddie staring hungrily. He wanted so badly to sink down to his knees and hold those legs up like that as he ate you. The sight was mesmerizing.

After the lacy panties were off, you flung them across the set- right in Eddie's direction and he swore he saw a cute little smirk on your face when you did it. God, you were so naughty- and he was going to teach you a lesson.

"Okay, honey, now lay back on the couch. Spread your legs. Great! Perfect! Can we get some finger action in there?"

Eddie realizes just how well you follow directions as your body melts into the back of the couch, bringing your legs up onto it as you open them for the camera- spreading them open for everyone to see and, god, it was a fucking sight that was so fucking unholy. Yet, Eddie couldn't look away. Not when you were bare and spread out in front of him for his eyes to feast upon. That gorgeous body, those lace-clad tits, that glistening wet pussy. You were going to fucking kill him.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any hotter, you looked off near the camera- eyes trained on his as you used your fingers to spread yourself open for him. He could have passed out right there.

Fuck, he was really gonna give it to you.

He was going to devour every fucking inch of that tight little pussy until you were screaming. Fuck the cameras, fuck the scene, fuck everyone who was watching. They didn't matter. All that mattered was what he wanted to fucking do to you.

Your fingers began to tease your hole as you glided them up and down your slit. You were so fucking wet that it was making Eddie weak in the knees. Your sopping wet pussy was none other than a holy altar in which he wanted to bow down and worship. Eddie wasn't religious but you were a fucking goddess that he would devote his entire fucking life praying to if you let him.

You began to play with yourself, using your fingers to rub your needy little clit in slow circles. You threw your head back against the back of the sofa as you close your eyes. Focusing on feeling. Making yourself feel good. Getting yourself nice and wet for Eddie.

Eddie.

Eddie fucking Munson with his huge fucking cock and his soft-looking lips and those big brown eyes. How he made you feel. So cared for, so safe. Your fingers begin to work your clit a bit rougher. You had seen him on screen so many times fucking so many girls and now it was finally going to be you. His head between your thighs. His tongue in your folds. Sucking on your clit. It was getting you so fucking worked up.

You insert two fingers into your pussy as you begin to fuck them into yourself. You let your mind take over, moans tumbling from your lips as you try to fuck yourself with your fingers as deep as you can- wanting to hit that spot within yourself that had you curling your toes.

You shove them as deep as you go, trying to reach it but you just couldn’t. It felt like something was missing. But you kept trying. It felt good, of course it did, but you couldn’t help but feel like something was off. Like you were struggling. Now you were beginning to wonder if closing your eyes and thinking about Eddie was what did you in.

You had no issues in the past with using your fingers on yourself to get the relief you needed but now they just felt inadequate. As if they suddenly weren’t enough. It was so odd. Was Eddie jinxing you? Were you maybe more nervous than you originally thought? Were you-

“Alright, honey, how are we doing?” The director asks, bellowing out to you from behind the camera. “You look good, babe. Gorgeous. We’re going to add Eddie in. Are you ready?”

You look over at Eddie as he begins to strip off his shirt, his brown curls still tied back in a low bun. As he removes his t-shirt, you can’t help but stare- zoning in on his sexy, toned body. He was so fucking hot. Just when you thought you couldn’t be more turned on by him, he looks up at you- making sure that you were okay. That you were comfortable.

You both lock eyes, staring at each other with so much sexual tension that the whole room could probably feel it. You wanted Eddie Munson so bad- his body, his mouth, this hands touching all over you. You wanted him so bad that your body felt hot to the touch. He had been your industry crush for so long and now you were going to have his mouth on you- tasting you.

You give the director the okay, still spread out on the couch. As Eddie prepares to join you on-set, he can’t help the way that his eyes wander over your beautiful body. Your perky tits, your long legs, your pretty face, your sexy curves- but, most of all, your glistening wet sex. You were practically dripping with arousal as he shamelessly stared at you- the most gorgeous angel he’s ever laid eyes on. He hadn’t even gotten his mouth on you yet and he knew that he was in for trouble.

“Alright, you’re on.” The director nods towards him, giving Eddie his cue. It was the moment that he had been thinking about for hours.

His hardened cock was surely very noticeable beneath his black jeans. He could’ve sworn that there was so much blood rushing to his dick that he would pass out from the sheer lack of it being anywhere else in his body- and it was only getting worse with the way that you were looking at him. As if he were the most delectable man on the planet. Which, you would have to admit, was pretty accurate.

Your eyes stay glued to him and the pure fucking sex god that he is as he crosses onto the set, introducing himself to the scene. You loved the way that the black denim of his jeans hugged his waist. You loved the silver chain that dangled against his right hip as he strode over to you. You loved the soft tufts of dark hair that made up the happy trail leading down into the waistband of his pants. Eddie Munson was a fucking dream. He was a king- and you wanted to be his queen.

“Hey, you.” He whispers, eyes on you as he sinks down onto his knees in front of you “Doing okay? Not nervous?”

He was checking on you. Fuck, there was no way this man could be any hotter.

“I’m okay.” You whisper back “Just a little overwhelmed.”

The way that Eddie looked at you with those chocolate brown eyes made you want to melt.

“Yeah?” He asks, voice still low enough for only you to hear- sharing this intimate moment with you only.

“Just a little.” You answer. You were trying not to focus on your nerves but you could feel the space that they occupied in your body.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. Just close your eyes and relax. I’m here to take care of you.” He says, his eyes warm “Remember what I said? If it gets to be too much just focus on me. Just forget that anyone’s even here. Okay?”

“Okay.” You whisper back, staring at him as you nod.

“Good.” He says “Now, how can I help you get comfortable? What do you need? Hm?”

God, he was making you so wet…

“….I….I, uh, can you use-“ You immediately felt embarrassed, your face flushes as you try to look away from him.

“Hey, hey, hey…” He tsks “Eyes on me. Look at me, angel.” He reaches for you, taking your chin in-between his thumb and forefinger- guiding you to look at him. “Tell me what you want. It’s just you and me here. It’s just us. Okay?”

“Okay.” You bite your lip, nodding along.

“Say it.” He demands, maintaining eye contact “I want to hear you say it. Need to know that you’re with me. That it’s just me and you in this room right now. Nobody else. Just us, okay? Tell me.”

“I….It’s just us.” You breathe, your body feeling as if it were on fire from the intimacy “You and me. No one else.”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Just you and me. Now, tell me, what….do you….need?”

What did you need?

“You, Eddie. I need you.” You gasp lightly, causing his lips to form into a smirk.

“What do you need me to do?” He asks “Gotta use your words or I won’t be able to understand.”

“I want….I need you to kiss me. Please?”

Eddie lets of a short, low growl from the back of his throat as his hands fly to your waist, grasping tightly as he jerked you towards him- wanting you closer.

“C’mere, baby.” He rasps, straightening his body to become level with yours before he uses one of his large hands to grab the back of your neck- pulling you into a rough, hungry kiss that was so intense that it could have knocked the air out of you.

And Eddie fucking Munson was an amazing kisser.

The way that his lips slotted and molded against yours. The way that his mouth moved against yours as he nipped and licked and sucked at your bottom lip. The way that he slid his tongue into your mouth as if you belonged to him- causing you to want him to make you his.

You moaned into his mouth as his tongue fought for dominance against yours, taking your breath away with how desperate he was to kiss you harder and more passionately than he already was- if that were even possible.

How hands were all over. Grabbing your waist, his fingertips trailing up and down your back in delicate touches. The way that his thumb slipped underneath the clasp of your bra. He pulled his thumb back to stretch out the band then released it to let it snap back against your soft skin- earning him a surprised gasp.

He removes his lips from yours, beginning to pepper light kisses along your jawline before trailing his lips down your neck. You tilt your head back, giving him more access as he kisses down the column of your throat and then back up- working his way over until he began nibbling on your ear. You thought you were dreaming when he whispered in your ear.

“Can I take your tits out?”

You probably seemed needy and desperate as you fervently nodded your approval. You worried that you probably looked pathetic but, to Eddie, there was nothing hotter than seeing how worked up you were getting.

“P-please.” You mutter, voice coming out breathy and shaky.

“Mmm…good girl. Wanna look at those pretty tits when I fuck you with my fingers.”

You let out a startled squeak at his filthy works, causing him to grin.

“Fuck, sweetheart, does that turn you on? Listening to me tell you that I wanna put my fingers in you? Hm? That I wanna stuff you full?”

“Fuck, Eddie…” You moan.

“God, sweetheart, you’re already moaning my name and I haven’t even touched you yet. So needy for me. I fucking love it.”

He reaches both hands around to your bra clasp, expertly popping it open and removing it as if it were the easiest thing on earth. To him, it probably was. He’s probably taken off so many girl’s bras that he could do it with his eyes closed.

He pulled the bra off, taking it in his large hand before flinging it somewhere on the set. Not that it mattered. As hot as it was, it was getting in the way of what he really wanted. Your tits in his mouth.

“Mmm fuck, baby.” He groans, staring lovingly at your gorgeous chest- your hardened nipples. “You are so goddamn pretty, angel. So beautiful. Can I put my mouth on them?”

“Please.” You moan, arching your back in order to bring your tits closer to his face. Eddie chuckles at your eagerness.

“Shit, sweetheart.” He laughs “You want me to put them in my mouth? Yeah? These sweet fucking titties….”

He keeps one hand on your waist while the other snakes up to your chest, grabbing a handful of your boob as he squeezes it in his hand.

“So fucking soft, honey. So warm…..so perfect.” He teases, voice low and seductive. “Perfect little tits. Want me to put them in my face? Suck on your perky little nipples? Fuck, they’re so hard for me.”

You don’t know what came over you but you instinctively grasp at Eddie’s hand that was left grabbing your waist as you draw it up and onto your other breast, wanting him to have two handfuls of you.

“Look at you, sweet girl. You want both my hands paying attention to your tits? So bossy.” He tsks “Could’ve just asked. But that’s okay. I’m gonna give you what you want. But you’re gonna have to do something for me too.”

You look at him with curiosity in your eyes. You had no idea what he was going to ask you. Truth be told, it made you a little nervous.

“Since both my hands are full, sweetness, I’m gonna need you to use yours to play with your pussy for me. Think you can do that for me? Hm?”

Fuck

You stare at him as he surveys your body, now fully nude in front of him. God, you were a beautiful sight.

“Okay.” You squeak out, nodding your head.

“Atta girl.” He whispers “That’s my good girl. Now start rubbing your clit.”

────────

To Be Continued…

A/N: Hope you enjoyed part one. Sorry that I cut it short, I didn’t want to make the fic too long and I also wanted to get it out before I left for vacation next week. I feel like I’ve already held this back from you all long enough. Please excuse any spelling errors. I’ll go back and edit later

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You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

He flexes his muscles again, but they did an amazing job tying him up; hands behind his back and locked to the chair. The black rope criss crosses around his torso in a strange work of art, keeps his thighs apart, calves and feet bound to the legs of the chair. His cock jumps lightly as he tenses, slowly chubs up and swells at the unfamiliar exposure while adrenaline courses through his veins.

There is no time for him to let his thoughts wander or to come up with a quick escape plan, because his ears perk up as the door opens and closes behind him—and suddenly, there is another presence in the room with him.

He'll have to play the long game. Stay alive until his team can get to him. It's not like he hasn't done it before—under much different circumstances.

The clicking of heels on hardwood floor cuts through the eerie silence and Simon grits his teeth as his body begins to react involuntarily.

His nipples peak as the rope keeps pressing and brushing over the sensitive areas, his chest flushes deeper, warmth spreading up and under his mask while his heavy prick starts defying gravity as it hardens to full mast until it bobs against the pudge of his lower tummy.

The sudden touch of soft fingertips and blunt nails trailing along the curve of his left shoulder makes him flinch. The chair creaks with the movement, and you laugh quietly, finally appearing in his line of sight as you saunter around the chair.

"Jumpy, are we?" you chuckle again, crossing your arms in front of your bosom as you stand in front of him—wearing a lacey red set of lingerie with a matching garter belt and stockings that accentuate your curves perfectly.

A mouthwatering picture of sin and temptation.

Simon swallows thickly, hands clenching and unclenching behind him as he keeps his mouth shut. Refusing to give you any ammo to work with.

You tut at his defiance as he keeps glaring up at you with those incredibly dark eyes, unblinking like some freaky mannequin.

"They didn't take off your mask," you remark, shifting on your feet. His eyes flicker down, noticing the movement. Those shoes certainly look uncomfortable, like you're not used to wearing them.

"Why?" you ask coolly, and his eyes flicker up again before he shrugs as best as he can, scrunching his nose as the rope keeps cutting into his flesh.

You take a step forward, and his nostrils flare under his mask, sniffing your scent through the mask. The perfume you wear is surprisingly pleasant, definitely expensive. His gaze lingers on your tits, pushed up all enticingly with your arms crossed.

Supple and squishy. At this distance, he could easily snatch you up, break your neck, pull you into his lap, onto his cock—if his hands were free. His heart thuds harder as he shakes those thoughts off.

"Are you that ugly?" you taunt, eyes sparkling while you hook your right index finger under the hem. His pulse throbs in his neck.

"Take it off an' find out yerself, sweet'art."

"Oh, you don't mind?" He stays silent.

Your brows furrow, red painted lips pursing at his lack of protest before you start dragging the black cloth upwards and over his head.

His head tilts back a little, his eyes narrow at you as his face is exposed so easily.

Your eyes flicker as you allow yourself to drink in the sight of him for a moment.

Pale cheeks flushed and dusted with a five o'clock shadow. Faded scars splitting his lip and eyebrow, running down the side of his temple, another one at his chin. Roman nose crooked from being broken and not tended to properly. Short, dark-blonde hair tousled from the mask.

"Hmpf," you hum, licking your lips. "Handsome."

Simon snorts dryly, but his cock twitches, betraying his arousal.

"Gonna suck my fuckin' cock now or wha'?" he asks crudely, trying to throw you off your game—and it works. "Ain't gonna suck itself, birdie."

Your smug expression falters momentarily, but then your nails dig into his flesh as you swiftly grab his jaw, eliciting a surprised grunt from him.

"Oh, you'd like that, huh?" you sneer, "Didn't know Simon fucking Riley is such a bloody slag."

His eyes narrow to slits, jaw unclenching as your fingers squeeze his cheeks, digging into the muscles borderline painfully.

"Are you gonna be difficult," you purr sensually, leaning in until you're dangerously close, "or are you gonna be a good boy and tell me what I need to know?"

There's another tense pause, then:

"I could'a broken yer nose right now but didn't, love," he deadpans as your grip loosens some. "Tha's me playin' along." He clicks his tongue, pokes it into his stinging cheeks as your hand drops eventually, pouty lips pulling into a sly smile. "Olright?"

Simon feels strangely in charge in this moment, even if he's the one in the hands of the enemy and tied to a chair, until you reach down to flick the leaking slit of his ruddy tip.

He flinches, unable to jerk away. His cock jumps obscenely, a fat drop of pre drips into the floor.

"Christ," he hisses through clenched teeth, glaring up at you while his cockhead stings. "Bloody minx."

"Not that cocky anymore, huh?" You're still taunting and mocking him, even as you brace your hands on his meaty thighs while you sink down to your knees between his legs.

"In twenty minutes, you'll be telling me all I need to know, begging me to stop—"

"Twenty minutes?" he repeats, sounding unimpressed. "My wife needs less."

You stop, glaring up at him, clearly holding back some words on the tip of your tongue while Simon suppresses a grin, though the muscle in his cheek ticks suspiciously.

"Wife?" You pinch his right inner thigh, tugging at his leg hair, and his throbbing cock twitches again while his head lolls back with an exasperated huff, bulky chest heaving while the rope squeezes his muscles once more.

"A bloke like you has a wife?"

He groans as your hand finally wraps around his shaft, thumb rubbing along his frenulum teasingly, right under his sensitive tip.

"Aye," Simon grunts, breathing shallowly, "a hot one. Fuckin' gorgeous."

Your grip on his shaft tightens as you start to pump him and his toes curl, hips aching to buck while the restraints keep him seated.

"Fuuuuck, you're a cruel little kitty, huh? Showing off yer claws as if y'know how to use them—"

And just like that, your free hand digs into his inner thigh, nails clawing into pliant muscle before his thighs flex, and you drag them along his skin. Simon snarls at the sting, but then you spit on his cock and pump him faster from base to tip and he chokes on air.

"Awww, what's wrong, hm?" You coo, licking your shiny lips as you watch his reactions with obvious glee and a smirk to match it while stroking his fat prick relentlessly.

Simon trembles in his restraints, slowly but surely losing some feeling in his hands as he keeps his fists balled tightly. His balls throb, drawing up already as the pleasure coils low in his gut, pooling hot and mercilessly at the base of his spine.

As his eyes roll back, he curses internally that he hasn't gotten off in a week.

"Lookit this—the big, bad Ghost all pathetic and falling apart—"

Simon's eyes fly open as he tenses up, staring at the dark ceiling before focusing his gaze back to you between his legs.

"Man United."

You stop immediately, eyes widening as you look up.

His chest heaves slowly as he tries to breathe deeply and rid himself of the fog in his fuzzy brain.

"Man United," Simon repeats roughly, nodding to affirm his words to you.

Letting go of his cock, you start rubbing his thighs soothingly, returning his nod with your own before you rise in your heels.

"Yeah," you agree softly. "Are you okay, baby?"

Simon exhales through his nose; tension slowly melting away as the atmosphere shifts and your whole demeanor softens along with your pretty eyes.

"Yes, 'm fine," he husks, blinking slowly like a content cat and leaning into your touch as you cup his cheek gently.

And suddenly, the strange room becomes your master bedroom again. The dimmed red light comes from by his ordinary bedside table lamp with a red towel draped over it. The scene but something you both have come up with on a whim this Saturday night.

"Do you need a break or—" You leave the question open as you gauge his reaction. "Do you wanna stop? What happened?"

Simon squirms a little, suddenly flustered.

"Don't call me Ghost again, please," he answers reluctantly, though he knows he needs to tell you. "Y'can't call me tha' here, not even as a joke, love. Makes me feel—" His chest heaves with a deep breath like he's bracing himself to talk about his feelings, even though he's become better at it since marrying you.

"Like what?" you ask gently, still caressing his cheek. "Talk to me, baby."

He exhales slowly, holding your gaze.

"Makes me feel weird. Too real. Don't wanna bring that part of me 'ere, okay?"

You nod understandingly, running your fingers through his hair as you take his admission to heart.

"Yeah, okay."

There's a pause, and Simon flashes you a close-lipped smile while his heart flutters, chest tight and full of love. His cock is still uncomfortably hard. He clears his throat.

"Can we skip the roleplay for now?"

You snicker, tugging on the rope at his chest playfully. "Sure. Want me to untie you?"

Simon looks down at himself, wiggles his toes and fingers before glancing up at you once more, shaking his head with a cheeky twinkle in his eyes.

"Can you ride me? I need to feel yer sweet cunt, love."

"That right, huh?" Your eyebrow arches as you enjoy the sight in front of you briefly before your hands slide down to his shoulders. Bracing yourself on his solid frame, you go on to straddle his lap, pinning his steadily weeping cock between your clothed crotch and his lower belly.

"Ngh, fuck," he curses under his breath as his head lolls forward, resting his forehead against yours while you smile at his surrender.

The bar might be loud, but you feel that quiet gaze of his press into your shoulders with gentle pressure. Clark isn’t mad at you, not at all. You know that. He might not even be mad at the man talking to you who is very clear on the fact that you have a boyfriend. You had thumbed over your shoulder at Clark when the man first sidled up expressing his interest. Clark had held up his pint glass in a mock salute, pride glowing in his chest at being able to be called yours. 

He knows you would call him over if you needed his help, and so far you haven’t, but you don’t exactly look thrilled with his conversation. So Clark just broods next to Jimmy, wishing your attention was entirely focused on him. Watching. Waiting. 

When the man steps closer to you, you step back, stumbling into a barstool behind you, and Clark takes that as his cue, hardly setting down his drink before making his way to you. 

You feel him before you hear or see him. His warm chest, pressing steadily into your back. You don’t have to look to know that it’s him as his voice rumbles against your back. He doesn’t speak to the nameless flirt, only to you. “All right, sweetheart?”

Your cheeks flush in that bashful ‘i can’t believe it’s you’ way. “Yes.” You gasp breathlessly, leaning back into him and gazing up at him. Your smile is hardly restrained as Clark lets his hands fall possessively to your hips, holding you in place. 

“She’s all good,” Clark tells him without looking away from your eyes, “Have a good night.” Clark offers sincerely to the other man, who is now bowing his head in slight defeat and moving onto his next targets; a group of girls who look to be fresh out of college and far too drunk for a Thursday night in Metropolis. 

To anyone else, Clark would have looked far too polite for someone who just watched their girlfriend get hit on, but you know Clark better. You can feel how tense his core is from the hand you have placed on his lower stomach. His arm is curled protectively around you, bicep cradles the back of your neck meaning only one thing. 

He’s jealous. 

So jealous, he leans down to press his nose to your pulse point on your neck, inhaling your scent before offering a gentle nip of his teeth. A reminder. One he would never verbalize, but to anyone watching the message is clear; “She’s my girl.”

He surfaces only a moment later, lips pouting ever so slightly. “Are you okay?”

You nod, cheeks flushing and slightly flustered. The bar continues to move around you, uncaring of the moment you’re sharing. Some hip-hop song from the 2000’s pulses in the background, Jimmy tries fruitlessly to get the Eve’s phone number, and you stare into his oceanic eyes with little shame. 

Clark’s eyes rake over you, studying you for any sign of delayed distress. He won’t find any- not as long as you’re in his arms.

You’re sharing the same breaths. Your embrace is a casual and fairly innocent one in comparison to what this dingy place usually sees, but you know him better. His hold is a claim. From the way his pupils are dilated, you can assume he’s tuned in to the pulsing of your heart. You’re sure he must be able to feel your nipples hardening against the thin bra and shirt you’re wearing, and you know he’s able to feel the warmth of your rapidly dampening panties as he presses his thigh between you legs. 

One soft kiss to his lips- far too chaste for your position (or his liking), has him dropping his arm to grab your hand and taking your purse as he pulls you out of the bar. He barely tosses a goodnight to Jimmy, and you wave at him, Eve, and Lois as you enter the warm Metropolis night. 

The streets are quiet and devoid of people despite the busting bar behind you. The birds have gone to bed, replacing their song with a quiet hum of crickets in the trees. You can’t control your laughter as Clark stumbles over an uneven sidewalk panel in his haste and nearly trip yourself, stabilizing with Clark’s hands on your hips. Despite himself, he’s laughing too. 

“What was that in there?” You tease, squeezing his hand a bit tighter. “Practicaly dragged me out!”

There’s no disdain in your voice, just pure, unbridled giddiness that someone as handsome and loving as Clark feels as possessive over you as you are of him. Easily led, he lets you walk him backwards until his back hits the brick of a dark storefront. 

“I-. You’re just-” He stuttered, lips pulling into a sheepish smile that puts his dimples on display. His tongue darts over his pink lips, wetting the plush skin. 

“Yeah,” you murmur breathily, rising to your tiptoes and nosing along his jaw, “Me too,” you hum just before kiss him hard. It’s wet and hot and everything you love about him.

Love. 

These are the fairytale kisses you’ve dreamed of. Clumsy, but filled with passion and clicking teeth and take place under flickering streetlights on the too-hot summer nights in the city. The way Clark holds you close to him and you cup his chin. One of his arms wraps around your back, hand splaying across the spot where your shirt rides up and pulling you closer into him.

This is the kind of love the poets write about. It fills your body from head to toe, like a warm honey. Sweet and sticking to anything that touches your skin. The kind that makes you feel like you could get under Clark’s skin, never separated and you would still want to be closer. Never getting enough. The butterflies in your stomach must be multiplying with every kiss and lust filled look, because your pulse is everywhere. He is everywhere- in your fingertips, in your heart, in your lungs with every shaky breath.

You don’t separate when a car drives by, its honking blaring through the night, or when  a gaggle of girls step outside, shrieking in laughter as they dart across the street. The world might as well not exist. Not with Clark’s arms around you. 

When you finally do separate, Clark’s canines glint in the low light from how wide his smile is. 

“What was that for? Not that I’m complaining-”

You shrug, smiling as you lace your fingers together once again and he falls quiet, looking down at you with that adoring blue gaze of his. 

“Let’s go home.”

You’re hardly through the door when you’re tugging your shirt off, pressing your hot skin to his chest as you shove at his own shirt. His arms encircle your body once you’re both freed from the cotton confines, lifting you up and kissing you deeply. The movement causes your denim shorts to ride up a bit, giving a delicious pressure to your aching core.

“Mine.” Clark mumbles, dropping you atop your mattress with a bounce. He hovers over you, propped up on his elbow with hair sticking up in all directions. 

“Yours,” comes your breathy echo.

His touch is featherlight, circling your nipple gently, then switching to the other side with little ceremony. Goosebumps rise across your skin and you squirm under the barely-there touch. Clark starts to trail his fingers down the swell of your stomach, tracing along the button of your bottoms. You almost whine impatiently at his teasing, but the sound doesn’t make it out before he’s covering the sound with his mouth, licking into your mouth and kissing with the fervor of a man possessed. Your shorts are unbuttoned and kicked off with little aplomb, disappearing somewhere in the dim room.

A gasp rips from your throat and your hand flies to his tousled dark hair when he carefully traces a hand down your slit and sinks his middle finger into you, down to the knuckle. “You’re so wet, honey. Feel so good.” His thumb presses gently to your clit, giving it the gentlest of circles as he curls his finger.

“Oh!” You sigh, “oh, Clark.”

He shudders, groaning at the sound and dropping his lower half against you. You can feel his cock, hard and hot, against your leg. 

Another finger joins the one buried inside your cunt, your hips canting to meet the rhythm Clark has set. Your body is putty, malleable and pliant in his hands. 

“You’re perfect.” Clark breathes into your neck, “so perfect. So pretty. All mine. Can’t believe that… that jerk thought he had a chance with you.”

You almost want to laugh at Clark’s censorship, but he presses his thumb harder against your clit, moving the nub gently and causing you to keen, letting out another high-pitched whine. 

“Clark, please.”

His motions don’t let up, continuing with that rhythm that he knows will get you there. “Let me hear it, sweetheart. No one else gets you like this. No one else will know how pretty you sound when you moan for me.” A kiss is pressed to your hipbone- an oddly chaste action compared to the filth between your legs.

The coil in your stomach tightens at his words, moans tearing from your lips with little care for the late hour or your poor neighbors. Wetness gushes from your cunt, surely dripping down his veiny forearm and releasing obscene squelches that would make you embarrassed if it was anyone other than Clark. All you can think of is Clark, playing your body in a perfect symphony to bring you to the peak. 

“She’s so wet for me, honey. It’s addicting. Can’t wait to taste her.” The words are quiet, said more to himself than you, but you catch it anyways.

The crescendo continues to build as you call Clark’s name over and over, as though he might disappear when you don’t. The coil in your stomach grows tighter and your cunt squeezes his fingers so much that he gasps. When you do come, it’s blinding. White hot pleasure courses through your veins as you sink your teeth into the muscle where his shoulder meets his neck, surely leaving bite a mark and moaning his name. 

The come down is just as intense, with you still canting your hips gently into Clark’s palm as you pulse and clench around him. His fingers roll your clit back and forth until you’re squirming away from the stimulation, humming out a quiet “too much, oh, too much.”

HIs hand withdraws from between your legs as you open your eyes, not realizing you’d closed them to see Clark smiling down at you, absentmindedly grinding himself into your leg as he raises his fingers to his lips and sucks you clean off of him. He hums like he’s just been gifted the sweetest candy in the universe and despite your limp and spent body sinking back into the mattress, a renewed energy surges through your blood at the sight.

He maintains eye contact as he does so, your core pulsing desperately in response. You sit up quickly, eyes wild and ignoring the sensitivity between your legs as you flip Clark over, perching atop him. His mouth drops open, digging his fingers into your hips as you drag your still-dripping pussy over his abs. The ridges of his muscle catch your core just right and the damn menace notices, smirking as he tenses his muscles and begins to work you over his core. 

Your eyes snap open when a particular grind has his cock poking the plush of your ass, forgotten and leaking against his stomach. As if sensing your desire before you can act, Clark grabs your wrist from his chest, pressing a kiss to the inside and humming, “Not right now, baby. You can get your mouth on me later, but all I want right now is to feel that sweet cunt wrapped around me.”

Your lips part in awe, a shriek tearing from your lips as he brands an arm across your lower back and pulling your body into him, turning until you’re underneath him.

“You want me?” He asks, pulling his cock through your folds and tapping the head against your clit. Little sparks of electricity jolt up your spine at the action, wondering when the hell he learned that. Instead, you nod eagerly as he notches himself against you and begins to sink inside.

“Geez… you always are so damn tight for me. No one else can fill you like me. Right baby?”

“No, no one.” You moan, arching into him. “Cl-ahhh-rkkk, oh!” 

He bottoms out, hips pressing to yours and holding himself there. His hair falls out of its style, damp strands sticking to his forehead and dangling over you like short vines. 

“Quiet, baby,” Clark hums, leaning down to peck your lips as he starts to circle his hips. “Don’t want to wake the neighbors. They’d know how bad you want me.”

There’s an irony to that, considering he was the one who staked his claim over you at the bar. You don’t call him on it, too lost in pleasure as he pulls out all the way before thrusting back in, tip kissing your cervix delicately. He fits in you so perfectly. Warm and soft and so very him, veins rubbing against your gooey walls perfectly. His pace is slow at first, desperate to have you writhing beneath him. Clark can’t control himself, knowing the position that drives you crazy has him pulling your legs up over his shoulders. The movement has you clenching around him again, a litany of moans being released into the air.

“You might like that though, wouldn’t you? Letting me into your wet cunt in the bar bathroom, where anyone might see us? You want them to know who you belong to?”

Clark’s thrusts speed up a bit, hitting your spots perfectly and bringing you closer ot the edge with every movement. His fingers find your clit again, circling quickly to bring you to another ind-numbing orgasm. 

“They’ll know.,” Clark grunts, growing closer to his own peak, “You’re mine. My girl. My love.”

The words break over you like a wave, pleasure wracking your body as you cum around him. Clark doesn’t last much longer, burying his face into your neck and collapsing atop you. His groans are muffled as he empties his seed into your cunt until a white ring forms around the base of his cock and you’re dripping with his cum.

“That was good,” You hum into his ear, punctuating the sentence with a bite to his earlobe and relishing his shiver. “Think you could go again?”

Clark raises his head to meet your gaze, “Honey, I know I could. I’m insatiable when it comes to you.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, lips curling as you tug and roll your hips up against his still-twitching cock. “Then what are you waiting for, Kansas?”

Two orgasms later, with Clark panting into your neck and your legs still wrapped around his hips, you finally speak.

“You’re like the sun.”

His head his rises, gazing into your eyes as his cock twitches where it’s still nestled in your pussy. Clark presses his forehead to yours, breathing heavily with his eyes still closed. His forearms are bracketing your head, keeping him from dropping his weight entirely atop you.

You don’t think you’d mind that, actually. 

“The sun?” 

“Mhmm.” You hum, tracing an unintelligible pattern into his warm back and losing yourself in the calm of his sparkling blue gaze. “The sun. Warm and comforting. Like- like I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I didn’t have you. Like without you, things just… wouldn’t work.” Clark has his lips pressed together, studying you, and you tense ever so slightly, stomach dropping. “Sorry, that’s weird-”

Clark shuts you up with a kiss, as if its all he can think to do to get you to understand. 

“I know.” He says once the two of you have surfaced for air. “Me too.” He circles his arm around your waist and rolls, flipping so that you’re on half on top of him and pulling you into his chest in one fluid motion. “Me too.” You settle there, listening to the sound of his heart as sleep presses in around you. The curtains flutter with a night breeze, a welcome coolness against your hot skin.

“I don’t have all of the words for it, yet.” Clark finally rasps, breaking the silence. The two of you half-asleep, but the words are warm all the same. “It’s not going to be a checkbox. I don’t think there are enough words in any language to tell you. You’re my world.” He inhales shakily, “but when I do-” Clark presses his nose to your hair, lips brushing your scalp when he speaks. “I promise I’ll never let you forget it.”

The first text came at eleven fourteen in the morning. You knew that because you’d been staring at your phone since eleven. Not constantly, obviously — you had standards; you had pride. You also had Dean sitting across from you at the kitchen table, eating cereal straight from the box because apparently bowls were a social construct. If he caught you checking your notifications every ten seconds, he’d never let you hear the end of it.

So you were being subtle — or at least trying to be.

Dean looked up the second your phone buzzed. You looked at it faster than you meant to, and his eyes narrowed. “Who’s that?”

“No one,” you said too quickly.

“People only say no one when they’re lying.”

“You’d know.”

Dean pointed a Cheerio at you. “That sounded defensive.”

“You’re eating cereal with your hands.”

“That’s called efficiency.”

“That’s called being raised in a barn.”

Dean ignored that, his gaze dropping to your phone again when it lit up on the counter.

beau since your brother hasn’t killed me yet: you free tonight?

Your mouth gave you away before you could stop it, twitching at the corners.

Of course, Dean saw.

The problem with Dean was that he noticed just enough to be annoying, but not enough to be thorough. Not the important things, apparently, because if he did, he would’ve seen the way Beau Maxwell looked at you at the party last night — like you were something he’d been trying very hard not to want.

Or maybe he’d noticed. Maybe that was why Dean’s face did that horrible older-brother thing — jaw tight, eyes narrowed, shoulders tense like he was preparing to throw himself between you and a moving vehicle.

“You just smiled.”

“I smile all the time.”

“Not like that.”

You locked your phone, trying not to look amused. “Like what?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Like you’re about to make my life difficult.”

You locked your phone. “You’ll survive.”

“My life was peaceful before Maxwell started looking at you like that.”

Your fingers tightened around the mug.

So he’d noticed.

You tried to keep your face neutral. “He looked at me?”

Dean just stared at you. You stared right back until he finally said, “Don’t.”

That was the thing about Dean. He could be obnoxious and dramatic and way too involved, but sometimes his voice went quiet, the joke gone from it, and it got harder to be mad at him.

Your phone buzzed again, but you didn’t move. Unfortunately, Dean noticed anyway.

“Is that him?”

You stood, taking your coffee with you. “I have plans.”

“What plans?” Dean asked.

You gave him a look. “Plans that require me not being here.”

Dean blinked at you. “So, fake plans.”

You walked past him toward the hallway. “You’re unbearable.”

“And you’re still avoiding the question.”

“I’m allowed to have a life.”

“You are,” he agreed. “Huge supporter of you having a life.”

“You don’t support anything.”

“I support you having a life. I don’t support Maxwell being part of it.”

You stopped in the doorway.

Dean looked a little too serious now — still ridiculous, still holding the cereal box like it was a weapon, but worried underneath.

“He’s my best friend,” Dean reminded you.

“Congratulations.”

Dean’s mouth flattened. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“He’s not a bad guy,” he added.

“I know he isn’t.”

“But he’s still a guy who likes you.”

“Groundbreaking observation.”

Dean looked like he was considering throwing the cereal box at you. “I saw the way he looked at you.”

Your face warmed, and something in Dean’s expression softened.

“Oh, my god,” Dean muttered, staring at you.

“Don’t start.”

“You actually like him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You hated, just a little, how well he knew you.

“It’s dinner,” you answered, and regretted it immediately.

Dean went still. “Dinner.”

“Maybe.”

“With Beau.”

“Unless you know some other Beau.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It was kind of funny.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

You braced for the explosion, but it didn’t come. Somehow, that was worse.

“Be careful,” he warned finally.

Something in you softened. Not enough to cancel the date — obviously — but enough that your voice was quieter when you answered.

“I will.”

“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”

“If he hurts me, I’ll kill him myself.”

Dean considered that, then nodded once. “Good.”

You left before Dean could change his mind. As soon as the door closed behind you, you opened your phone.

beau for the record, i’d ask you in person, but i’m guessing dean hasn’t stopped hovering yet

A laugh slipped out under your breath.

you hovering is generous

beau that bad?

Before you could answer, another text came in.

beau seven? just dinner. no party. no dean close enough to interrupt.

Your heart gave a stupid little jump.

You had plenty of smart reasons to say no. Dean, unfortunately, was one of them. The fact that Beau was Dean’s best friend was another.

Still, you typed anyway.

you seven

beau yes ma’am

beau and for the record, i would’ve asked again tomorrow

You stared at the message a little longer than you should’ve. Then, before you could overthink it, Dean knocked on your door.

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

You threw a pillow at the door, and Dean laughed from the hallway. You stayed where you were, phone warm in your hand, feeling like you’d crossed a line without ever leaving your room.

By six fifty-three, you’d changed outfits three times and hated all of them. You settled on jeans and a soft sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder, because looking fine suddenly felt suspicious when your brother’s friend was about to pick you up for a date no one was supposed to know was a date.

Then your phone buzzed.

beau outside. no pressure, but if dean shows up in the window, i’m taking that as a sign to flee

You smiled before you could help it.

you coward

beau survivor, actually

You grabbed your jacket and slipped out before Dean could decide this required another intervention.

Beau was leaning against his car when you stepped outside, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets and his hair a little messy from the wind. He looked up when he heard the door, and for half a second, his face softened before he caught you noticing and turned smug about it.

“Hi,” he said.

It was such a simple word, but it still made your stomach flip.

“Hi.”

His eyes moved over you quickly, not like he was trying to take anything, just like he was trying to take you in without making it obvious.

He failed.

“You look pretty,” he told you.

You crossed your arms, mostly because you didn’t know what else to do with yourself. “That sounded practiced.”

“It wasn’t.”

“That sounded practiced, too.”

Beau laughed and opened the passenger door for you. “Get in before Dean looks out the window and remembers he hates this.”

You slid into the passenger seat. “You’re scared of him.”

“I’m not scared. I’m aware.”

“He once sprained his wrist trying to open a pickle jar.”

“Still,” Beau said. “He’s motivated.”

You laughed, and as Beau got behind the wheel, he looked over at you with a smile softer than his teasing.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” Beau was still smiling.

“It never means nothing.”

“It means there’s something I want to say, and I’m trying not to say it too soon.”

There it was again: that dangerous little shift where he stopped sounding like Dean’s charming friend and started sounding like someone who meant what he said.

You clicked your seatbelt into place. “Good. Keep trying.”

His grin came back. “Bossy.”

“You asked me out. You knew what you were signing up for.”

“Worth it.”

He took you to a diner twenty minutes off campus, the kind with cracked red booths, chrome-edged tables, and a waitress who called everyone honey like she’d known them their whole lives. It was casual enough not to feel like a declaration, but far enough from campus that you didn’t feel your stomach jump every time someone walked past.

“You brought me to a secret diner?” you asked, sliding into the booth.

Beau slid into the booth across from you. “I brought you to a public diner far enough from your brother that I can eat fries without fearing for my life.”

“How romantic.”

“I figured I’d ease you in.”

“Ease me into what?”

Beau glanced at you over the menu. “Liking me.”

You snorted, even as your face warmed. Beau’s smile softened into something pleased.

“Careful,” Beau murmured. “You almost looked charmed.”

“I was thinking about the fries, actually.”

“Basically the same thing.”

You ordered burgers, fries, and one milkshake, which Beau claimed he didn’t want before drinking half of it anyway.

You kicked him lightly under the table for it, and Beau gasped as if you’d wounded him.

“Violent,” Beau complained.

“Thief.”

“You offered it.”

“I put it in the middle of the table. That’s not the same thing.”

“You put it where I could reach it. That’s on you.”

“That’s theft.”

For a while, it was easy — too easy. Beau made you laugh hard enough that you had to cover your mouth, and when you looked up, he was watching you like he didn’t want to miss it.

Your chest went tight.

“You’re doing that again,” you murmured.

“What?” he asked.

“Looking at me like that.”

His smile softened at the edges, not disappearing, just turning honest.

“I don’t know how else to look at you.”

“No?”

“No.” Beau leaned back in the booth, dragging his thumb through the condensation on the milkshake glass. “I think it’s inconvenient.”

Your pulse jumped. “That’s one word for it.”

“It’s the nicest word I’ve got.”

You looked down at the fries between you, as if the ketchup had suddenly become fascinating.

“You know this is a bad idea,” you murmured.

“I know,” Beau admitted.

“Dean would lose his mind if he knew this was actually happening.”

“I know,” Beau replied, and for once, he didn’t try to joke.

“He might actually mean it this time.”

“Probably.” Beau reached for a fry. “But I’m here anyway.”

That made it harder to say anything back.

After a second, he looked at you. “We can make a rule.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “A rule.”

“No more Dean for the rest of the date.”

“You brought him up.”

“You brought him up first, technically.”

“You only want to ban Dean talk because he’s the reason this is complicated.”

Beau looked at you then. “He’s not the only reason.”

The noise of the diner seemed to dull around you: plates clinking, coffee pouring, someone laughing at the counter.

Your throat went dry. “What’s the other reason?”

Beau leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, close enough for you to see the little crease beside his mouth.

“That by the time I realized it was a bad idea, I already liked you.”

Your breath caught.

Beau didn’t look away.

You tried to make your voice light because that felt safer. “So I’m a bad idea?”

“No,” Beau answered. “You’re Dean’s sister. That’s the bad idea.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip — no smirk, no easy deflection, just the truth sitting between the fries and the milkshake.

“You could’ve ignored it,” you told him.

“I tried.”

“How’d that go?”

His eyes stayed on your face, gentle enough to feel worse than if he’d been obvious. “Terribly.”

Your cheeks warmed. Beau noticed, but for once, he let it go.

By the time he paid, you were pretending not to notice the way his hand brushed the small of your back on the way to the door. It was barely there, hardly a touch, but you felt it everywhere.

Outside, the air was cool, and everything smelled like wet pavement and leaves, the way it always did at the beginning of the semester. Beau walked beside you to the car, close enough that your sleeves kept brushing against each other.

Neither of you said much on the drive back, and somehow, the quiet didn’t feel awkward. When he pulled up outside your place, the porch light was still on, but Dean’s car was gone. You glanced toward the empty spot automatically, and Beau noticed.

“Making sure Dean’s gone?”

“Making sure no one’s about to interrupt.”

“Smart.”

“I thought so.”

He cut the engine and sat there for a second, not moving to get out.

You sat there in the quiet, the dashboard glow soft across his face.

“Thank you,” you told him.

“For the fries?”

“For tonight.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Anytime.”

“You sounded like you meant that.”

“I do.”

Your heart gave one stupid little jump.

You looked down at your hands. “You’re making it harder to pretend this is a bad idea.”

Beau was quiet for a second before answering. “I know.”

When he walked you to the door, his hands stayed in his pockets. He stayed at the bottom of the steps while you reached for your keys, like keeping a few feet between you would make this less dangerous, as if he hadn’t spent the whole night making you laugh, stealing your milkshake, and looking at you like he already wanted to keep you.

You paused before unlocking the door and looked back at him. “So this is you being respectful?”

Beau huffed a laugh, though it sounded strained. “Trying.”

“How noble.”

“Don’t make fun of me. It’s new.”

You smiled before you could help it.

He climbed one step, then another, not enough to crowd you but close enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to keep looking at him.

“I don’t want you to think this was the point of tonight.”

Your smile softened. “I don’t.”

“Good.” His shoulders eased a little.

“But you did seem pretty committed to getting me alone.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, quick enough that he could pretend it hadn’t happened. “But not only for that.”

The responsible thing would’ve been to say goodnight, to let him walk back to his car, to go inside and pretend your skin wasn’t warm under your sweater; pretend you weren’t thinking about how his mouth might feel when he stopped holding himself back.

Beau looked at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“Goodnight.” His voice was lower than before.

He meant it. That much was obvious. He was going to leave because he was trying so hard to be decent that it almost hurt. You should’ve let him.

Instead, you stepped down one stair, took hold of the front of his jacket, and kissed him.

Beau went still for half a second. Then his hand settled at your waist, and suddenly it felt like neither of you was pretending anymore.

He kissed you softly at first, like he was giving you room to change your mind. Then you made a small sound against his mouth, and something in him gave.

He kissed you deeper, one hand tightening at your side while the other slid to the back of your neck as he stepped closer.

Your back pressed lightly against the door.

He kissed you like he’d been trying not to all night, and your knees started to feel unreliable.

When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven. So was yours.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Do you want me to tell you to?”

“No.” His answer was immediate.

“Then don’t.”

He looked at you carefully. “You sure?”

You unlocked the door behind you. “Come inside, Beau.”

For a second, he just looked at you before following.

The door shut softly behind him, and the apartment went quiet around both of you.

It should’ve made things easier, but it didn’t. It only made every breath louder, every glance sharper.

Beau stood in the entryway, still and careful, like he didn’t trust himself to move first. You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door, slipped out of your shoes, and looked back at him.

“You don’t have to be so polite now.”

His jaw flexed. “I’m trying.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to try so hard.”

He closed the space between you in two strides.

This time, the kiss wasn’t careful. It still felt controlled, because even unraveling, Beau seemed like the kind of guy who would make sure you had something solid to hold onto. But the want was obvious now, in his hands at your hips and the steady pressure of him walking you backward until your spine met the wall.

You gasped against his mouth. He caught the sound and kissed you harder.

His hand slipped beneath the edge of your sweater, his palm warm against your bare waist. You arched slightly into his touch, and Beau groaned as that small movement went straight through him.

“Christ,” he muttered, his mouth brushing your jaw. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair. “Before you realized it was a bad idea?”

His laugh was rough against your neck. “Yeah. Since then.”

His lips found the spot beneath your ear, and your fingers tightened in his hair. You meant to say something clever, something sharp enough to make it seem like he wasn’t getting to you. Instead, his teeth grazed your skin, and his name slipped out before you could stop it.

Beau went still against you. Then he kissed the spot softly, almost like an apology, and looked up at you.

“We can stop,” he said softly.

For a second, you only stared at him. His face was flushed, his mouth red from yours, his eyes darker than they’d been at the diner. And still, he was checking. Something in your chest pulled tight.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

His thumb brushed over your ribs. “Good.”

“Just good?”

“Yeah,” he said, kissing you again, slower this time. “Because I’m trying not to lose my mind here.”

You smiled against his mouth. “How’s that going?”

“Badly,” he muttered. “I’m still trying to be a gentleman.”

“You bought me dinner. I think you’ve done enough.”

“That was all I had.”

You laughed against his mouth, and he kissed you again, smiling this time.

The walk to your bedroom was clumsy, mostly because you kept stopping to kiss him, and Beau kept getting distracted by every inch of skin he uncovered. Your jacket ended up somewhere near the couch, and his landed over the back of a chair. Your sweater came off just inside your room, and Beau went still when he saw you beneath it. There was nothing smug or teasing in his face now. He just looked caught.

Your arms started to lift on instinct, but Beau caught your wrists gently before you could cover yourself.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

Your breath snagged.

His gaze came back to yours. “You’re beautiful.”

The words were simple—no teasing, no practiced charm, just the truth.

You were the one who looked away first. Beau didn’t let you look away for long. His fingers touched your chin, guiding you back to him. Then he kissed you again, softer this time, and walked you toward the bed until your knees hit the mattress.

You sat on the edge of the bed, and he stayed standing between your legs.

For a second, neither of you moved. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt.

Beau helped you pull it off, and your hands found warm skin and hard muscle. Your fingers traced down his stomach, and he sucked in a breath like the touch had caught him off guard.

“Oh, you’re sensitive there?” you teased.

His mouth curved. “Careful, sweetheart.”

“Or what?”

His hand settled on your thigh, thumb drawing a slow line over denim.

“Or I’ll take my time with you.”

Your pulse jumped. “Is that how you treat a girl on a first date?”

“Making promises, actually.”

You should’ve rolled your eyes, but you didn’t.

He leaned down, kissing you back onto the bed, gentle even as he settled over you. After that, he took his time, slow enough to make you restless, his mouth moving from yours to your jaw, your neck, the slope of your shoulder. His hands were everywhere, but never careless — your waist, your ribs, your thighs — slow and deliberate, like he had more patience than either of you deserved.

By the time he undid your jeans, your breathing had gone uneven. He pulled them down your legs slowly enough that your fingers curled into the comforter. His mouth pressed to the inside of your knee, and suddenly, you had nothing clever to say.

Beau looked up at you from between your thighs, and the sight of him there made your breath catch.

“You still with me?”

You nodded, and his eyebrow lifted.

You swallowed, then nodded again. “Yes.”

“Good,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your thigh.

The praise hit harder than it should’ve. Beau saw that too, his smile turning faint and knowing, but not mean. Never mean.

“Yeah?” he murmured, pressing a kiss higher up your thigh. “You like that?”

“Beau,” you breathed.

“I know.” He kissed you again, closer this time. “I’ve got you.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Your head fell back against the pillow, a moan slipping out before you could stop it. Beau’s hands held your thighs open, firm but gentle, his thumbs stroking small circles into your skin while his mouth moved slowly against you. He wasn’t rushing or showing off, just focused, like every sound you made told him exactly where to go next.

It was embarrassing how quickly he figured out what got to you, and even more embarrassing how much he seemed to enjoy it.

When your hips shifted, he groaned softly, and the sound vibrated against you.

“I want to hear you,” he said.

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “What if Dean comes back?”

Beau lifted his head, eyes dark, mouth still wet from you. “Then let’s not say his name right now.”

A breathless laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Then his fingers moved with his mouth, and suddenly, you weren’t laughing anymore.

He watched your face as he touched you, catching every shiver, every hitch in your breath, every place that made your body tense beneath his hands. The first curl of his fingers inside you made your back arch. The second had you reaching for him, your fingers twisting in his hair before you could stop yourself.

“Right there,” you breathed.

Beau looked up at you, eyes dark. “Yeah?”

You nodded, breath catching too hard for words.

He did it again and again, his fingers moving in slow, precise strokes, his mouth back on you, until your thighs tightened around his shoulders despite your best effort not to crush him.

“Beau, please.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, fingers never stopping. “Please, what?”

You would’ve hated him for that if you weren’t already so close.

“Don’t stop, please.”

His expression softened. “I won’t, sweetheart.”

And he didn’t stop.

He kept going until you came on his tongue, your eyes squeezing shut as his name left your mouth in a broken little chant. Beau worked you through it, slowing as you shook, his hands gentle on your thighs when you started to squirm away.

When he finally made his way back up your body, he kissed your hip, your stomach, the center of your chest, before finding your mouth again.

You tasted yourself on his mouth, and a helpless sound slipped out of you. His control slipped, and you felt it in the way he kissed you, in the way he pressed his cock against you through his jeans, hard enough to make it impossible to ignore how much he wanted you.

“Do you have a condom?” he asked, voice rough but careful.

“Top drawer,” you managed.

He found the drawer without taking his eyes off you, which shouldn’t have been as hot as it was.

The rest blurred around the edges: his jeans gone, your remaining clothes pushed aside, the silver flash of the wrapper before his hand settled at your thigh.

“Still okay?”

Your chest squeezed. You touched his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “I’m still okay.”

He kissed your palm, then lined himself up. The first slow push stole your breath.

Beau stopped at once, eyes searching yours. “Too much?”

You shook your head, fingers digging into his shoulder. “No, just—stay still. I need a second to adjust.”

“You’ve got it,” he said, lips brushing your cheek. “No rush.”

Somehow, his restraint wrecked you more than if he’d lost it completely.

When the stretch eased, you shifted beneath him, taking him deeper as your legs tightened around his waist.

“You can move.”

He did, slow at first, careful enough to make your throat tighten. Then he pushed deeper, once he felt you relax around him, once your breathing changed, once your hands stopped holding him still and started pulling him closer.

Beau dropped his forehead to yours, his breath breaking. “Fuck. You feel—”

Whatever he meant to say broke off into a groan.

You smiled, breathless and unfair. “Use your words, Maxwell.”

He laughed, but it came out strained. “Don’t get cocky.”

“You started it.”

“You’re killing me here.”

“Dramatic.”

He kissed you hard, like he needed to shut you up before you made him lose what was left of his control.

The rhythm built, less careful now, still tender but edged with desperation. Your nails dragged down his back. His hand slid beneath your knee, lifting your leg higher, changing the angle until he hit deeper, and his name broke out of you again.

“There?” he asked, voice low.

You couldn’t answer.

He did it again.

His mouth curved against yours. “Yeah. That’s where you need it, isn’t it?”

The room felt too warm. His breath at your mouth, his skin against yours, the sound of him losing control in pieces — it all felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with Dean anymore.

This wasn’t just sneaking around anymore. It was wanting him, and knowing he wanted you back.

Your second orgasm built slower, deeper, until you were clinging to him and gasping into his shoulder, tightening around him hard enough to drag a broken sound out of his throat. Beau followed soon after, hips stuttering as he came with a broken groan, face buried in your neck while he said your name like letting go took everything out of him.

For a while, neither of you moved. Beau kissed your shoulder once, then again, soft enough to make your chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Your fingers brushed his jaw. “Promise.”

He lifted his head, studying you with that same careful look he’d had before.

You pushed damp hair off his forehead. “I don’t regret it, Beau.”

His face changed just a little, but it was enough.

“I know.” His thumb brushed your side. “I just don’t want you to regret me.”

“I don’t.”

The answer came easily. Too easily, maybe, but it was true.

Beau kissed you then, slow and grateful, almost sweet.

After, he disappeared to the bathroom and came back with a warm cloth. He cleaned you up carefully, ignoring your half-hearted complaint that he was being too nice about it.

“I’m a gentleman,” he said.

“You said your whole supply ran out at dinner.”

“Turns out I had reserves.”

You laughed, tired and soft.

He tossed the cloth into your hamper, then came back to bed, as if leaving hadn’t even crossed his mind. You liked that more than you wanted to admit.

He pulled you close, your back against his chest, his arm loose around your waist. The room went quiet again, but this time, it felt different — less like waiting, more like staying.

“I’m not going to disappear because your brother scares me,” Beau said after a while.

You stared at the wall, your heart twisting with pain. “He does scare you.”

“Deeply.”

You laughed, and his mouth brushed your shoulder.

“But not enough.”

“Not enough for what?”

“To make me stop wanting this.”

You went still. His thumb moved gently over your stomach.

Then your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Both of you looked at it as Dean’s name lit up the screen.

Beau’s arm tightened around you for half a second, then loosened again like he was trying very hard not to react.

You reached for it with dread already curling through you.

dean you home?

dean and if maxwell texts you, ignore him.

Beau, right beside you, warm and bare under your sheets, said, “That feels personal.”

You pressed a hand over your mouth. It didn’t help. A laugh broke through anyway, panicked and quiet.

Beau buried his face in your shoulder, his own laugh shaking against your skin.

“This isn’t funny,” you whispered.

“It’s a little funny.”

“He’s going to murder you.”

“Eventually.”

“Beau.”

He lifted his head, his mouth brushing your shoulder again. “You gonna ignore me?”

You looked at Dean’s texts. Then at Beau. At the softness in his face, the stupidly pretty curve of his mouth, the way he was trying not to smile and failing.

You should’ve been scared, and you were, but not enough.

You locked your phone without answering.

Beau’s brows lifted.

“Strategically delayed information?” he asked.

You turned in his arms until you were facing him. “Something like that.”

His smile softened, and you kissed him before he could say anything else.

Dean could wait, your guilt could wait, the consequences could wait outside the door with the rest of the world because Beau’s hand was warm on your waist, his mouth was gentle against yours, and you already knew the truth with terrifying certainty.

You weren’t going to ignore him.

━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist!

Dean had approximately six hundred rules when it came to you.

Some were normal big brother rules — text me when you get home, don't walk across campus alone at night — and you usually listened to those because, despite how dramatic he was, you knew he meant well. Some were less normal — don't let Logan teach you how to shotgun a beer because he'll make it competitive, don't trust Garrett when he says something is "not that spicy," and never, under any circumstance, let Tucker near your phone because he would absolutely change all your contact names.

But his most repeated rule — the one he'd said so many times you could probably quote it word for word — was simple: his friends were off limits.

Not that Dean thought you needed help making decisions. He just acted like every guy he knew was one bad joke away from ruining your life, which was funny considering most of them were terrified of you in the way men got when they knew your brother would kill them and your best friend would help hide the body.

Unfortunately, Beau Maxwell didn't seem nearly as scared as he should've been.

The party had started as a post-game celebration, which really just meant the hockey house was too loud, too crowded, and somehow already sticky by the time you got there. Dean had scored, Garrett had pulled off something impressive that everyone was still yelling about, and Logan was telling the same story for the third time with more details each round.

You'd barely made it through the front door when Dean appeared in front of you, cheeks flushed from beer and victory, arms already open.

"There she is," he said, grinning as he pulled you into a hug tight enough to make you groan.

"You smell like sweat and bad decisions."

"Missed you too, asshole."

You rolled your eyes, but you hugged him back anyway, because he was annoying, but he was still Dean.

The problem started the second you pulled away and spotted Beau Maxwell over Dean's shoulder. He was leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in his hand, hair slightly messy, hoodie pushed up his forearms, eyes already on you like he'd been waiting for you to walk in. Maybe that should've annoyed you. Instead, your stomach did that stupid little flip you'd been trying to ignore for weeks.

Beau smiled. You tried not to smile back, but you failed. Dean noticed immediately, his head snapping around so fast you almost laughed as his eyes narrowed between you and Beau. "No."

You blinked. "No, what?"

"No. Whatever that was, no."

"Dean, that was literally eye contact."

"That wasn't eye contact." Dean pointed at Beau without even looking at him. "That was flirting in front of witnesses."

Beau lifted his beer in a lazy little salute, looking far too amused. "Good game, Di Laurentis."

Dean's eyes narrowed even further. "Don't change the subject."

"I was being polite."

"You were looking at my sister like that."

"I can multitask," Beau said, far too calmly.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh as Dean turned back to you with the kind of betrayed expression he usually saved for when Allie stole his fries. "You see what I have to deal with?"

"Honestly, he is being polite."

"That's exactly how it starts."

You patted his chest lightly. "You're spiraling."

"I am protecting."

"You are embarrassing."

"Same thing," Dean grumbled, giving Beau one last suspicious look before someone called his name from the living room. He pointed at you as he backed away. "Don't go anywhere."

You raised your eyebrows at him. "Am I grounded?"

"I'm serious," he said, still pointing at you.

"So am I. Do I have a curfew now, too?"

Dean looked like he wanted to answer, but Allie appeared and grabbed his arm before he could make things worse, shooting you the knowing smile that made it very clear she'd seen everything.

Which left you and Beau alone in the kitchen, because apparently, self-preservation had never been your thing.

You tried to look casual as you crossed the kitchen to grab a drink from the counter, which was difficult when Beau was watching you like he knew exactly how hard you were trying not to react.

"You're gonna get yourself killed," you said, reaching for a cup.

Beau smiled at the idea, amused. "By Dean?"

"Obviously," you said, like that should've been clear.

"I'll take my chances," Beau said, still smiling.

"You say that now, but he's dramatic, emotionally unstable, and has access to hockey sticks."

"Good thing I'm hard to catch."

"You're not faster than Dean when he's angry."

Beau leaned a little closer, his voice dropping just enough for you to hear over the music. "Maybe you'd protect me."

You laughed, shaking your head like he'd lost his mind. "Absolutely not."

"No?" he asked, amused.

"I'm very loyal to my brother."

"Cute," Beau said, taking a sip of his beer without looking away. "You'd still miss me."

You hated how quickly your face warmed. Because that was the thing about Beau: he flirted like it was effortless, like the words just fell out of his mouth without thought, but then he'd look at you like he actually cared about the answer, and it threw you off every single time.

This had been going on for weeks — little comments in kitchens, his hand brushing your lower back when he moved past you at parties, texts that started with him asking if Dean was being annoying and somehow ended with the two of you talking until one in the morning. Smiles across crowded rooms. Jokes that weren't really jokes.

And still, nothing had happened, mostly because Dean was always somewhere nearby, looking like a guard dog with better hair.

"You know he's not actually going to let this happen," you said, aiming for amused and landing closer to disappointed.

Something in Beau's face shifted slightly. "Let what happen?"

You looked at him, and he looked right back.

The question hung between you, soft and obvious, and suddenly you were both much too aware of how close you were standing.

Before you could answer, Dean's voice cut in from behind you. "Why are you two standing like that?"

You jumped back so fast your elbow knocked against the counter.

Beau, to his credit, looked annoyingly calm. "Like what?"

Dean walked into the kitchen, beer in one hand and suspicion written all over his face. "Like you two are five seconds away from becoming a romantic subplot."

You choked back a laugh. "Dean."

"I know romantic body language when I see it."

"You barely passed biology, Dean."

"That's different," Dean said, like that explained anything.

Beau nodded solemnly. "Very different."

Dean pointed at Beau. "Don't agree with me while flirting with my sister."

"I'm not flirting," Beau said.

"You're always flirting," Dean said.

"That's just my face," Beau said, entirely unapologetic.

You couldn't help it then. You laughed properly as Dean looked personally offended by Beau's existence. Someone called him again from the living room, and for a second, you thought he might ignore it to keep standing guard, but Allie appeared in the doorway and gave him a look.

"Dean," Allie said, sweetly enough to be dangerous.

Dean sighed like a man going to war. "I'll be right back."

"I'm sure," you said, not believing him for a second.

"And you," Dean said, pointing at Beau again. "Behave."

Beau pressed a hand over his heart. "Always."

Dean clearly didn't believe him, but Allie dragged him away before he could start another speech.

The second they were gone, Beau let out a low, amused laugh. "He's intense."

"He's Dean," you said, like that explained everything.

"Yeah, I'm starting to realize that explains a lot."

You smiled down at your cup, trying to hide how much you liked standing there with him, even with your brother lurking somewhere in the house.

Beau's voice softened, losing some of its teasing. "Can I ask you something?"

"That depends," you said, glancing up at him.

"On what?" Beau asked, mouth curving slightly.

"Whether it'll get you punched by Dean."

He smiled, shorter this time. "Probably." Your eyes lifted to his. He glanced toward the living room where Dean had disappeared, then back at you. "Would it be completely stupid if I asked you out anyway?"

Your breath caught before you could hide it.

For all the flirting, all the teasing, all the almosts, you hadn't expected him to say it that plainly. Beau Maxwell always had a joke ready, but now he looked a little nervous, his fingers tapping once against the side of his cup before he stopped himself.

"You're asking me out with my brother thirty feet away?" you said, because if you didn't tease him, you were going to do something embarrassing, like smile too hard.

"Terrible timing?" he asked, looking almost hopeful.

"Terrible," you said, smiling despite yourself.

"Then I'll try again tomorrow," he said, as he meant it.

"That might be safer."

"But I don't really want to wait," he admitted, and the honesty of it made your chest tighten.

You stared at him, the noise of the party fading just enough for his words to settle between you.

"You know Dean's going to lose his mind if he finds out."

"Yeah," he said quietly.

"He might actually kill you."

"Probably," he said, like that didn't change his mind at all.

"And you're still asking?"

Beau nodded, gaze steady on yours. "I'm still asking."

Your smile broke through before you could hide it. "Then yes."

His face changed immediately, relief and happiness softening it, making you feel warm all over.

"Yeah?" he asked, like he needed to hear it twice.

"Yeah," you said, laughing softly. "But if Dean asks, this conversation never happened."

Beau grinned. "Secret date, got it."

"Not secret," you corrected. "Just... strategically delayed information."

"That sounds official."

"It is," you said.

He leaned closer, not enough to touch you, but enough that your heart picked up anyway. "Can I at least know what kind of date I'm risking my life for, then?"

You pretended to think about it. "Food. Somewhere with a very strict no-Dean policy."

"So nowhere, then," Beau said, smiling.

"You'll have to get creative."

Beau opened his mouth to answer, but Dean walked back in at the exact wrong moment, his eyes immediately narrowing at the smiles on both your faces.

"What did I miss?"

"Nothing," you said at the same time as Beau.

Dean stopped short. His face dropped. "Oh, I hate that."

You bit your lip to keep from laughing while Beau lifted his cup, looking far too pleased with himself.

Dean looked between the two of you, then pointed straight at Beau. "Maxwell."

Beau smiled, looking entirely too calm for someone being threatened. "Good game, Di Laurentis."

Dean's eyes narrowed further. "I'm watching you."

You slipped past your brother before he could interrogate either of you any further, but Beau still caught your eye one more time from across the kitchen.

He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The date was already happening; Dean didn't know it yet.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

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